The stuff dreams are made of

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San Francisco was busy, busy, busy. We got there over Pride Weekend and got to see the city in full celebration. We walked miles every day, ate amazing food, took MUNI and BART everywhere, and drank green tea smoothies in Chinatown while we tried to escape the heat. 35549259335_4fa04125fb_c35549260115_b21817f384_c34740464803_4894c8ed61_c35549260405_19c15f03ba_c35549260725_3d315156bb_c

We went to SFMOMA and saw Munch, Brancusi, Matisse, Calder, and many other modern art makers. It was marvelous to walk the halls and see Diego Riviera paintings and little Matisse landscapes close together.

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We stayed with Adrienne, whose penchant for art, travel, and food all made our visit even more wonderful! Going over old memories in the back of a Lyft or quietly chatting in front of a Munch painting about the past, about our futures, about nothing at all. It really is a beautiful thing to spend time with people from your past and see the both of you change and grow and become marvelous souls in your own rights.

Saturday night Logan and I perched on the cement seats at the Greek Theater in Berkeley and watched Nick Cave, that master of all things dark and deep, play, and I cried multiple times and reveled in that man’s ability to pluck sudden, intense emotions and reactions seemingly out of thin air. His voice was incredible, deep and sinuous and full of things I can’t verbalize or type effectively. I had salt on my face from my tears when we left and as the fog consumed everything around us in the amphitheater I felt so alive.

Edvard Munch @ SFMOMA

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Y’all, over our brief 3 day sojourn to San Francisco we got to see the opening of an Edvard Munch show.

It left me speechless for a few reasons.

First, America rarely gets to see Munch’s work in person. Most are in Oslo in the Munch Museum, and most others are scattered around Europe. I went to New York  in 2013 and saw one version of The Scream there but other than that I have not seen many Munch paintings.

The exhibit was bare except for his canvasses. You could tell many had never been framed as the frames were new and showed the edges of the canvas. The edges were beautiful, just as beautiful as the paint filled middles, because you could see the nails and the ends of the paint and the work felt more human.

Logan said that Munch felt like Renoir on ether, and Adrienne and I both looked at how he painted women- as muses, sexual objects, creatures who reviled Munch, as temptresses and devils. It was agreed that Munch was, in many ways in his later years, a dirty old man.

But a damn talented one. His use of color and his skill with layers and washes were incredible. I felt full as I looked at his depictions of himself, of death, of isolation and lost love. Munch clearly had a powerful imagination that often threatened to swallow him entirely, as he depicted himself in Hell and being watched by eerie masks. We did loops, seeing new things at each turn in front of different canvasses. We sat in front of some and got closer to others. I felt my mind turning to a dirty, poor, unsophisticated Oslo where Munch grew up and wondering about who this man was.

It was a fantastic opportunity for us Americans to see the work of somebody who so clearly had a different mindset, set of motivations, morals, and ideas. It was, though this is difficult to accurately explain, very obvious that these works were by a brooding Norwegian.

Come Sail Your Ships Around Me

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The older gentleman who develops my film cuts it for me and I take it home to hum through my scanner. As the images appear, slowly, I fall back into memory. Film is delayed gratification, a slowly opened gift, a practice in patience and deliberate moves.

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As you read this Logan and I are packing to go to San Francisco, where we will be seeing Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds! Logan got the tickets as our Christmas present in December, and we weren’t sure if we would be able to go for a long time, but in the end the chance to see Nick Cave live was too damn good.

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We’ve never been to San Francisco, and I cannot wait to see Adrienne and explore a new city for a few days!

In any case, here is some film from the last 3 weeks. Sunshine, gloom, bandaged hands from fishing at 4am, old grumpy fishermen, canoeing on the lake, and other delightful moments and things.

Adventuring

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We went fishing but didn’t fish.

We drove down the paved road, which eventually turned to dirt. We passed wide, flat fields fenced in by dense copses of trees. The river sang to us no matter where we were, and we followed the road and peered down at the swollen, runoff filled body of water. It looked cold, it looked rich, it looked unwelcoming, but it was so beautiful.

