Pepper, pepper, pepper, salt.
Anyone remember that old ditty from the late, great Canadian trio Sharon, Lois, and Bram?
No?
Just me?
Onwards!
Here is what’s been kicking about our neck of the woods this weekend:
Dresser cat.
Flower bike.
Awkward t-shirts.
Shakespeare in the park.
Dream house.
Dream garden.
Bearded dog.
Otherwise it’s just another manic Monday.
And by manic I mean abso-fricken-fabulous.
What’s been knocking about your neighbourhood?
Close your eyes.
I dreamt I met a boy
with deep set eyes
and sand scrubbed skin,
sitting in the grass
that tickled my knees –
while he played hide and seek
with the fishes.
I blinked when he kissed
the pink skin (on my shin)
smooth like a skipped stone.
Looking to the sky,
drinking still-sweet raindrops
whispering and
waking
memories
of windswept walks
and Easter egg Sundays.
Clicking our heels
on the cobblestone streets,
we saw sunshine
stretch its strong arms
across a lake of lace.
And our hearts raced
when we remembered the sensation
we had tore from our
fingertips
and drank from our
lungs.
And when I woke,
I cried
for the boy, with a heart
warmed by the heat of one thousand
dragon sighs
who traced my shadow
with his powdered chalk
from when he was but six
and pebble sandwiches
were all the rage.
Friends!
I have but one summer wish for you all. It is for every single one of you to be given the chance to enjoy the hilarity and joy that is The Merry Wives of Windsor at Bard on the Beach.
Talk about an inspired performance. I was actually clutching my sides with laughter during some of the scenes.
I believe the correct words are: gut and busting.
If you can, go, go, GO! (In the parlance of Joseph and the yadayadayada, if you will.)
It will not disappoint.
I have been spending as much time outside as possible, in an aim to soak up all the golden goodness that the weather gods have finally unleashed on our fair land (after much coaxing from us mere mortals let me assure you!)
This weekend M and I are off to the cabin for one last solo hurrah before all the friends and family you can possibly imagine descend upon our humble abode until, well, basically the end of August.
We shall be whooping it on the hiking trails, running the hilly roads, and swimming like wee fishes in the cool and briny deep of the ever mysterious Pacific Ocean.
Actually, one of my most favourite things do to in the whole wide world whilst up on the Sunshine Coast, is to go for a run in the early morning and upon my return, fly down to the dock, strip down to my unmentionables, and plunge straight into the bay.
There is nothing quite like hitting that water, the sweat and salt sliding off of your skin, wriggling, diving, turning – legs a cool grey-green just below the surface, refracted by the suns bright rays.
This, this I promise you.
Plus the folks in the neighbouring houses who watch think me to be abso-bloody-bonkers.
Which, of course, I love.
Speaking of which, here are some photos from this weekend past:
Amazing noms.
Shake(speare) your groove thang.
Sweatin’ to the oldies.
Views for the ages.
Et tu, Brute?
Tonight M and I are off to a local pub for trivia with some sweet, sweet friends.
I hope they will still be sweet, sweet friends by the end of the night, goodness knows how competitive I get when it comes to games (and in particular those that revolve around the answering of general knowledge questions.)
It should be a grand time.
What did you fancy cats get up to over the weekend?
I want to hear all about it.
Hi loves.
Yesterday I returned from our road trip down the Oregon Coast and Ashland Shakespeare extravaganza.
We left late Thursday afternoon and chronicled much of our journey our brand-spanking new “adventure log” about which we were most excited.
Check it!
Day 1
“His name was Visser. He is an Animorph killer.” This was Marc’s conclusion as we pulled away from our unblinking boarder guard and entered the United States.
Even with the gods spitting on our windshield, our spirits soared, along to the sweet, sweet tunes of Spoon (and other musical greats), recently turned into a travelling CD.
With one hundred miles to Seattle we would be comfortably ensconced in the Sheraton by 6:30. Then whiskey and bitters (definitely), would be enjoyed, but first, and most imminent: McDonalds.
Upon our arrival, Marc got us upgraded to a superior room, however we will have to re-mortgage our home to pay off the blasted valet parking.
For forty-four dollars I half expected them to wash and detail the car, or at the very least gift us with a free bottle of eight dollar gummi bears.
After settling in, it was time to don our fancy duds and head to the hills for dinner.
Mental note: bringing up rum running with a rather clueless concierge will not make your question regarding speakeasys come across any clearer. However, we are now equipped with the knowledge that it is illegal in the state of Washington to operate an establishment that serves only alcohol in the absence of food stuffs.
The more you know kids.
In the end delicious food and drink were enjoyed at the Zig Zag Cafe and Sushi Cucina.
To protect ourselves from the fat raindrops littering the downtown core we purchased a small umbrella before traipsing about like two love sick teenagers in our spit-shined finery, stopping at every street light to clasp hands and kiss.
