Coffee me, coffee me, COFFEE ME.

Okay you know when you get to the end of the Fraser Valley and run smack into the mountains dense with the shimmering green fur of fir trees? I did that yesterday. And this time of year, not the sober melancholy of the evergreen of winter, but that amorphous swirl of new growth green that actually seems to pulse and move, daring your eye to settle too long on one spot. If you do though you will cast aside all thoughts of your destination and abandon your car at the side of the road. Step into the forest and chase the light glimmering off every new leaf and bough. Dangerous beauty indeed.

Well, totally not what I thought I would write about when my fingers started moving. Though you probably get the idea that the drive was magical. I am so grateful that I decided to spend some quality time with self and drive. Despite the rough edges of the previous 24 hours it does seem that the time honoured tradition of the road trip is still balm to the soul. Maybe even more so for writers than for all other artistic groups. Something about the complete lack of the familiar routine that reaches inside with a little brass hammer and cracks open that crusty crap that has hardened across the magic internal door to the land of what-if-and-maybe.

My face hurts today from smiling all day yesterday. Ow, that made me smile again. It’s been four or five years since I made that trip and did think fondly of the Earth Mother who last made the journey with me. Though I did enjoy the rollercoaster flow of the Coquihalla much more with out worrying about her white knuckling every rise and fall. Fear of hills. Kinda tough since if you look at the map of BC – pretty much bumpy bumpy bumpy. But hey, we are all afraid of something. I’m afraid of barking dogs(even small ones) and meringue – go figure.
I wonder what that drive would be like on a sunny day in a car that had more than 4 cylinders and less than 15 years on it. Like a Porsche, or a Ferrari or even a Lamborghini Testarossa! Woot! (as Skyhamer would say) Not that I could pick a Lamborghini Testarossa out of a line-up, but I just like the name. Testarossa! Said with tons of attitude and a flourish. Testarossa! I like to think it means testosterone in Italian. Come to think of it, maybe it does, in the actual sense, if not the literal. I know it is supposed to be either figurative or literal, but I am a Language Artiste and I like having senses which are also actual, fantastical, rationale, and crazy right.

I seem to be unable to convey the pure radiant joy of my afternoon yesterday. Maybe because now that it has passed and I am prepping for today’s journey and thinking I really to find a tissue very soon and how much coffee can I drink without having to pull off in Vernon to pee; it feels almost too personal to share all the weird little golden moments of yesterday’s joy. That makes me a bit sad because surely I thought about each and every one of you during that time; the Earth Mother, Lil’ Surfer Dude, Ultimate, Ms. Fitness, Duder, Skyhammer, Squishy, Po, Pablito, Davids #1,2,3, 3.5 and 4*, Buttercup, Leading Man, Coach, Ingenue, Dr. Y, Princess, Angel, Mom, and all my assorted family.

*Davids are numbered in the order that they were kissed. David 3.5 is designated so because I think his name was David (might have been Peter). Usually I just think of him as Australian Life Guard Guy – he was world champion at one of those events where you jump in the rip with a tiny piece of Styrofoam board and save people. Crazy, but really, really, really nice abs. I remember those abs –name, not so much.