There was a certain way the sun came in through the blinds from the east in the earlier hours of the morning — more exposure like one was on display in a cage — the light disappeared the wall — not that anyone was outside looking in but the room was lit like it was waiting for a performer — and all the colors seemed to be imported from Cuba.
Overexposure.
Remembering how the beach would change throughout a day and by the time the day’s play was completed, the beach no longer held its charm — it was a better time for going home.
Earlier light is better on a beach for playing.
Inside the living room, where the big window is that gets the earlier east, stage-like lighting at this low-lying light stage of winter season, it is better after the sun goes, or the earth moves so that the beam is on the roof. But it was still a stillness that was beautiful — watching waking — it just seemed like the sun could see something it might not ought to — her soul perhaps.
Then the birds came for scratching dirt and then after them a stray to leave his mark where others had been before him. Thank goodness the birds were gone by then.
The exposure went too quickly even though its ability to see was disconcerting. It was like a new friend — someone different — someone with new words to hear. She would have made a record except that whatever words there were went by before a record could be made except for this.
She’ll try again tomorrow if too much hasn’t changed or it wasn’t just a fleeting thing or she gets up too late.
Writing Spool 