Day 2
The day broke as so many previous – Marc up ages before myself, passing the time lost in the familiar and comforting pages of a book on magic (or is it of magic?). Let’s say both.
Once my lazy bones jones arose from my bed of rest, we ventured out in search of sustenance and a map of Oregon.
We found both.
After a brief tour of a number of different Seattle neighbourhoods, we reconnected with the I-5 and learned the increasingly obvious lesson that in this part of the world it doesn’t matter where you are headed, or what time of day it is, you will probably encounter massive highway congestion.
Do not try to fight this, or understand why it happens – just embrace it as a fact of life and move on.
To pass the time we tried to name as many states as possible. We got to 47.
At the I-5 exit to get to highway 30 (our route to meet up with the Oregon coast), it started to become clear that I had not really thought through just how far the two of us would be driving to get to our intended destination – South Beach Provincial Park.
Marc, frustrated by the slow pace of his fellow drivers, super speedwayed his way to a one hundred and sixty dollar fine.
It was all going so well until the state trooper (who may just be the nicest law enforcement official to exist ever) saw my bruised body and immediately began to ask questions.
I quickly assured that I was one tough mudder (copyright) and that we were actually celebrating our four year wedding anniversary (in hopes that she might write off the ticket).
She didn’t.
And then it started to rain. A LOT.
By the time we arrived at our campground, the mosquitoes were out in force, sucking the life force right out of us (and through two layers of pants at that!) However, it was nothing that some five dollar wine and marshmallows couldn’t fix.
The ocean there was beautiful and brilliant in its majesty, but also frightening in its ferocity.
We respect but fear the waves.
And that night you could hear Poseidon’s song.
Day 3
This day must be changed in the way that it is described from ordinary language into one of superlatives. It was epic on many extraordinary levels.
First, followed by swarms of Jurassic-sized mosquitoes, we managed to break camp in the most expedited of fashions and be on our merry.
However, this meant we skipped the usual “morning prepper” for Sergeant Ethel, namely a cup of joe, so we then had to attempt to locate an “Espresso Shack” that accepted plastic or non-specific currency; this all happened on our way to the aptly named and hugely disappointing Little Switzerland – big on pastoral beauty, low on amenities.
Anyway, following a quick pit stop just off of Seal Rock, the Sargeant settled down to do some hardcore driving (approximately 500 clicks – metric wise) whilst we jabbered about politics, upbringings, and the identity of our missing states – Missouri, New Hampshire and Colorado, natch.
Much, much later we managed to out-drive the monsoon conditions and found ourselves at the hospitable Emigrant Lake, where we victualed and had a bathe in preparation for our evening out with the Bard.
Day 4
An azure blue has replaced the downtrodden grey that marked the worst of yesterday’s weather.
We woke to dry skies – I made tea and Marc quickly set about drying our thoroughly soaked camping chairs.
More java was procured in town (and with a smoothie – Marc’s summer drink of choice) and we joined up with an actor’s Q & A session, where he spoke about his time with the festival and answered our question’s on a myriad of topics.
I wanted to know more about the tricky balance of delivering a show that pleases the audience, but also breathes new life into much love, and much interpreted productions.
(What I really wanted to ask was why, in Henry V, was the French envoy dresses as an extra in a Paula Abdul music video.)
After our walk about town, we returned to the campsite and swan, sunned, and shimmied to our heart’s content.
Day 5
I can pick apart the rotten red rock with my fingertips; if I sat here long enough maybe I could erode it down to the level of the sand.
Looking Northwest, I see that the peninsula is falling back into the sea in such a way that a humped needle eye of this same rock is looking back at me.
As soon as I characterize or anthropomorphize the earth in this way I can’t help thinking how there have always been people here, probably longer than the needle’s eye.
I wonder, how many of them, sitting here facing the endless gray lullabye that kills and feeds, washes and deforms, endures – how many thought simply – “okay” – and didn’t build higher or travel further, or settle deeper.
They just crumbled the rock and imagined a face in the sea.
Day 6
Laughs. Love. Happiness.
Home.
What I remember so vividly, was an ivy draped house, cherry blossom biscuits, fresh kissed from the oven; our mosquito wed skin that licked the autumn air so quickly we would itch for days.
My sister, whispering stories, sticky from giggles and jam, of evenings coloured with imaginary characters – men whom we imagined dressed like millionaires, and women who smiled bright pearls.
We listened, between the cracks in the door that we dared not enter.
We attended their parties, solved their mysteries, stole their riches – never so much as dipping our toes in the world outside of the beauty we created.
On afternoons that we breathed quietly, and we would watch the birds in the yard, drinking cool lemonade flavoured with mint, fresh picked from the garden.
Days spent dreaming of loving.
Of loving.
Rant and Roll 