Focus

Next to a Portland rail yard on Friday evening,

and under the hum of the Fremont,

I swung on a trapeze!

A mostly indoor picnic with Jamee and her adorable little one on Saturday. It was sweet and fun and so very good to catch up.

Little Big Burger after the wind shield wipers went whoosh, whoosh, whoosh. Mmm…

And Ruby Jewel after that. A Meyer Lemon Ginger cone for me and a Caramel with Salted Chocolate for him. Double mmm…

You light up my life!

Many a curiosity at Paxton Gate, but only one Jackalope.

Tin Can Siding

and Gothic Glass at the Portland Garden Cottages.

The barista at the Albina blew me a latte kiss.

My handsome bearded reader.

 Home made pizza on a Sunday afternoon.

Happy Birthday, Alan and Chaz!

 

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Marilyn and Jules had met about eight years ago at a rooftop margarita tasting. Their mutual friend Jill had originally arranged the tasting in hopes of setting Julies up with her new co-worker, Nina. Nina had been emboldened at the prospect of a new romance and a brand new box of hair dye she’d bought on impulse earlier that day. She applied her “Golden Gaia” while flipping through a magazine, dozing off for not the recommended thirty-five minutes, but forty five. Unfortunately for Nina, Jules had little interest in women who found hair-dye to be a practical expense and, upon being introduced to her, looked no further than her brutally white-blond strands before deeming her entirely un-dateable.

Disappointed early in the night, Jules took to the tasting table. As she re-salted her third rim she bumped hands with Marilyn who, set against the balmy sunset, a few gray hairs proudly crowning her head, cheeks glowing pink (Marilyn was salting her fourth), struck her as a figurehead of raw and unbridled feminine beauty.

Marilyn and Jules spent the night inseparable. Jules, who was a chatty drunk, did most of the talking, gesturing passionately about those who do yoga just because it’s trendy (Nina) versus those who truly connect with the spiritual practice (Jules). Marilyn listened little but found her gesturing intoxicating, often becoming distracted by the striking appearance of Joann’s sun-bleached hair, eyebrows and eyelashes against her golden colored skin. This especially attracted Marylin as it kept reminding her to think about really, seriously, finally trying out that box of blond hair dye nearing its expiration date in the back of her medicine cabinet. (This box, in addition to Marylin’s newly purchased yogaerobics DVDs, were swiftly discarded after that night of Jules’ many fervent rants about women today).

Seven months after Jules met Marilyn at the rooftop tasting, she slipped a copy of her key underneath Marilyn’s slice of toast one morning, asking her to move into her one bedroom.

Not quite two years after that, Marilyn and Jules were married in a tasteful yet practical commitment ceremony, (no white involved), before twenty of their closest friends and family.

Life was beyond ideal for the two and almost daily people would remark at how lucky they were to have found each other. For, not only were Marilyn and Jules an unbelievable match…

…Marilyn and Jules were also mummies.

Art & Letters is a collaboration:

It’s a switcheroo!

Story by Maren Jensen

Drawing by Colleen Sohn

 

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Yes

I thank you God for this most amazing day, for the leaping greenly spirits of trees, and for the blue dream of sky and for everything which is natural, which is infinite, which is yes.

E.E. Cummings

Happy Birthday, darlin’ Maren!

Have I ever written of my love of Wes Anderson? I don’t remember, but it really seems like I should have, for the man can do no wrong in my eyes, at least in all things cinematic and concerning the wearing of suits. I know not a whit about his personal life, which suits me fine. However, should he ever invite me to tea or whiskey to find out, you can bet your bottom dollar that I’ll be there, with bells ON. The king of corduroy has a new movie out, and I’ve been eagerly awaiting its arrival since I saw the trailer months ago, which seemed more like ages. I don’t know that I’ve ever anticipated a film’s arrival more than this. Proof, perhaps, that this gal needs to get out more often, or that, as previously stated, I am a rather big fan of his fil-ums. Moonrise Kingdom finally came to Portland two weeks ago, but we were ever so busy doing a whole weekend’s worth of yard work that made me far too tired to go, which made me a bit sad, too, but I recovered. I am an adult and can survive disappointments.

