When it is
still, and quiet, and the sky is shrouded with cloud, the snow falls as in a
snow globe. The flakes are improbably
large, their broad hexagonal arms defined with laser-cut precision. Sunday at 3am is one of the few times no
heavy machinery insistently beeps in reverse, and nary a helicopter domineeringly
beats the air. Sitting just so against
the rocks one can meld into the hillside and become the scenery.
Also, there
is a soundproofed rehearsal(???) room in the big gym. This is another quiet refuge. Or rather, it retains sounds within its
walls.
For some
reason, when driving alone in the van, I relish the most terrible pop and rap played
on the radio. The contrast between the
majestic scenery and the artless music makes me laugh every time. Such music taps into an emotional current of
wild possibility that usually requires being drunk enough to find dancing to said
music fun.
The funny
thing about such incongruity is that sometimes man-made intrusions—aged
shipping containers, cumbrous fuel tanks, air traffic control towers/shacks on
skis, and ever-varying cargo piles—somehow assimilate with the stark beauty of
the icy mountain landscape.
two complementary forms
a field of sunflowers
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