Snippets

(more photos on Flickr - click above to go to the set)

I awoke to the chirping alarm on my cell phone. 10 a.m.

"For the love of God, give me five more minutes," I groaned. As if talking to the alarm was going accomplish anything, but for some reason, I felt better about making at least a futile effort.

After two consecutive Saturday nights at the Muddy River Smokehouse, I feel confident stating that there's something about the place that makes it impossible to go to sleep before dawn. I curl up under a blanket as the light starts to peek through whatever window and find myself chuckling to sleep as I reflect on the randomness of the evening concluding. Portsmouth serves as the gateway to random conversations and bizarre turns of events. It's just how it works.

But at least these excursions to the town have been pleasant.*

Tom and I surveyed the Gaiety demolition site yesterday afternoon before settling in for Buddha's, wandering and conversation. Stretched out beneath the shade of a tree in the Public Gardens, our chat took the typical, comfortable meandering path, easing from CSI to horror stories to religion to our daily lives. I was snap-happy, per usual, and he continued on oblivious to the clicking sounds coming from my camera. I love that he's an animated storyteller - gestures and facial expressions he uses give his recollections that extra spark they deserve.

The outdoor excursion left me slightly sun-kissed pink when Michelle and I made the trip to Portsmouth. We paid homage to the heat's arrival with a summer-friendly soundtrack, and I realized for the umpteenth time just how much happier Jack Johnson makes me when I'm relying on sunglasses, air conditioners and highway-speed breezes.

My first Averi set in several months was peppered with tracks off the new album, a smile upon realizing just how much I'd missed "This Liminal Life" at the previous few shows and my delight upon hearing "Flood" for the first time in about a year. And it's not an authentic Averi show without a flubbed "Flutter."

(Come on, you know there was no way I wouldn't mention that. It made me smile.)

Michelle belted out "For Better or Worse" at me as it was performed. I, naturally, cursed at her extensively. She later said the expression on my face was one of her evening's highlights. Ah, friendship.

It was good to bask in the sunshine and dance - or attempt to - on the wood floors. It made the drive back a three-hour opportunity for happy recollection set to song.

And in those first sleep-clouded moments of the morning, before I had to pack up to hit the highway (and find myself playing Ani's "Good, Bad, Ugly" on numerous occasions throughout the trip), I sang to myself a Ryan snippet that seemed to sum it all up.

"What is it about a day in all its glory, make you believe in this fairy tale, make you love to live the story?"

* Before last Saturday's Montbleau excursion, the only other time I traveled to Portsmouth was during a third grade class trip. Our teacher, a devoted environmentalist and whale lover, took the third grade to a whale watch each year. Whale Watch '89 was marked not by the sight of humpback whales breaching, but by a storm at sea that almost capsized our boat. When I think of this trip, I flash back to sitting on a bench on one side of the ship, classmates sick on either side of me. Mrs. Avery-Cox's husband was trying to make sure I remained calm - which I did, for the record. But my perception of Portsmouth was tainted with the image of a man with a crazy mop of curls in front of me, the sea horizon visible through the opposite windows rocking up to disappear from view. Nothing but angry blue.