There is an believably unbelievable sense of peace I feel when I'm on Quadra Island. My parents' cabin is located about half an hour driving- both on paved and gravel roads- away from the ferry terminal, and there is sweet, sweet silence when you arrive. Oceanfront land in this area doesn't have that same electric hum that I tolerate in a city.
In short, I want to live there. I want to wake up and feed my own chickens and tend a garden and sit down on the rocks overlooking the Pacific with a glass of wine in my hand whenever I feel like it. I want to teach myself about the medicinal uses of various herbs- how pine needles can fight scurvy, for instance- and to have my best friend be a dog that will fight tooth and nail for me, much as I would for him.
Whether or not it's practical, I think it would be genuinely good for me. Every time I leave it's with more than a tinge of resignation; back to this museum city I come, pinned down by self-imposed obligations of school and work and honestly, other people.
On the way back from Campbell River, we stopped off at a secret enchanted forest just outside of my hometown. It's unmarked. You park outside a yellow gate and walk along a rugged path, through a forest that is "enchanted" without human intervention, by moss and upturned roots and murky puddles. However, there is a man who lives down this path- allegedly a Russian fugitive with Communist leanings- and he has taken it upon himself to hide wooden books in the carved crevices of trees, place orange wooden fish in puddles, scatter painted rocks throughout the underbrush, and attach myriad anachronistic iron and metal appliances to tree trunks.
It sounds banal, but it was quite pretty. I especially enjoyed the cracked mirrors in the knots of trees, and the silver water taps leading to nowhere. Quite surreal. There is a definite cloak of magic over the forest, and I couldn't help but wonder what it would've been like to grow up in such a place. If it would've hindered my imagination because what I was forced to conceive of in my mind alone as a child would have been right in front of me, or if it would've lended itself to further imaginations beyond the physical sur/realities present.
I left breathing clean air into my lungs and feeling generally at peace with everything. Back home. We drove to Mill Bay under a mashed banana sky listening to Leonard Cohen and Paul Simon, and I barely managed to catch the bus the rest of the way to Victoria. Darkness as I entered the city, walking fast to get home, my breath as chocolate crystal in the air.
In short, I want to live there. I want to wake up and feed my own chickens and tend a garden and sit down on the rocks overlooking the Pacific with a glass of wine in my hand whenever I feel like it. I want to teach myself about the medicinal uses of various herbs- how pine needles can fight scurvy, for instance- and to have my best friend be a dog that will fight tooth and nail for me, much as I would for him.
Whether or not it's practical, I think it would be genuinely good for me. Every time I leave it's with more than a tinge of resignation; back to this museum city I come, pinned down by self-imposed obligations of school and work and honestly, other people.
On the way back from Campbell River, we stopped off at a secret enchanted forest just outside of my hometown. It's unmarked. You park outside a yellow gate and walk along a rugged path, through a forest that is "enchanted" without human intervention, by moss and upturned roots and murky puddles. However, there is a man who lives down this path- allegedly a Russian fugitive with Communist leanings- and he has taken it upon himself to hide wooden books in the carved crevices of trees, place orange wooden fish in puddles, scatter painted rocks throughout the underbrush, and attach myriad anachronistic iron and metal appliances to tree trunks.
It sounds banal, but it was quite pretty. I especially enjoyed the cracked mirrors in the knots of trees, and the silver water taps leading to nowhere. Quite surreal. There is a definite cloak of magic over the forest, and I couldn't help but wonder what it would've been like to grow up in such a place. If it would've hindered my imagination because what I was forced to conceive of in my mind alone as a child would have been right in front of me, or if it would've lended itself to further imaginations beyond the physical sur/realities present.
I left breathing clean air into my lungs and feeling generally at peace with everything. Back home. We drove to Mill Bay under a mashed banana sky listening to Leonard Cohen and Paul Simon, and I barely managed to catch the bus the rest of the way to Victoria. Darkness as I entered the city, walking fast to get home, my breath as chocolate crystal in the air.
VIEW 14 of 14 COMMENTS
cklarock:
Why, that is what some boys do best.
godlessnerd:
yea dawg. i'm like a spy or something.