This past weekend, however, there were no projects on the books and stellar weather, so we headed out for a long and leisurely day. We started at Pacific Pie CO for lunch, our first and definitely not our last time there. It has swell decor, very good service, and the aforementioned pie. I love pie, sweet or savory. They have both, but we only partook of the savory because our bellies were full up. Tooting my own horn here, they have the best pie crust I’ve ever had next to my own, which is damn good. It is light and buttery and super tender. I had the beef and mushroom with a side of broccoli (did you get that Mom? I ordered broccoli. What is happening to me?!) and the hubster had the lamb with spicy coleslaw. Both were happily devoured in short order and promises made to come back for the cherry and the creamy chicken. In that order, I think. Why the hell not?

Oh, I am sassy today! After the pie, we crossed the river and loafed around before show time, taking in the Oregon History Museum on free day, because everything is better when it is free. It is an interesting assortment of curiosities, as you can see, though I was certainly most jazzed by the architectural models on display, this one being Pietro Belluschi’s house (he also designed the Portland Art Museum and the Commonwealth Building, in which I once worked) and the letter from Ansel Adams. Shazam, that is pretty awesome letterhead, which made the hubster and I decide that we need our own. One day, when we have more time, we’ll head up to the fourth floor and see if our house has any interesting history of its own, present occupants excluded, of course.

The fil-um did not disappoint, though I never had a doubt. It was Wes Anderson, through and through, with a nod or two to Francis Ford Coppola (his son Roman was co-writer), with wounded oddballs and misfit characters occupying idyllic homes (ah, the Bishop house!) in picturesque landscapes. They stumble through life, encountering both the vicious and the tender kind, searching for people with whom to share their pain and great capacity for love. They are impeccably dressed and coiffed, a bit wild, and make this viewer cry, though not nearly half as much as they make me laugh out loud.

We’re at the Central Library now. Isn’t it beautiful? We roamed the stacks a bit and checked out a couple of neat-o architecture books with great pictures. I don’t suppose we ever outgrow a good picture book, do we? I sure haven’t.

More downtown gorgeousness before we get back to the car. I love the clouds in this one.

When we got home, we hung out on the patio, talked about the movie, perused our books, and the hubster and cats took a nap while I watched and occupied my mind with random thoughts.

It got cool, and the mosquitoes started buzzing, so we came inside and cuddled on the sofa before doing some more reading. We’ve started The Game of Thrones, taking turns reading aloud to each other, which is fun, and we are both enjoying, for the most part. I am definitely not the primary audience for this series, as I am neither a fan of explicit sex or graphic violence. This has both, but not too much, for now, at least.

A perfect day in our own little Moonrise Kingdom.

 

 

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When I was in Denver, after every single visit with a friend or family member, in that very private place that was my rental car, I would cry. Sometimes they were tiny tears, stopped with a widening of the eyes and a deep sigh. Others were trickier, that salty-sweet spill on my lap and hands as I drove and sang to Radiohead or Iron & Wine. Worst, or best, actually, in hindsight, were the variety that came in a torrent, and I pulled the car to the side of the road while they did their work. I just saw someone special to me! They were right there and we hugged and laughed and talked until my throat was sore! So very many cough drops, my friends.

Then there were the times when the tears could not wait, like with Kelli when she was driving, or during lunch with Hef, and with my parents and grandparents, and when I caught my first glimpse of Wendy in the distance, the very first time since high school (that’s twenty-three years, math lovers).

Then I got home, standing at the curb at the airport, and the hubster pulled up with this light in his eyes, so happy to see me, and we hugged for the longest time before taking the long way home, so I could see the city I love a bit more slowly.

And the other day, to celebrate another year of Colleen Sohn on this marvelous planet circling the sun, I had friends over. We ate and drank and talked and talked. And they humbled me with straight from the heart kindness and thoughtful gifts, but mostly their warm presence in my life.

So the title. All of this makes me think of that story, and how there was enough and more from impossibly little. My life is like that. Every time I think there couldn’t be more kindness or love, someone shows me. Every time I think life couldn’t be more beautiful, flowers bloom. A friend calls. A bird sings. A cat purrs. The hubster smiles. Music plays. I round the bend and there is the Saint John’s Bridge.

Shining examples of how good it all is.

 

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