The Lovely Randoms

A celebration of ____________.
     So we took a twenty minute shortcut through the woods to get to the swimming hole. It took us about three hours of bushwhacking before he finally admitted we were lost. As a matter of fact, we had somehow entirely left the cool dampness of the forest behind and were in some blisteringly hot plateau of scrub grass and cacti. My shins were torn to shit from the brambles and thorns, and my face likely hasn’t been so burnt since. I wasn’t smiling.
     On the other hand, his beautiful Italian-Eritrean skin was fairing just fine in the sun, and he was quite content to laugh at our predicament, even as we snuck through these bizarre little crack colony trailer squats we kept coming across in the bush, keeping an eye out for big dogs. Every time we slipped our bloodied and awkward bodies through another barbed wire fence he would pretend to cock a shotgun and say in some very not convincing southern hick accent: 
       ”Yup. Butt-sex with trespassers and feeding bodies to the pigs. That’s pretty much my bag.”   
     Eventually we somehow found our way back to camp. I think I dreamt of thorn bushes and pigs that night. 

     So we took a twenty minute shortcut through the woods to get to the swimming hole. It took us about three hours of bushwhacking before he finally admitted we were lost. As a matter of fact, we had somehow entirely left the cool dampness of the forest behind and were in some blisteringly hot plateau of scrub grass and cacti. My shins were torn to shit from the brambles and thorns, and my face likely hasn’t been so burnt since. I wasn’t smiling.

     On the other hand, his beautiful Italian-Eritrean skin was fairing just fine in the sun, and he was quite content to laugh at our predicament, even as we snuck through these bizarre little crack colony trailer squats we kept coming across in the bush, keeping an eye out for big dogs. Every time we slipped our bloodied and awkward bodies through another barbed wire fence he would pretend to cock a shotgun and say in some very not convincing southern hick accent: 

       ”Yup. Butt-sex with trespassers and feeding bodies to the pigs. That’s pretty much my bag.”  
 

     Eventually we somehow found our way back to camp. I think I dreamt of thorn bushes and pigs that night. 

Dear Divine Forces Of Self-Image,
May We All Decide To Like Our Bodies.
    May we reach a point that we will no longer resent them for their ungainly angles or unwanted curves, we will not hate how our muscles grow with the labour of our days, or where they remain hidden underneath folds of softer flesh.
   May we recognize that our respective heights each come with their own advantages, that our feet are the right length and width, and that our noses are not in fact too big or too crooked.
    May the colour and (wrinkled, puckered, sagging) textures of the skins which protect us from scarier things than cellulite be just fine with us, a-okay, great.  
    May our eyes and hair be exactly the colour we would have asked for anyways, and our fingers and toes not seem “weird” to us any more.
   Please O-Self Love Powers-That-Be, let us appreciate our strange bellybuttons and asymmetric eyebrows, our sticking-out ears and the not-so-pneumatic shape of our breasts.
  May we eat, sleep and be as merry as our body needs, and treat our cracked heels and our belly fat with the same compassion that we tend to reserve for our hands after a day in the garden.
   May we finally let our impossibly high standards conform to the parameters of our physical realities, rather than trying to force our wonderful bodies to be the straw that gives because the camels’ back cannot (as it is too sore from pilates class).
Amen.  
This is a picture of me. I have decided that I am going to work hard to love this for what it is. You should do the same for yourself. 

Dear Divine Forces Of Self-Image,

May We All Decide To Like Our Bodies.

    May we reach a point that we will no longer resent them for their ungainly angles or unwanted curves, we will not hate how our muscles grow with the labour of our days, or where they remain hidden underneath folds of softer flesh.

   May we recognize that our respective heights each come with their own advantages, that our feet are the right length and width, and that our noses are not in fact too big or too crooked.

    May the colour and (wrinkled, puckered, sagging) textures of the skins which protect us from scarier things than cellulite be just fine with us, a-okay, great.  

    May our eyes and hair be exactly the colour we would have asked for anyways, and our fingers and toes not seem “weird” to us any more.

   Please O-Self Love Powers-That-Be, let us appreciate our strange bellybuttons and asymmetric eyebrows, our sticking-out ears and the not-so-pneumatic shape of our breasts.

  May we eat, sleep and be as merry as our body needs, and treat our cracked heels and our belly fat with the same compassion that we tend to reserve for our hands after a day in the garden.

   May we finally let our impossibly high standards conform to the parameters of our physical realities, rather than trying to force our wonderful bodies to be the straw that gives because the camels’ back cannot (as it is too sore from pilates class).

Amen.  

This is a picture of me. I have decided that I am going to work hard to love this for what it is. You should do the same for yourself. 

