Favorites March 20
Celeste And Jesse Forever: Funny, awkward, real—the good kind of rom com.
Raining while the sun is out: A spring phenomenon. Very glittery.
Fig jam and fontina on toast. It's like Europe in your mouth.
Wallrides. Something I've been working on lately at Commonwealth. The concept of doing one defies physics—and yet, they are possible.
Morning
Got too much shit going on to think about much right now—except for an hour or two in the morning when, on purpose, I move slowly.
I open my eyes around 8:30 am. No alarm here. I don't believe in em (unless I have an appointment, but I try not to have appointments). I splash water on my face and tell Lefty he's a handsome boy. We spend some minutes in the kitchen boiling water for coffee and scraping peanut butter on toast, then I pull up a stool and read my morning correspondance. The house is warm, the sunlight—if there is any—slanting in sideways. After about 7 minutes of computer work I get antsy, put a jacket on, and walk out the back door carrying one plastic bag, one tennis ball, and one dog rope coiled up in my hand.
I'm always happy to be outside escaping from office work. As partners, the dog and I head walking, which is much different than simply walking on your own. It's purposeful—the main purpose for both parties being looking at things and smelling what's around you. In fact, I always take the streets with the best smelling plant life—zigzagging through the neighborhood in hopes of piercing every possible cloud of blossom scent.
By, say, 10:30 I'm back inside and the calm is already fading—I'm getting kinda anxious, feeling the weights and pressures of things that need doing hanging like dark heavy clouds, and so, finally, now is when I tie on my shoes and head out to face the storm.
Partly Leaves
What a morning, eh? The kind of morning that makes you want to drink coffee out of doors and brush the shit out of your pets until big wafts of hair make cirrus clouds over your lawn.
Aaaanyway, working now, but I read the below passage recently, about how road trips can sometimes make you feel—inside a car, but all connected with everything. I'm ready for a road trip, like, now!
"I could feel the road entering me, through tire, wheel, spring, and cushion; shall I not have intelligence with earth too? Am I not partly leaves and vegetable mold myself?—a man of infinite horsepower, yet partly leaves. "—E.B. White
Colorado Weekender
We live in the jet age. I went from Oregon to Colorado and back last weekend and it was no big deal. Denver was covered in a thick blanket of snow when I arrived—in the evening, under the stars—and it felt moon-like in the city, all that white everywhere. I think we all now how much better pavement, cement and winter's dull gray trees look with a tidy snow dressing. I ate pizza at Lalas with my sister and her fam and slept deeply that night.
An early bus took me up into the mountains. I saw a fox scampering through a field on the way—sneaky and ghost like. Then I spent three days eating my mom's date and walnut bread, walking through the winter woods, and riding/eating/drinking/talking with old friends who were in town for the Burton U.S. Open. Restorative, you know?
My dad's onion sprouts. Reach for the sun!
And just like that, I was back in the Northwest—looking down on lush green valleys, wide rivers, and snow-capped volcanos off in the distance no matter which way you looked.
Whose Woods These Are
Oh hi. I'm here in Colorado. No time to elaborate. But I re-read the below poem after stopping by this quiet aspen grove yesterday. It's nice, the poem. Peaceful, you know? A little sad.
Stopping By the Woods on a Snowy Evening
By Robert Frost
Whose woods these are I think I know.