When spring ends and summer begins in Montana is a matter of debate and is ultimately up to fickle Mother Nature- and she changes her mind a lot. The last few weeks have been a mix of chilly, sweater-clad days and days where I am sweating on our front porch and loathing everything. We leave sweaters in our cars just in case, but also tubes of sunscreen.

We eventually found this suspension bridge and crossed it, heading into a wilderness area. We didn’t go very far, as darkness and rain were fast coming, and I sat by the edge of the river on a rock, thinking those fast fleeting thoughts that I find myself surrounded by when confronted with the natural.

We’re going back soon, hopefully to have more of a hike and explore some of our new national forests!

Two Years

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Amsterdam, two years ago.

Two years ago Emily and I were eating apples and going to the Rijksmuseum and seeing MisterWives at Paradiso. I wrote directions to the venue on my upper thigh so we wouldn’t have to bring our phones and we stuffed our cash in our bras and shoes. We found out that the Dutch don’t party on Saturday nights like I thought they would. We were told by some family friends that Amsterdamers prefer to go out on Wednesday or Sunday nights, oddly.

We stayed in the apartment of a family friend close to the Albert Cuyp market and got sushi to go on a rainy evening. We spend time in the Hortus Botanicus and the Artis and ate delicious Indonesian and Vietnamese food. We had proper dim sum for the first time in our lives and I had a love affair with some duck crepe thing and a shrimp dumpling.  I lost close to ten pounds just being on my feet all day every day seeing what this old, vibrant city had to offer, and it was so refreshing to be in the motherland in a place where our long, strange last name was perfectly reasonable, even if Dutch still sounds so strange to my Anglo ears.

I cannot wait to go back someday, hopefully sooner rather than later.

Provincetown and points of view.

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I asked Logan what “Lagosta na Panela” meant after I saw the tiled sign outside of the Lobster Pot in Provincetown. “It means lobster in the pot”, he said over the phone and I laughed. Of course it does. 

Provincetown is a centuries old whaling town with a historic Portuguese presence that turned into an artist and gay colony. The town is saturated with gorgeous old architecture, vivacious townspeople, and a wealth of galleries, restaurants, and beachfront to visually and otherwise consume. You can walk down the “Widow’s Row” which is full of old ship captain’s homes, with windows so that the wives could watch for their husband’s ships to come in- or never come back. Colorful buildings, shingled Cape homes, and lots of old New England history abounds there. I forgot how much I love that weird little town, where drag queens make a living alongside literary celebrities, and where one day it can be gorgeous and sunny and the next rainy and miserable. Oysters and good gin are always called for, but so is Spiritus Pizza, a local pizza joint that serves up delicious pressed apple juice alongside large, floppy slices.

To me, though, Provincetown is also just a place to get lost. It’s a magnificent town to people watch in. I wish I could someday spend a week with my camera and just sit on various benches and photograph the diverse humans that weave their way in and out of Commercial Street as they hunt for a new painting, a place to eat, or perhaps somewhere to just get away from the crowds. When I am there I try to get up early and see the town before it is full of souls, and there is nothing better than

On one rainy afternoon with Exa and Emily, we walked into a little store and browsed. The owner of the store immediately broke into conversation about what we were looking at, and asked us where we were from. We chatted about lots of little things, and it felt really lovely to do so. The same thing happened earlier in the shop where I bought my beautiful blue woodblock printed dress, and again in another store. Provincetown is full of people who have fascinating stories and pasts and are more than willing to engage and share those pasts. I love humans- all of us are a unique sum of all our experiences, both good and bad, and none of us are the same. We all have to survive, thrive, and suffer together and being able to touch on people’s humanness and chat about books, about their store, or about what adventures and activities we were up to felt wonderful in a small, satisfying, the world isn’t so bad way. If that sounds hokey, that’s alright, but I’ll be the sappy optimist over the grumpy cynic that I worry I am becoming any day.

