From the diary of Opal Whiteley, 1920

By and by we were come from the tent to this lumber shanty. It has got a divide in it. One room we do have sleeps in. In the other room we do have breakfast and supper. Back of the house are some nice wood-rats. The most lovely of them all is Thomas Chatterton Jupiter Zeus. By the wood-shed is a brook. It goes singing on. Its joy song does sing in my heart. Under the house live some mice. I give them bread-scraps to eat. Under the steps lives a toad. He and I — we are friends. I have named him. I call him Lucian Horace Ovid Virgil. Between the ranch-house and the house we live in is the singing creek where the willows grow. We have conversations. And there I do dabble my toes beside the willows. I feel the feels of gladness they do feel. And often it is I go from the willows to the meeting of the road.

Into the woods

I love Nigel Peake, and this poster sums up the purpose of this project. For years I've moved this poster from house to house, finding it inspiring if not just a little confusing.

It's not a new sentiment - escaping the city. In the eras and generations post-back to the landers it's kind of an ongoing struggle, balancing our love of culture and proximity to people with the desire to commune with ideas that can't be summed up in an IOS operating system or Comedy Central news broadcast. I find myself constantly struggling with the seemingly disparate desires to live and wander among the old growth and to buy new vinyl the day it comes out.
So at risk of being a complete cliche or bad extra in Portlandia I'm going to use this space to explore the ways of escaping the city - in the city. Sure there are weekend trips to the woods and summer long river swims, but there is also the beautiful moss growing on my front gate, mist in the park just before sunrise, psychedelic rock, empty lots that play home to teenagers, racoons and the gutsiest coyotes and thousands of unfinished drawings. Pretentious? Hell yeah. But someone has to be a cartographer of Tiny Forests.