respondez, s'il vous plait...

a beautiful thing that (technically) happened on june 2, 2011?

i finished addressing, stamping, stuffing, and swak-ing all of our wedding invitations. tomorrow morning they'll be in the mail, and i'm less than three months from marrying the raddest person i've ever met. looking at all of them in one beginning-to-tower pile is powerful. i don't know, the invites just make it feel more... official, somehow. it's pretty great.

love,

j

mrs. meyer's

tonight i got home and did NOTHING but clean my house until jacob got home.

he told me i was like a magic person.

and now my house smells like geraniums and clean all over the place. i'm obsessed with mrs. meyer's, even though j and i always argue about whether it's pronounced "may" or "my." it's one of the best feelings in the world when your house is squeaky clean and smells good to boot.

(sigh).

love,

j

swimming pool

the pool's open, and even though it's really not warm enough, i can hear a little kid's laughter and splashing carried up to my balcony on an almost-warm wind tonight, and summer doesn't seem quite so far away...

love,

j

home again, home again

this weekend, j and i got our saturday night shift covered and headed up to vancouver to celebrate both of our birthdays. normally we do one small trip for each of them, but this year, saving for our wedding, it seemed a little wiser and more responsible to whittle it down to one right in the middle. and, actually, in many ways it seemed even more special, celebratory, and lavish, because we were honoring two fantastic days in one long weekend.

and holy cow, vancouver is beautiful. we had a splendid time, and i had so many things i thought about posting. we visited this incredible charcuterie shop called oyama sausage company, where they had truffle salami and duck prosciutto and virtually everything that is sinfully tasty, went on this lovely little boat called the aquabus across false creek (i think, but i'd had a lot of champagne, so it very well could have been another body of water), saw kitty nights, a really fantastic burlesque show at the biltmore cabaret (where we so fortunately were on the vip guest list and i got to wear a pretty gold eva franco dress), dined on everything terrific, from lobster to lamb to perfect little french macarons in bright and cheerful colors, and saw dolphins and belugas at the aquarium. plus, i'd given jacob his birthday present: a tamron 18-270 zoom lens; and he was elated, so i had the joy of watching the love of my life play with a fancy new toy.

but i'm not posting any of those as my beautiful thing. i wasn't sure what it'd be until i sat down a few moments ago to write.

and thinking about what was the best birthday of my life, filled with so many exciting adventures and experiences, what i can truly say is this:

no matter how excellent a vacation is, and no matter how many complaints one might have about their house (and we have many, though small: not enough room, i hate the carpets, there's clutter everywhere that i can never seem to get on top of, we can't stand our determined-to-be-consistently-nasty-and-unpleasant downstairs neighbor, we miss having a yard), there is no anticipation so delicious as that of knowing you are about to return to your home.

so for the highlight of my exquisite long holiday, i'll be sitting, surrounded by the mess of wedding invitations and lists, goodwill piles, and mail i need to catch up on, with a puppy on my feet, the love of my life by my side, and the american version of shameless on the television, and i can't think of a more beautiful thing in the world.

love,

j

vivian maier

love,

j

our family

(so far).

love,

j

ps. was absent for a few, but with good reason: i was having the best birthday of my whole life.

pablo neruda's sonata

Neither the heart cut by a piece of glass

in a wasteland of thorns

nor the atrocious waters seen in the corners

of certain houses, waters like eyelids and eyes

can capture your waist in my hands

when my heart lifts its oaks

towards your unbreakable thread of snow.

Nocturnal sugar, spirit

of the crowns,

randsomed

human blood, your kisses

send into exile

and a stroke of water, with remnants of the sea,

neats on the silences that wait for you

surrounding the worn chairs, wearing out doors.

Night with bright spindles,

divided, material, nothing

but voice, nothing but

naked every day.

Over your breasts of motionless current,

over your legs of firmness and water,

over the permanence and the pride

of your naked hair

I want to be, my love, now that the tears are

thrown

into the raucous baskets where they accumulate,

I want to be, my love, alone with a syllable

of mangled silver, alone with a tip

of your breast of snow.