Posts Tagged ‘home’


The summertime rolls experiment

October 4, 2013

Having a place to come back to and having a place to come home to are entirely different things. I have many places to go back to, some of them feel very homey. One of them is the house I grew up in, can’t get much more home than that. But I don’t actually live anywhere. I’m transient, wanderous, without roots. The majority of my stuff is in storage, the rest is scattered about friend’s houses, garages, vans. Even my dog friend, Gala is (happily) with a friend who has a bit of land and graciously allowed her to come and stay for a time (longer than we both expected) until I worked out exactly what was going to happen next.

The summer happened next. A summer incomparable to any before it with a plethora of parties, a font of festivals, an excess of events, an array of alliterable adventures. At one point, it felt there was barely time to breathe between one and the next.

There were many moments when I was grateful to my mom for overlooking the invasion of totes filled with dirty rope lights to be cleaned and recoiled, tent and sleeping bags airing over the balcony railing, laundry, decompression, laundry, sleeping for 15 hours, laundry.
I was also grateful that I didn’t have a place of my own in those moments. No plants to be concerned for, no rent to be paid on a place I would have barely been living at( which is good because I’m still working on the balance of festival work vs being paid a living wage) no food rotting in the fridge, no responsibility beyond making sure my truck is running smoothish and I have enough cash in pocket to get me to the next show.

And it was amazing. I am unbelievably fortunate to be in a position where I could have a summer like that. I’d like to find a way to do it so that I can find that balance between the festival parade and the living wage. That will take some time and it’s okay because I see the light (often literally) and I can be patient (I’m learning).

But I can’t do it without a place to call home. It’s so time. I’m so tired. As has been reflected in the last few posts I’ve written. Yes, travel and adventure are exciting. Yes being nomadic is liberating. Am I crazy to want the other side of the coin? There is a part of me that is screaming yes. But there’s a quieter part, further down, who is gently reminding me that I worked two jobs for a time in order to look good for a bank in order to buy a property because there’s a very real appeal to having something that is mine, however tenuous the reality that dictates we can “own” a piece of a planet we were born on seems to be. That quiet voice doesn’t change her mind a whole lot. She is not distracted by shiny like the upper voices. She is not swayed by sounds and smells and sights and the inevitable adventure that waits around every corner. She would be like Henry Beamish except that she doesn’t seek to escape from everyone to find the quiet place to read, she would like to incorporate the quiet place into the existence we already have. As quiet as a place can be with a black dog on guard from squirrels and bears.
Now that the activity is slowing down and the seasons are shifting, so is my focus. Towards a place of balance where I can have the adventures and then come home. Or have the adventure of creating a home so cozy and appealing, I won’t need to leave for a time. That will be lovely.


Feels like a manifesting kind of day.

October 4, 2013
Ok, here it is in a nutshell. A seriously detailed nutshell filled with destiny.
A place of my own.
With a bright well appointed kitchen for sunshine brunches and dinner parties and experimenting with gluten free baking.
Enough space and healthy soil for a garden with action to keep me in fresh veg with room to expand and learn.
Enough land for a black dog to race about happily and feel like she has something to defend from squirrels.
Trees worthy of climbing and spending the day in, comfortably.
A rope swing.
Fruit trees.
Accessible wilderness, magical hidden groves for secret garden parties, dangerous tea parties, picnics and outings.
Outdoor and indoor space for practising hula hoops, roue cyr, aerial silks, circus fun, cartwheels, somersaults.
Clean water consistently accessible from a deep well or artesian spring.
A river or stream on the property.
An outdoor bathtub.
A firepit.
An indoor window seat.
A bedroom that is sanctuary, bright and filled with dreams waiting to be experienced, a place where sleep is restful.
A living space conducive to creativity, to work, to thoughts that become form, indoor dance parties, midnight musings, love affairs, giggle fests and joy.
A well made wood stove that easily warms the whole house.
Windows to allow enough light for live plants.
A reasonable amount of storage.
A cozy zone for rainy days when the only sane thing to do is watch a whole bunch of french gangster movies. Or westerns. Or samurai movies. Or screwball comedies.
An indoor bathtub with a ledge large enough for plates of strawberries, glasses of wine, books, candles, a friend who tells stories.
Properly wired electrical and a rational number of outlets.
A space for a piano, other instruments, a home filled with music.
Far enough from the road for quiet, sheltered enough for privacy.
A solid, well built foundation.
Off the beaten path but close enough to civilization that I can easily have or seek out company.
At the end of the road but within walking distance of the sea.
Something that is mine, for a reasonable price.

Woke up sad.

August 3, 2013

Dreamed that I was at Artswells. Deliriously running about, trying to outsource a ladder to hang lights because the one I had been given to use was dodgy and collapsed. Fortunately I had one strapped to my car, though it’s only 2 steps high. But it didn’t matter, because I was doing what I like doing best in a place I would like to do it most.

