This is Edinburgh, Scotland?! I highly doubt it.
This is where the ghost of Jack the Ripper reenacts his murderous spree night after foggy night. And yes, I know Jack the Ripper murdered in London, but seriously?! Who in their right mind would walk down this street at night? Stop for a moment and still your heart. Slow your breathing a bit. Quiet.
Did you hear that?
He’s right around the corner drooling, his blade twitching in his hand, the cold bricks at his back . . . . waiting for you.
I found the Emerald City!! I found it! Oz!! We’re going to see The Wizard!! It’s right up there!! Up ahead!! Just over that last hill! LOOK! EMERALD EFFIN CITY!!!! LET’S GO!! Keep running and we’ll be there in–
What’s that you say?
That’s Ireland? Really? It’s not the Emerald City?
Are you sure?
People say if you die and go to heaven you come upon a huge set of pearly gates. Beyond them lies beauty, and wonder, and clouds, and maybe some harps.
If I die and there really is a heaven and I somehow end up there . . . . THIS is what I will come upon. Not a set of pearly gates, but this weathered door with a simple sign.
“Open. Live Music.”
When I tug on the handle and step inside I won’t be greeted by brightness and harps and clouds. No, in my heaven I’ll enter a dark, smoky room. My eyes will squint to adjust and I’ll freeze for a moment and rub them when I see a glimpse of Jimi Hendrix as he walks by chatting with Kurt Cobain and Jerry Garcia. On the stage before me Janis Joplin wails away. Jim Morrison sits at a table in a dark corner, enjoying a drink and quietly scribbling away in a journal. Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens, and the Big Bopper are joking with Jim Croce and Ronnie Van Zant. Elvis Presley and Roy Orbison are harmonizing in preparation for taking the stage. John Lennon and George Harrison are catching up at the bar.
I just slowly sink into a nearby chair as my knees go weak and I give thanks for whatever it was I did in my life to deserve this.
THIS is my heaven.
Smuggler’s Notch State Park in Vermont? I don’t think so.
Stare down that road and stop to close your eyes . . . take a looooong, slooooow breath in.
I bet you can smell apple pie. And burning leaves. Cinnamon sprinkled on whipped cream floating on hot cocoa. Listen for the sound of a crackling fireplace and leaves skittering down the street, carried by a brisk wind. Laughter cuts through the neighborhood when some kids come running off the bus.
Right in the heart of that golden forest, beyond our line of vision . . . . autumn is cooking.
I found this photo here where it says it’s “The old road that leads to an ancient stone circle. Ballynoe, Co Down, Ireland.”
I don’t know about that. I think it’s a tiny piece of Ireland reaching up to give a hug. And I want to be cradled in those arms.
What a beautiful, amazing street in Madrid. So colorful and peaceful. So soothing.
Except I saw the movie “The Happening” so this image reminds me of THIS image:
It wasn’t even a good movie. And from what horror movie fans have told me, it wasn’t scary either. But I’m a big baby. And when I watch horror movies, even ones I don’t sit through for longer then five minutes before hyperventilating and running from the room, they stay with me way longer than they should. Before I know it, I can’t even walk down a peaceful, tree lined, postcard-worthy street in Madrid.
I’m pretty sure that stepping through this portal leads to something magical. Perhaps you’ll step through and immediately gain the ability to see pixies and fairies. Or perhaps you’ll step through and grow wings. Maybe stepping through leads to a world where tiny woodland creatures can speak and people break into song with them.
No matter what, I’m pretty sure it’s the most magical portal I’ve ever seen.
I just need to get to where THIS is. Just give me the map to THIS junction.
Because clearly this sign is placed at the center of all the magical places in the world.
Just get me HERE and I’ll be fine.
I just picked this cottage up for a song. I need a ton of candy. A metric ass ton of candy. I’m planning on covering the entire outside of this cottage with sweet confections.
Why, you ask?
So I can lure wayward chubsters my way with the promise of fairy tale house munching just so I can squeeze their adorable little cheeks and munch on their tiny pudged out sausage toes.
Um, I mean . . . . no reason. No reason at all.
Seriously?! How do I get this done? This is a wondrous backyard. The kind of backyard that only exists in dreams. Or on the Internet.
I want this. I want to lie back and watch movies beneath the stars, while eating fresh fruit and drinking good wine. I’d have a decadent dessert. And make my lawn gnomes give me a pedicure. Sigh.