My cup runneth over.

Today I learned that it is just fine to say, "Goddamn, I need a chocolate milk" with a bit of vim and vigor even if the whole room thinks you are hung over. In fact, it is something I need to partake in more often. I have been holed up in bed for the last couple of days. A mishap on the dance floor with a beer gutted gem on Saturday night landed me with a stiff neck, a sleepless night and a penchant for the bed. I slept all day yesterday after work. Just as the barstars and the trend speeders were all waking up for the day, I was dropping off into a deep sleep at two in the afternoon. It was nice to catch up on a few ZZZs to say the least. Either way, to wake up today and feel good if not better, I was pleased.

To celebrate my newfound vitality and zest for life outside of my bedroom, I called up my good friend Josh and we made one hell of a basted egg, cornmeal back bacon, fresh strawberry, warm scone, good coffee, pancake breakfast. After the food ate and the dishes washed, I poured over a million art books while the likes of nineties underground bands Phish and Verve droned on in the background. Feeling over-stimulated--visually--we rolled over and into Art City in a mad dash effort to find the stretching pliers and some staples.

My parents ended up hunting me down while I was elbow deep in Gesso for the raw canvas and we agreed to meet for dinner. Within the hour Mike, Erin, Derek, my parents and myself hunkered down for some collective drinks and appetizers on a patio and we even had a nice Sunday stroll to boot. The night was wonderful and Winnipeg's celestial Magic Hour light worked in the city's favor yet again making every color explode, every surface shine, every face glow.

After dinner I met up with the same friend again and we biked to a private gallery in the outskirts of the Exchange to do a quick drop in on the his old bosses work before it was to be shipped out for her upcoming Netherlands show. After locking our bikes in the eccentric backyard with the quirky vintage lawn furniture and the salvaged wrought iron fences and the predictable wild sculpture garden, we walked dead center into the twenty first birthday party of the niece of Wanda Koop. To meet her, to meet her family, to eat her cupcakes, to gush over her (honorary) grandson, to chat amicably with a bunch of her five or six wild sisters, to maintain calm shoulder to shoulder while she fanned through her latest book that yet to be sent to press but will surely set her legacy in stone, to laugh at her dogs, to cut slices of brie for her partner's cracker, I was enlightened as to why some people would kill to be someone else's bitch if it meant being pulled into the art world at long last.

As I walked around her white washed studio in a fall jacket and a starched tuxedo rental shirt stolen from somewhere, I felt whole and good. And her art. Her art! It filled me up in an indescribable way. I had been forewarned as to its eccentricity, but something clicked in that room reeking of paint thinner and acrylics and lingering dog piss from Christmas past. Her art clicked; and while I know not nearly enough to make assumptions or safe bets or be critical even in the slightest regarding the stylized pattern so repetitive in her work, her art clicked and there was such a warmth to it in that white room laden with the heavy white frames. I loved every minute of that consumption of warmth.

If I have to dedicate the next six years of my life to cutting someone a piece of brie, or pouring a cup of coffee now and again, or being someone's sounding board during a trying spell, I would just to be able to feel that full again. It has been an exhilarating week and I am gearing up for a creative winter. And to be quite honest, I am happy to feel like me again, even if my hairdresser will be appalled by my drunken bang effort. Bang on, Madge. Bang on. C'est la vie, oui? Oui.

'Tis the season to hunker. The cold is settling in like a clean sheet over the city. I am merely rubbing my hands together in a marriage of hot anticipation and in an effort to keep warm (and full).

My cup runneth over, indeed.