Feelin’ myself

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To combat negativity and bad thoughts that inevitably come as one looks for work, here is some evidence that one beautiful sunny day in Cape Cod I spent some time on the beach with my sister in a dress that fits my personality perfectly (even though my mum referred to it as “A bit Laura Ingalls Wilder”).

 

The final foray- for now.

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I sit in a comfy plastic chair on a busy street in my new home. Our home is strewn with half-unpacked boxes and we ponder how to decorate the empty walls. Irises bloom in the front yard, making me think of Van Gogh and summer.

Meanwhile, as I look at these 35mm pictures, all the silence and noise of the woods comes rushing back. These wet, saturated, deep woods that fill Vancouver Island have seeped their way into my bones and soul the way that the water permeates everything there: slowly and deeply. The forest floor gives as I walk upon it, layers of decaying wood, leaves, animal scat, and other refuse creating a natural carpet. Squirrels chatter and birds sing, and deer quietly and shyly snack on edible foliage. I hear ducks quietly land on the water and smell the rich earth and look at the way the light changes seemingly every second, casting ever changing shadows into the recesses of the forest. It feels right.

The final foray

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The final cabin trip at Lake Cowichan.

I held a Pacific Chorus Frog, saw a deer that shared a meadow and some sun-soaked forest with me, stood on the dock with some good souls and soaked in my final views of the fog-shrouded mountains. Large logs floated on the surface and the rain pattered on the lake surface, an almost mesmerizing thing to witness. A fire was built and we huddled around it. I went to bed earlier than most, sharing a wood and canvas tent with Isobel. We heard the loud sound of rain hitting the tin roof, and with flaps made from tarp the night air seeped in making us both glad we were cozy in our sleeping bags.

Having recently gotten back really positive if not downright amazing feedback from my thesis supervisor I felt giddy at the thought of almost being done with this degree. The cabin trip sealed this feeling of accomplishment- I deserved to be here, I deserved to feel my feet on the damp, fern-covered ground in the deep woods here. I deserved to take the time to notice how the light could change so quickly in such a light-starved place. Woodpeckers tenaciously poked away at tree trunks and I stood and watched them for several minutes at a time, their red feathered heads flashing.

Every forest has hiding places, evidence of life, and details worth looking at. Tree hollows, fallen leaves, the sound of fussy squirrels dashing among branches, and the chirrup of birds high above your head happen in most forests. As you walk you might notice a neat pile of deer sign, or an owl pellet, or perhaps even find the pale bones of something that has since been picked clean. Human beings, with our neat division of life and death, where the dead are buried or burned or quickly taken away, do not leave evidence of said death everywhere. In the woods, death and decay exist alongside birth and growth.

That being said, it is really nice to type those words from my warm, sunny apartment. I feel so lucky to be able to spend time outside when I can, but I’m so close to being done with this thesis! Time to go write some more (maybe).

 

Amarillo everywhere

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Millions of little blooms hang down the edges of the sea cliffs all over this city right now and the colors are so blatantly optimistic and invigorating that after long, soul-tired walks I cannot help but feel a little better about things. It is interesting though that all of these blooms are rife with thorns. Nothing comes for free or without consequences.

Juno, did you by any chance barf in my urn? Mac, you know that nice urn by the front door that I got up in Stillwater?

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I flew to Minnesota on Tuesday to surprise Logan at the airport. He was coming home from Brazil and Mary and I hatched a plot.

We spent one beautiful, cold afternoon in Stillwater, and later that night Logan and I were watching Juno and I started laughing so hard because had just been there. Hence, you know, the long title. We did not buy an urn, but rather perused bookstores, had a nice beer at a pub, and looked at all the lovely old buildings.

Montana Summertime

Yellowstone, Katabatic Brewing Company, Marks In & Out in Livingston, and some other moments from our early May summer in Montana.

Feeling really homesick for the good souls I love so much.