Streets of Your Town

I’m thinking about running away.

Quite seriously thinking, not some frivolous notion that will be gone in a moment.

I have been obsessed, haunted, stalked and consumed by this wee city  for about 2 years now. Like all good things, it snuck up on me slowly, until I realised I was madly in love and restless with desire for a life there. Sometimes I sit in my lounge room and look at my furniture, and tick off things I would take to my new life, and things I would leave behind. Suffice to say, I’ll need a large shipping container.

It all began with Alicia. In fact, it’s mostly her fault. Almost entirely her fault.

 Alicia has a gorgeous fireplace,


the perfect studio in which to daydream things to life,

(she asks us not to hate her for it, but  it’s hard not too)

and a husband who quilts!

Mr & Mrs Paulson take long rambling walks on the weekend and sometimes run away to Seattle. Alicia reads books under an apple tree, is an exceptional craftswoman, she bakes, she knits, she crochets (it’s her ripple blanket that made me learn crochet) and her blog is the most wonderful place in the world. I know you already know about her, everyone loves Alicia, but if you haven’t popped over to her blog in the last fortnight, I urge you to check in with her…she has something wonderful to tell you.

(Can I just say, I’ve been feeling really blue this afternoon. Very blue in fact. But I’ve spent an hour going back through Alicia’s archives, specifically the garden archives, and I feel just, well, wonderful. See what Portland does for a girls well-being)

So Portland. Portland. I think I care for Portland more than I care for Mr Mortensen, which is not something I say lightly.  And it feels like the Universe wants me to be there. (Perhaps there is a dire shortage of Mouthy Australian Women there?) I find that the blogs that make my heart sing are written from Port-land, Or-e-gon. (You have to say it with an American accent). Like this rather lovely blog. This super talented woman has her own pattern company. Can you imagine being her?

“Hello, my name is Sarai, and I own my own pattern company”. Sigh.

And if that’s not enough, like she doesn’t have enough fabulous in her life, she lives in this divine little house. 

With tomatoes in the front garden and her own gazebo in the back garden. Double sigh. Can you imagine coming home after a hard day’s crafting to this divine little cottage!

It seems that everyone who lives in Portland gets a fabulous life. You arrive at the Airport, and they welcome you to Port-land, Or-e-gon, and they hand you the keys to your fabulous life. Groovie friends who have creative souls, a fairytale cottage with space for all your furniture (which is arriving from Sydney any moment now), a partner in crime who’s jagged little edges match completely to yours, and somehow the Cat has miraculously flown ahead of you and is purring at the door when you walk in. Actually, if it were Hamish, he would be lolling about on a bed somewhere demanding food or a backstratch.

I’m noticing a pattern in my life; not only do I covet Alicia and Sarai’s life, I also covet Allison’s. It’s got me thinking about what it is that tugs at my heartstrings and kicks the restlessness in my belly. Part of it has been the coming to terms with a major ending in my life. It’s taken me two years and as sad as it makes me, I think I’m just about there. But a larger part of it is that I’m just tired of Sydney. I’m tired of the noise, I’m tired of the dirty trains, I’m tired of the push and shove of the City, where no one really gives two hoots about anyone else. I’m tired of crap service, I’m tired of how expensive it’s become. I’m tired of paying rent, and would just about kill for a rambling house with wide floor boards, sash windows, an old gas cooker, picture rails and a large garden.

So I’ve decided to do something about it. I’m setting up the “Shut Miss Alison Up and Send Her to Portland” fund. If your name is Viggo Mortensen and you would like to make a contribution to this fund, please drop me a line at the email address above.




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