The last day of the month and Spring decided to step aside and let Summer cut in for a dance with Los Angeles today. I don’t think anyone was quite ready for 90 degree temperatures, but only the most gothic and sloth are complaining about the surprise visit.

When you work at home, you’re privy to your home’s sometimes hidden qualities, being audience to the transitional states throughout the day you’d otherwise miss when working a 9-5er. I find it interesting how a rooms just a few feet over from one another can be so remarkably different in light and temperature.

Everyday, through the floorplan of just 4 rooms of our modest sized apartment, Emily, the cats and I follow the architectural sun dial of our rooms, directed by light and warmth. I work in a closet, literally, so it’s one of the cooler rooms of the apartment, decorated and planned to be a light-sucking black hole to reduce glare and reflections. The adjoining living room is the second darkest/coolest room, since the large windows face northward, toward an eyesore of an apartment building (I added frosted window film to block out the view).

The two most light filled rooms are the kitchen and the bedroom (alongside the utilitarian bathroom; I do admit basking the sun and view while relieving myself). In the morning, the east facing dining room glows amber, and our cats lazily slink underneath the dining table to retire for hours, not to be heard or bothered while enjoying the warm rays seemingly letterpressed in yellow onto our floors. By afternoon, the sun has migrated southbound, lighting up our view of the Silver Lake Reservoir in a teasing manner. It’s often around 3-4pm I start feeling an itching desire to set aside my work and head out to the water and light that beckons. Sounds like a bad UFO abduction tale, but I’ve yet to tire of the view outside these west-facing windows and view they afford.

Finally, by early evening, the hills surrounding the Reservoir glow neon oranges, pinks and blues, a hypercolors ode to my 80’s youth, streaked across the sky and into the bedroom in a fashion Pollock would recognize in spirit. It’s often the case Emily and I find ourselves napping here during weekends, watching the water fowl float in spirals above the water and the staccato of sunshine glimmering like angelic 8mm film, as we drift into sleep as the birds depart to nest for the evening. It’s appropriate the best room at dusk, welcoming the nocturnal hours, is the bedroom.

And then we begin all again the next morning.