Why Artswells? First, why not artswells?

Because I couldn’t make it work this year. I did a festival last weekend, Resonance. It was very much fantastic. A little more house music than I’ d like, but I wasn’t in charge of booking. Good thing too, I wouldn’t know where to start with that sort of thing. I’d likely be able to figure it out, but there are people much more qualified for such things. It was up in the cowichan valley, a beauty of a spot, reminiscent of a certain beach, albeit with a river alongside, rather than ocean. I think there is a good possibility those boys have started something lovely. I had a great time, getting to run about and light things up and generally making it look like this. Image

I think for the most part, people could see and enjoyed themselves and thought it was pretty so, total success, right? Got home Tuesday night, spent most of Wednesday sleeping and by Thursday morning realized I didn’t have time to make it to Artswells. Not there. There was no issue, except for the money challenge (the challenge being I have none) which always seems to work itself out. Failing that, borrowing money for the ferry and hitchhiking will always be the best of back up plans, as far as I go.
No, the issue comes from the fact that I signed on to help at shambhala with the friends I would do just about anything for. Do I wish they had the call to do Artswells? Yes. Do they? No.
If I left Artswells Sunday night, missing what looks to be an amazing Sunday night and drove through the night to arrive in Victoria on Monday morningish, I’d likely be okay to drive by Tuesday morning..probably. As in, I’d probably make it in time to get enough rest to drive a one-ton filled with gear up and down twisty mountain roads safely and happily to arrive at the show and then go to work like a crazy person.

Don’t get me wrong, I had a wonderful time at Resonance, I will have a wonderful time at Shambhala. It’s what I do. Awesome is my default setting. But there is something about Artswells that calls me. It vibrates at a frequency that makes sense. Those things don’t come along all too often. And it kills me that I’ve missed it two years in a row now. So much so that I’ve spent part of the morning since I woke up surfing housing, jobs, etc. up in wells, Quesnel and the Cariboo just to entertain the notion that there’s no way I can miss it next year if I live there!

One reality is, I’ve come to a place where I prefer live music. Is it because I’m getting older? Because I’m less able to differentiate between the seemingly endless categories of house music and various other genres? Because I’m less inclined to dance to something unless I really really really like it and I find myself dancing less and less? Because I’m sick to death of neon fun fur?
Yeah, probably because I’m old. Let’s just go with that one.

As we get older, is it ideal that our tastes refine themselves? Should we be broader in our acceptance of things people like? It’s not that I’m not accepting that there are people out there, younger and older than me, who want to dress in vinyl and fuzz and rock out to a driving beat that they would never consider boring or unimaginative thrown down by a guy who is so involved in what he is doing there is relatively little space for interpersonal interaction. Actually that last sentence makes it sound as though I’m extremely intolerant of such things.
I’m totally not.
If I so desired, I could make an extensive list of friends I have who are electronic musicians who play music I love so much, it would be all anyone could do to get me off that dance floor. And it’s also not fair to compare one music festival to another because there will be great and not so great aspects to every single one, depending on what you’re hoping to get out of the experience.

Here is what I can see is the difference between Artswells and the rest (excepting Tiny Lights because it’s exactly in the same category for reasons I’ll make obvious later) at least for me.
(Did you catch that last part? FOR ME. Not for anyone else does this opinion apply, because it is mine. And I would never presume to tell you that your love of fun fur is wrong for you, just because it’s wrong for me. I’ll address why I have this belief another time. )
I would like to live there. Every other festival I’ve ever been to was a nice place to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live there. Artswells takes place in a location that speaks to me. It wants me to come back at a time when the festival isn’t happening because I would find just as much joy on any other day as I would while the festival is happening. I don’t know how I know this to be true, it just is. Ymir, obviously, the same. Mostly because I already have and do and will live there and I know that it’s home. It’s not my only home, but it’s at the top right this second because I have yet to find a place, a community, a creek, a mountain, a house, etc that compares.

But I’m not there right now. And I’m not in Wells. And so I woke up sad. It doesn’t happen everyday, but it happened today. Some days are like that.
So to my Ymir family, I miss you and I would like to come back soon and I will and please reassure Gala that it’s not forever and I’m sorry I’m not there to take her for walks and be alpha.
To the Wells family that I’m still getting to know and love, it wasn’t to be this year, but two years of sad is about all I can take and so there is nothing in the ‘verse that could stop me from coming next year.  But I know, thanks to those luscious friends of ours, Mr Shawn and Miss Carla, there will be interactions aplenty and musicians who travel back and forth, connecting us through highways made of stuff more tenuous and tangible than asphalt.

And we’ll light it up. Image

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