This weekend was fantastic for many reasons. The first was because Friday night, I drove up to Portland to check out its first Art Walk of the year. The art walk is really cool because it’s basically you and the rest of the city walking around Congress street, diving in and out of little shops or big galleries to check out people’s artwork or watch them performing/creating/using their art in some way, shape or form. Meanwhile, you’re drinking wine, noshing on pizza, beer, crackers, life like.it.is.your.job.
The bell tower plays local music and it sounds eerily and echo-y, like muslim prayer only...not. Saw some crazy good apocalyptic abstracts, photographers lined up at Space, ready to take your picture against a variety of backdrops using a variety of techniques as well as old school wooden cameras with their tintype photos to flashy DSLRs and green screens.
Made our way over to the final stop of the night, Corduroy (surf boutique/art gallery) whose owners, Jim and Tyler, were spotlighting Scott Patt, an artist whose collective work, “Good Luck” featured white rabbit sculptures, a wall of brightly colored rabbit foot keychains, and a mosaic of surfboard patterns and black n whites. All playing on the idea of luck. Funny enough, the guy was once a missionary, a strip club sketch artist, a bodybuilder and a creative for Nike and Converse. Talk about a wild ride. A keg of Sam Summer and wheels of hilarious conversation later, Pete and I made our way to Nosh for some burgers and calamari, then back to his house on Higgins Beach where I proceeded to have the most VIVID dream in which I was touring Europe as a soccer player and, as part of the cultural experience, was brought in for the Swiss version of “Dateline” where I sat and listened to this old woman tell me why she murdered her last four husbands. The producer fell in love with me and I had to tell him, “Sorry, but no; I am touring Europe with my soccer team and that would be hard for you.” He was relentless and well, if I ever see that 6’4” Swiss man again we’ll likely pick up where we left off.
Where was I? Oh yeah. Dream. Okay.
Woke up, drank rich dark coffee and sat on the sun-facing porch watching the waves crash along the shoreline of Higgins Beach wishing this was my life always.
A few hours later, I drove to my old friend, Trisha’s parent’s house to celebrate her 30th birthday. Trish is about to pop out a little dude in a few months and I haven’t seen that girl in forever, and haven’t reallllly seen her since high school, when we were best friends and the air we breathed was summer and lip gloss and the sweet, sweet nectar of adventurous innocence. She’d pick Mary and I up on our way to camp and, with her red beretta stinging the streets we’d roll the windows down and sing Strawberry Wine at the top of our lungs. Gosh, there are moments when the past feels so good to remember.
Having arrived at her house on this day, it was soooo great to see so many of those memories embodied in the grown up adultness; the laugh lines and frown lines of faces I’d grown up with. It was so flippn amazing to hang out with her, her family and good friends. It was a beautiful day, the sun was high, the conversations were easy and the drinks were cold. Pass me another memory, please.
In the card I gave to her, I tucked in a drawing I’d found in the back of my parent’s closet - a picture I drew back in 1995 of the three of us: Mary, Kay and Trisha, atop of a million memories. There were so many that made NO sense and we spent a solid amount of time trying to decipher why I drew Trish wearing a shirt that read, "KILL MEL!", what "black shorts" meant, why "Holly's bookshelf" was so important and what how the heck did Pokey get ketchup on himself? So many memories to stand on, and so many of them, though they gird us, are lost on us now. But how decadent it is to hold the colorful markings they leave for us, forever.