500 days of Autumn

500 days of Autumn

Tuesday, 31 July 2012

Home body

I haven't cried in a long time, but Saturday evening after a long walk with a dear friend, my pillow found itself soaked at the thought of leaving. It's strange feeling, to be sick for home, while you are still at home. 

But honestly, There's no where on earth quite like the place you grew up in. Every nook and cranny is like an old friend, every creaky board, a friendly whisper. The familiar gravel roads smell of dust and fresh grass,the woods of moss and dirt. The old fort at the head of the trail still leans, with popular boughs woven together, like praying hands. And that trail to the neighbors never grows in, with indents of little feet and stick marking the way.
So many memories are wrapped up in this place, like old sweaters in a box, just waiting to be pulled out. The blue of my sisters eyes, the squeeze of little arms, my big/ little brother's hands as he grips the steering wheel and the sawdust in my dads beard.
I don't always know where every road will take me,
But I know one that will always lead home.

Where's home for you?

Wednesday, 25 July 2012

Dust dreams

Somedays when the heat becomes so unbearable that my hair plasters to the back of my neck  or other days, when not even the thickest of wool socks can keep out that bitter chill, I find myself slipping into a day dream.

A dream of an old orange vw bus, with seats covered in worn sheepskin, with a sagging dash 
and crooked right side mirror.
 On those days we hop into our van, stow our belongings in the back and
 head for the open road. 
He drives, shirtless with only a faded pair of denim cut offs to his name.
 His long fingers tap rhythms on the steering wheel to the blaring of the tape deck, while his other arm sits, slung out alongside 
the rolled down window.
I sit in the  passenger  seat, dirt covered toes propped up on the dash, leaving dusty prints on the smooth glass of the wind shield. 
my hands plunk out tunes on the old banjo, perched precariously on my lap to the tune of the rubber wheels spinning over the tired asphalt.
Our hair grows wild, filled with wind, dust and sunlight. Our bodies grow leathery in the hot sun. 

Every so often we pull over, to explore some small town, to buy a handful of groceries and perhaps a postcard or two. 
Sometimes we throw our tired bodies down in the soft moss of a towering forest or on the smooth cement under a highway bridge.
Every night we lay underneath a sky filled with a million stars after filling our bellies with slightly burnt tasting suppers cooked over the coals of a rock fire.
I hold the map as we drive, pointing out all the sights to go see. There is no such things as a detour in this drive, as
the only destination is adventure. 

We belly laugh and begin to form our own language. Bathroom sinks become our showers
cool lakes, 
our bathtub.
Windswept fields and cool mountain tops whisper our names. We avoid big cities and socialize with the ocean waves instead. 
Our feet dangle over the spare tire as we sit atop the back, and the sun sinks into the west, making the sky bleed red and soft pink, 
painting our arms and legs in its glow.

We curl up together on the old foam mattress and secrets float through the night air.
In my dream, there is no such thing as the
 internet, cell phones or television. 
Letters are scrawled on the backs of napkins and loved ones are called 
from bug filled phone booths.
The bookcase behind the drivers seat is constructed out of driftwood found 
on a secluded beach.
We like to pretend that the pieces once belonged to an ship, 
destined for somewhere grand.
The bookcase is filled with our favourite titles, some old and some new, the spaces stuffed with
 shells and rocks from our travels.

We meet all sorts of folk along the way, partaking in many meals and bonfires.
I photograph each one, and the photo's 
line the walls of our small space.

And still we drive on.


(Film photo taken by me)

Thursday, 12 July 2012

Summers freckled knee's.

Winnipeg Folk fest 2012.
Oh how I love you. 
Mike and I could only escape the city for the friday evening and all day saturday of the 5-day fest, but what a two days they were! We ate watermelon beneath a tree, waded our way through the sea of tarps, painted our bodies and let the sun burn the patterns into our arms.We danced until our feet bled and laughed until our stomachs ached. We found our friends in the 1000's of faces, tied napkins to our wrists and snuck into the campground. 
We lay underneath the stars and listened to amazing music
And some more
and even more.

Every stage was explored,100's of pictures, both digital and film were taken and crazy clothes and even crazier people were seen.
My little sister and I spent some of saturday weaving together lace and flower crowns while Asher and Mike crafted bows and arrows.
We finished our festival by dancing wildly with a mob of hipsters to celtic electronica (yes, that exists) underneath a sky of smoke, flashing lights and incredible stars.
Folk fest 2013? The countdown is on.
(Film Photo's coming soon)