November and December sun slants in from the side, stabbing at the eyes. You want sunshine? Here's your sunshine. Jab!
What passes for noon passes very quickly. The morning's faint hopes turn to the afternoon's squinting haste to use what there is of this dazzling but brief assault.
The gray days, when light just seems to come and go without a source, are almost a relief. Sure it's suicide weather, but a clear view of the sky doesn't really help that much. It's better to settle into the grim work of endurance, waiting for the comfort food of the holidays and the first upward springs of the returning light in January. Secure for silent running and deep submergence. Close the hatches, forget the surface. Dive, dive, and view the world through instruments, while the mind expands on imaginary vistas of islands yet to be seen.
The flat rays of this low sun do pierce the house much deeper than the overhead lighting of the longer days. Prisms in the windows, leftover from when I had high hopes and vague plans, splash rainbows all over the walls. It reminds me to return to the creative life that has been interrupted and delayed more than I could have imagined.
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