November light –hard edged, low, and yellow from rise till set. The last leaves shine and tumble in the wind like broken colored glass. The surfaces and angles of things stand in bright, solid relief against slanted shadows. Even curtains in a window have the hard look of stone. In the air though, the light seems to flash and dim, pulsing all day towards the early nightfall. Of the light in the year November light is the most evocative because it holds a hint of warmth and is so near to darkness.
The light on the burnt out sunflowers; the trees above the Black Lives Matter rally where the black evangelical Christian man tells a black protestor he will burn in hell for associating with Jews, socialists, homosexuals, and abortionists; the damaged mural of Syrian refugees in Montreal – a mural on black and white paper that seemed to take the yellow out of the light and make the dry air wet, salty, and cold; me and my morning charcoal ghost in the hotel; the digital ephemera projected on the Montreal buildings, flickering all night as if the whole quarter of the city was one repeating glitch; the camera flash parting the dry ice smoke at the Lovecraft Bar, revealing hands moving through the fog, flirting eyes and shining lips, sheen on skin from sweat or make up, rims of beers cans; behind it all, at the white edge of the camera flash, Goya’s image of Chronos eating his children flares then goes dark.