This was a semi-charmed kind of day. Hitched to the coast not sure where to next. Stopped at this spot here to wander down to a little stream running ocean-bound where I could sit and wash the sweat and grit from my (only pair) of socks. My socks never dried and I left them hanging from a sign beside the highway and carried on barefoot. By the evening I was blistering heels against shoes slapping the asphalt and regretting my poor choices. 

This was a semi-charmed kind of day. Hitched to the coast not sure where to next. Stopped at this spot here to wander down to a little stream running ocean-bound where I could sit and wash the sweat and grit from my (only pair) of socks. My socks never dried and I left them hanging from a sign beside the highway and carried on barefoot. By the evening I was blistering heels against shoes slapping the asphalt and regretting my poor choices. 

   I was out all night in the wastelands waiting for a train.
   There was construction going on not too far from the catch out, and I had to be the quietest little mouse there ever was, as there were men patrolling the site with dogs.
   Nothing going in the right direction slowed down enough, so I wandered bleary-eyed back into the city in the come sunrise. Took this photo on the way. As I crossed through the ditches I kept hearing crunching beneath my feet. When I finally looked down I realized the dew-covered grass was filled with snails. 

   I was out all night in the wastelands waiting for a train.

   There was construction going on not too far from the catch out, and I had to be the quietest little mouse there ever was, as there were men patrolling the site with dogs.

   Nothing going in the right direction slowed down enough, so I wandered bleary-eyed back into the city in the come sunrise. Took this photo on the way. As I crossed through the ditches I kept hearing crunching beneath my feet. When I finally looked down I realized the dew-covered grass was filled with snails. 

I’m going to diverge right now from the general photos and travels theme to share something:

Today I got a much beloved and barely belated homemade construction-paper Valentine’s Day card in the mail. It was from my favourite man, and had a train collaged on it with different colours of paper, hearts for wheels, and the whole “I CHOO-CHOO-CHOOSE YOU” thing. It also had some other words written on it. 

"You are my wife. I love you. Adam. xoxo."

He is the best. I am completely and utterly overjoyed. Only four more sleeps until I am home. 

   This is Feivel. He is my best friend, and is amazing beyond your wildest dreams…
…train-riding, squirrel-chasing, bed-lying, stick-playing, dead-thing-rolling-in, park-running, house-guarding, cuddle-puddle-ing…canine-genius…empath…clown…emotional support… extraordinaire… amazing.  

   This is Feivel. He is my best friend, and is amazing beyond your wildest dreams…

…train-riding, squirrel-chasing, bed-lying, stick-playing, dead-thing-rolling-in, park-running, house-guarding, cuddle-puddle-ing…canine-genius…empath…clown…emotional support… extraordinaire… amazing.  

Someone please explain this to me.
I really like it, but I just don’t understand it. 

Someone please explain this to me.

I really like it, but I just don’t understand it. 

    CN line, heading into Jasper.
   Right after this we blew through a narrow pass with a herd of mountain goats dispersed on either side of the tracks.
   I looked at them clinging to the nooks and crannies on the cliff and they looked at me, (wide-eyed and open-mouthed), and I was so enthusiastic about everything and anything for no particular reason that I started screaming just because. 

    CN line, heading into Jasper.

   Right after this we blew through a narrow pass with a herd of mountain goats dispersed on either side of the tracks.

   I looked at them clinging to the nooks and crannies on the cliff and they looked at me, (wide-eyed and open-mouthed), and I was so enthusiastic about everything and anything for no particular reason that I started screaming just because. 

Freya was good company. 

Freya was good company. 

    It used to be a church, and worship gave way to fire, gave way to ruins, gave way to layers of KEEP OUTS and fences while the important people in a large city figured out what to build in its’ place. 
    There were towers and spires and nooks still roofed and protected from the rain, the property was enormous and sheltered from prying eyes by impossibly thick bushes and trees. There were stories to read in the bricks and rubbles, secrets to discover.
   So long as you were careful on the myriad of old stairs and the brittle surfaces and you didn’t set a bare foot on the sharpness of the shattered ceramic tiles— this was a perfect place to stay. 

    It used to be a church, and worship gave way to fire, gave way to ruins, gave way to layers of KEEP OUTS and fences while the important people in a large city figured out what to build in its’ place. 

    There were towers and spires and nooks still roofed and protected from the rain, the property was enormous and sheltered from prying eyes by impossibly thick bushes and trees. There were stories to read in the bricks and rubbles, secrets to discover.

   So long as you were careful on the myriad of old stairs and the brittle surfaces and you didn’t set a bare foot on the sharpness of the shattered ceramic tiles— this was a perfect place to stay.