Lightbulb Icon of pure idea. Screwed into a sphere of permanence skin-thin, fragile as eggshell, yet suffused with even light – a Platonic corona identical to the thinking mind’s delicate glow. Say, above Henry’s bulbous cartoon head, his second brain, its single hair ablaze. Naked, it suggests a folksy quality, forever swinging its gaze on unexpected corners of the past – corners lit with the warm steady fire of your affection – there was always one above your father as you watched him work in basement or garage (anywhere a bare bulb swings: the genius of the place) – a galvanic presence overseeing these Rembrandt-amber scenes, his hands tarred with grease, the small tools kept separate and clean. At the store – selecting the shade – Arctic Pearl, Creamed Cumulus, Snow-Glare, inscribed in tiny script round their poll – the wattage, frosted or clear – the delicious sensation of walking out as if you’d just bought bags of nothing, cartons of air. Nestled inside those egg-safe packets you coddle home the power to see your rooms with the light of still life. Screw a few in just for fun, put the rest in a bowl: a bowl of glass pears. Jars of sun. Tiny amphitheatres filled to the brim with a thousand matinees. Installation’s easy – the global sign for “a dim bulb,” – how many to construe those exaggerated threads? Inside the candy-spun shell, tungsten filaments, twin antennae yearn incandescent in a vacuum. Your idea of home’s within this soft white circuitry, synapsing back and forth. You catch its essence waking some morning to find a light left on – see it up all night worrying, keeping watch while you slept — a conscience, consciousness. (You feel guilty.)