Cape Cod is famous for it's light, and artists and photographers have flocked to it for years. Famous things often seem like they will be cliches, and you anticipate, perhaps a clarity, perhaps flashily striated sunsets. But when you're here, the thing you notice most about the light is how it seems LARGE.
You're struck too, by how specific it is, how well defined, concrete, how physical a thing, as if you could pick it up and fold it. Like a child's building set, it seems to rearange itself into new formations and densities each day. It's like a shadow companion that accompanies you everywhere you go, climbing onto your lap when you sit down to read on a chair, skidding in suddenly across a closet as you lean absently against the kitchen counter waiting for the coffee to percolate, spilling onto the counterpane when you're half awake in the mornings, watching you consideringly as you try to write at your desk. Most of all of course the sea is like the mood ring of the light, reflecting its every minute shift, whether the sun if full on, whether it's a half and half kind of day, whether it's a brooding kind of dark.
More than anything else here, the light has quieted me and returned the pleasure of looking without speaking.