9. 8. 87
from Tamworth to ice cream
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In the summer of 1987 I made a number of excursions around Ontario before heading
out to the west coast. One day, while returning to Toronto via highway #7,
a stretch of road I had never run over, as I passed small lakes bordered by
rocky cliffs ragged with pines, and green enfolded fields, I imagined a time
when I might be able to find or build myself a cottage in such a spot. Some
quiet place in which I could keep to myself and let out all the thoughts and
ideas that spun through my mind, keeping me from peace and serenity. A place
I could walk the fields breathing in the life of the passing days and swaying
trees, then go back to my home and put that life into words and pictures.
But such a place seemed infinitely remote because the man who could live there quietly
was not the man who was dreaming the scene. All I could do was look at the empty
hills in longing and race down the highway, around the coming curve, to see what
was there.
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