He woke up that morning. That one morning in early March. Wide awake. At 4:15. Too early, he thought, stretching his left leg and wiggling his fingers. Another day. The sun was not up yet. Another day. Things to do, places to go. He tried to recall what they were. Too early to look at his calendar. Even the phone was still in sleep mode. Machines wake up at the same time. Each day. Why did he always have these weird ideas. Machines. Digital. Always in this bardo state in the morning, when he could not remember this night’s dream, and the day’s stream was not yet whispering against the rock and reed. Or was it? And he could not hear? A new day. She had made him promise. One day. One day, he would wake up early and go with her. Go and see the sun rise. With her. After so many suns had set – and he kept going west – it was time. It was early enough. And late. A dozen years late. Or later? Maybe … And not too late. Maybe … He touched her shoulder. Gently. She knew. They went up on the roof. Still in pyjamas. The sun rose. They both knew. This was day one. New light. A new day. Not a moment too early. Not too late.
Another writing workshop. The prompt was … Well … New life. What did I hear? Well … The audiologist said I don’t need any aids. Yet … But I should let people know that I have a hard time with some consonants. Like eff. And … I did see some beautiful sunrise pictures earlier today.
I guess it took a writing workshop and some pics … I have not done many texts recently.
Why is the light white, he asked.
- What kind of question is that? Do you want to buy these bulbs or not?
— Wouldn’t it be good customer service to answer my question? I am just wondering about the color.
- The color of what?
— Of the light. I can’t see it.
And he pointed at the little boxes on the shelf.
- Are you serious? I have been working at Homedepot for seventeen years. Your question is a first.
— Really? Are people not buying these bulbs?
- Yea, they do, but they don’t seem to talk about them as much. They just buy them.
— Do they ever return them? If they don’t have the right light?
- I don’t know. I work in these aisles, not at the service desk. You have to ask them.
— But when they don’t know what is meant by white!
He was gesturing at the shelf again.
- The light is white. What’s so difficult about it?
— Isn’t all light white?
- Really? How about red light?
— No, I mean the light itself. From the bulb. Not some filter. Or glass. Or whatever.
- All these bulbs have some kind of glass. It filters the light.
— Yea, sure. The one I opened has clear glass. So, I was wondering.
- Wondering about what?
— Where does the white come from?
- I don’t know. It’s a bulb.
— That’s why I want to buy it. Just with the right light.
- All bulbs have the right light. You just need to know what you want.
— I want a light bulb. With nice light. Why does it have to be white?
- You said all light is white.
— Right. But I don’t want that.
- What do you want?
— I have no idea. Just light.
This conversation was playing in my head. A conversation about nothing. Just light.
Practicing the writing of dialog in a writing workshop a few weeks ago.