Photography – Page 4 – Rant and Roll

Dressed in holiday style

Hi Chickadees,

T’is the last week before the lovely Mr. M and I begin our Christmas hols in earnest. I am so very ready to hang up my hat and to celebrate the end of 2012 in style.

My husband has been sleeping on average three hours a night, and working eighteen hours a day, so I can only imagine how ready he is for a vacation.

I am also trying to figure out how much I can possibly stuff in my carry-on suitcase, because the last thing that I want to do when flying clear across this massive country is check my luggage, as there are just too many ways for it to be lost betwixt here and YHZ.

Canada is great for many things (ex. maple syrup, universal healthcare, Rick Mercer), however there are times when I think living someplace – Switzerland, say – would be so much easier, particularly whilst making travel plans.

See also: cheese and chocolate selection, tennis players, and bank accounts.

This weekend was a mixed bag of Bollywood comedies, cookie making madness, freezing runs, brief snowfalls, open mics, and new episodes of The Hour on Netflix.

Seriously dudes, if you’re not watching this show START NOW.

It’s some of the best television I’ve seen in quite some time.

In the interim, here are some snaps from life here in the madhouse:

Cookie monsters.

IMG_2693 - Copy — Getting ready to rumble.

And then I was all - — And then I was all –

IMG_2706 - Copy — Pretty much all of these have been eaten.

Early morning beauty.

Bookshelf love.

IMG_2711 - Copy — This is what happiness reads like.

Fire cat.

IMG_2709 - Copy — Wrapping is hard work.

Tonight we are off to deck the halls (with boughs of holly) at M’s parents house, and trim their tree with happiness and care.

(Although when I asked him what he was most excited to put on the tree, the madman just kept repeating “turkey.” We shall see how well that turns out. Also, re-read the sentence about him being massively sleep deprived.)

Happy Monday you beauty cats!

May it be oh so merry and bright.

The sound of silence

No words today friends.

There are just no words.

Instead:

Coffee.

Guard cat.

Croissant cat.

Sky.

Pre-party.

Post-dinner.

Mystery.

…

“O God, that I were a man. I would eat his heart in the market-place.” – Beatrice, Much Ado About Nothing (Act IV, Secene i)

Take a deep breath, and jump right in

Home again home again, jiggity jog.

Our short sojourn up the BC mainland has come to an end – much too quickly (as always), but we have many hilarious and brilliant memories to keep us content and warm until our next hop to paradise.

The mercury has dipped like a salsa chip here on the west coast – if I had to wager a guess, I would say that it dropped at least ten degrees Celsius over the past few days, from sitting comfortably in the low-teens on Thursday, to flirting with just above zero this morning.

Something shifts when the weather changes.

Just this morning, out on my run, my interactions with nature seemed both comforting and slightly stilted.

Like my environs were a dense wool sweater – protection against the frost – that I hadn’t yet grown into.

I swear I could hear ever rustle of every leaf, every gust of wind winding its way through every branch of every tree. The piercing call of a steller’s jay, the haunting call of a loon, the unsure bark of a dog – everything somehow magnified and yet muffled, overwhelming but also out of reach.

The rhythm of my breathing, a friendly, reassuring constant, despite the slight discomfort in my little lungs, adjusting to those first big gulps of frigid air.

My favourite route – high hills, blind curves, douglas firs. The sea salt air tickling my (red, running) nose.

Sometimes I run so fast I cry; tears streaming down my face, propelled by the wind, the cold, my speed.

Sometimes I don’t want to blink.

Because if I blink, it will be gone.

Magic:

Ferry.

Morning sunshine.

Afternoon fade.

Work.

Into the woods.

Games.

Dinners.

Music.

Fires.

Fog.

…

So there you have it beauty cats.

Memories, for another day.

We are now back at home, hunkered down. The fire roars and the fat rain drops coat the world a cool, slick, black.

What did you all get up to for the weekend?

Hang up those wet coats, and rest awhile.

Beautiful British Columbia: Welcome to Octogust

My favourite term for an extended summer is Babye Leto (Бабье лето) – a Russian turn of phrase that translates to “Old Ladies’ Summer.”

How amazing is that? It just conjures up the bloody best imagery.

I can see it now: a gaggle of giggling grandmas, sunning their legs, sipping mimosas, adjusting their sunglasses, remarking every so often on the heat, or, you know, KIDS THESE DAYS.

And believe me when I say that out here on the West Coast of Canada the elderly babushkas have been having an absolute field day weather-wise.

Today for instance, the mercury is hovering around 20 degrees centigrade, the sky burns a deep, cerulean blue, and the trees either glow soft reds, oranges, and yellows or simmer deep purples, greens, and browns.

It is autumn perfection.

M and I have been bopping about the lower mainland, spending as much time outside as possible – going for runs, playing tennis (in shorts and t-shirts!), taking long walks down by the water, and venturing out for late night dinner dates.

Oooer.

I cannot think of a better way of spending a long weekend.

Here are some snaps from our adventures of late:

Into the woods.

Gifts.

Red head.

Date.

Down by the bay.

Sun cat.

Meditation.

I hope you all had a stunningly beautiful weekend, filled with sun, love, and laughter.

And if not, I recommend moving to BC.

It’s pretty rad round these parts.

And pretty pretty too.

Now open your eyes

Things are happening.

I can feel it in the crackle of the early autumn air.

…

Just breathe:

He lay upon the red clay, and the world shook to swallow him. Under his father’s sodden cloak, eyes closed, he heard nothing, saw nothing. All was sensation, cool knuckles of the thick riverbed gripping his back and arms; he sank a little more before the tremors stopped.

He waited for the cloak to be husked off, ripped from his body. They would find him, soon. He lay yards from cover under this pathetic shroud; they were toying with him. His weeping eyes stared open expecting the clouded night sky, and the coppery anticipation of death coated his own tongue – made his breath stink like the earth.

The silence was all.

He waited for strangers.

His breaths grew shallow under the thick material, slowed with the cold of it and he remembered reaching that point finally, where the immensity of fear was devoured by a monstrous finality, a sense of end, and he decided to die.

The small arm that pulled clear of the muck was stiff and unfamiliar, as if another boy hid there with him, was betraying him.

Then the cloak fell aside, and all was a screaming panorama of the looming forest and the angry darkness, and a total emptiness – their absence. His sniveling helplessness spurred to quicken his blood; he saw himself as if from the edge of the trees, a shaking unreality.

And that was all, his earliest memory.

…

And see:

Sunset.

Bridge.

Mural.

Food.

Cat.

Love. (And one of my favourites of the summer.)

…

Happy Wednesday to you all.