As I sat down on that Wednesday, 12:34 in the afternoon, while it was precisely 45? Fahrenheit, I thought about the colors strewn across the ceiling of the sky, I took deep breaths, inhaling the freshly mown lawn laying under my bottom.
Then I took tiny, deliberate sips of my hot chocolate, also exactly one degree lower that the temperature around me, 44? fahrenhight.
An ecofriendly man named Larose ground the fair trade South American cocoa that was made for hot chocolate in New York.
He was a brave man, who occasionally wore Sandalwood neck beads on rainy Tuesdays.
The sky was drenched with a multitude of colors, as the sun peeked out of the huge mountains ahead, each angle amounting to about 90?, equaling about 180? in all, a perfect triangle. Those mountains were perfect, right angle, equilaterals.
But that didn’t matter at the time, because I was trying to create each and every cloud in the sky into a riveting brush stroke, gliding upon my 14x20 inch canvas, the paint brush dipping within my numerous paint jars, and finding itself doing it again and again, in a frenzy to find the right colors.
First, a thin coat of blue paint, sky blue, light blue.
Perhaps Cobalt Turquoise Light would be perfect.
After all, 84.67% of the tube is full.
After that coat dries completely, perhaps a few violent slashes of deep red, the wounds of a bleeding sun.
Cadmium Red would do just the trick.
Afterward, I might take a Mop brush made of Himalayan Squirrel Hair and fill in all the empty places with the most brilliant crimson at the top of my canvas, with perhaps my new tube of Alizarine.
I thought of how the deep yellow that was closer to the sun reminded me of Winsor Lemon, or Burnt Orange.
Maybe they should be mixed and dabbed upon the canvas, and melded together with a Titanium White, and gone over with a bit of Quinacridone Magenta, mixed with water to create the pinky highlights of the clouds.
But what would be the soundtrack of this magnificent masterpiece? Perhaps a happy piano with hidden dark secrets.
Laced like poison with a buried treasure, looming imminent death for the pirates, who only have about a 25% chance of finding the jewels, and a 77.82% chance that they will get scurvy.
But back to the oh so clandestine piano.
The lingering piano.
The poignant, moving and unforgettable piano.
The troubling, disturbing, worrying piano that plagues inside for the deepest memories and fishes for the strongest emotions.
Perhaps, It starts light and cheerful, but then it turns dark and haunting.
The piano is out of tune.
The pianist is crying, and the violinists sit at home.
The man in the office takes pills, while his alarm blares late.
His wife is asleep, her child is not.
He sits and cries, and the sun winks its last 10% at me before it disappears into the mountains, swallowed by the perfectly equilateral jaws of the dark hills.
I stand.
It is now time to go home.
The piano is out of tune. The pianist is off-kilter. The brushes are stiff, and the sunset it gone.
My bones are old.