Sunday morning, and although the fairly big dump of snow that fell yesterday night has trudged off into oblivion, as I look out my studio window towards the meadows and ridge of Green Mountain, like scouts of an advancing army, I see a lot of little snow flakes whirling about in the breeze; most likely checking out the surroundings to see if another invasion of winter is possible. Finnegan the cat, slayer of mice, squirrels and other small rodents, is curled up on my painting table taking a snooze. Silence abounds throughout the studio, except for the occasional crackle and pop emanating from the wood stove; its warmth most agreeable. I have a lot of work waiting and I know I should probably get at it, but I often think of Sunday as a peaceful day, not in the Biblical sense and not that I need any rest. No, often for me, it's a day to collect my thoughts and sometimes put some of the crazier and stressful ones in place; sometimes like dreams that heal some of the problems that have landed on my shoulders demanding justification and answers that are not always available.
Today is definitely a quiet day. Sarah and the girls are on their way to Montreal for Jessica's appointment with a doctor Monday morning. She has to have surgery on her collar bone, which didn't heal properly after she was involved in a car accident that occurred about eight years ago. So, I am alone for the day. They will be home tomorrow evening, so except for the chickens and other critters living here at Golden Unicorn Farm that need tending, I might just take the entire day off and do as little as possible.
I guess the unicorns are having a quiet day as well; I haven't seen or heard any of them. Since foraging has improved, most of the snow begrudgingly disappearing rapidly, I'm not having to put as much hay out for them. I realize many people don't believe in unicorns and I did too, just considered them to be mythical beasts but until you see one, a truly remarkable and beautiful animal and hear one; now, that is music to one's ears! Ah yes, they do have voices and make incredible sounds; much like a horse, except their nickering is more melodious, almost as if they're singing a song. The language of unicorns is almost comparable to a rhapsody of songsters competing for a mate.
Sometimes on Sundays, I hike up over the top of Green Mountain to visit George and as I draw closer to his house, I often hear him playing Bach on the organ And, if I don't visit, he often makes his way here, where we have delightful conversations in the studio or in the house over a cup of hot coffee or a cold beer. Since I'm not planning on leaving here today, laziness more than beginning to infiltrate my body and thinking I would like a quiet, alone day, I wouldn't mind if we didn't get together. However, that being said, should George arrive, I will not in the least be disappointed.
During my immature, carefree, didn't give-a-shit days, waking up Sunday mornings were often very noisy; the type of mornings that sounded like someone was beating the hell out of a big base drum inside my head playing The Hangover Blues, which continually ricocheted off the empty walls of my brain cavity. It's no wonder my body aches now; I think I spent the first twenty-five years of my adult life trying to drink myself to death and luckily for me, I didn't succeed. I'll undoubtedly enjoy a beer today; I don't mind drinking alone - sometimes all the company a person needs is a bottle of beer. I remember years ago when I used to drink in a local Legion, this older fellow, obviously a labourer of some sort, since he was always covered in dust and carried a metal lunch box, would walk through the door every day, shortly after five o' clock, usually sit at the same table and order two glass of beer. Although his conversation was very animated and I was often sitting quite close to him, I never once heard one word he spoke to the invisible person sitting across from him. When he finished one beer, he would set the empty glass in front of his invisible friend and then begin drinking the other full one. After drinking the two glasses of beer, he would immediately stand up and walk out the door. I don't have any invisible friends but from time to time, I think about some of my young, dead friends, one of them my best friend who was killed in an auto accident at the age of 21. His name was Ken Campbell and I can still see his thick, wavy blonde hair and twisted front tooth when he smiled, which was often. I'm thinking, all this writing about having a beer has worked up a thirst, and since it's Sunday morning and I'm all alone - no one would notice if I went into the house and poured two glasses of cold beer and had a conversation with my old, best friend Ken - cheers, eh!
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