Lazy Sunday

I've developed a bit of a routine for my Sunday evenings. I crack a bottle of beer (lately something from a local brewery of the Pacific Northwest), head into my backyard, and grill up some salmon sprinkled with rosemary and sea salt. As the fish cooks, I sit on the bench swing that my landlord installed and sip my beer as I take it all in: the abundant greenery of my back garden; the houses dotting the hill beyond my house; the sounds of the children on the other side of the fence playing (lately, it's been lightsabers: man, I played lightsabers!); the odd, towering cone-shaped evergreen trees sprinkled around the neighborhood; the setting sun; and the soothing stillness of the evening. Everything becomes muted, and I feel calm and and peace. It is, these days, a rare feeling.

Sometimes, my landlord, a warm and easygoing film grip who lives in the converted barn behind my house, comes out and joins me, and we'll have a glass of saki or scotch and talk about nothing in particular. Sometimes I'll just sit by myself and think about my writing, or the coming work week (though I try not to), or just not think at all, periodically turning and prodding the cooking salmon like I know what I'm doing, and brushing the occasional ant of the waiting plate.

After dinner, I sit with my lady and watch a movie or the BBC mystery dramas to which I've become addicted as of late (PRIME SUSPECT begins Monday! Rejoice!). And on Sunday evenings, I fall asleep in a state of sheer contentment. Truly, this is the way Sundays are meant to be done.

Of course, next Sunday, we're seeing David Byrne and the Arcade Fire at the Hollywood Bowl, and that should make for a darn good alternative.