It is the 27th of December. After much merrymaking and yuletide capering, I awaken leisurely and inchmeal to a hushed, milky snowscape lit by the gleaming sun of a new winter. A glance through my window reveals foggy-minded townsfolk strolling without apparent purpose, unsure of responsibilities in this surreal week betwixt seasonal observances. Murky wisps of steam belch forth from my mug of strong, freshly-brewed java, its porcelain emblazoned with artwork featuring two moles (who happen to match).
A dreadful and unfortunate year has nearly drawn to its merciful close, and as the comforting notes of Soft Machine's Live At The Baked Potato CD flutter forth from my stereo, I ponder the uncertainty of the new year so soon upon us. But in this 'rosy-fingered dawn', I am reminded that music remains a treasured and constant companion, perhaps never more essential to me than this moment, right here and now. It hoisted my spirits during the gloomy goings-on of 2020, and it occurs to me that it shall continue to do so, without complaint, and I am rather suddenly more hopeful. How lucky I am - we are - to have this gift. Our cup runneth over.
Welcome, one and all, to the feast of Canterbury for the year MMXXI. Partake of its restorative properties. Gorge yourselves.
Bookmarks