Kurt Cobain will have his revenge on Seattle.

Seattle greeted us on Wednesday morning with light, soaking rainfall that made the streets seem a little more real, compared to the dry, dusty boulevards of West Hollywood.
After our curious venture into Pike Place Market, Union Street and the Seattle Art Museum (eugh, "art" is so pretentious, but I'll talk about that later), we headed for Madrona Boulevard - a quiet, suburban place with no real significance than what stand a few streets away.

We met with the sign for Viretta Park - or "Kurt's" Park - on a silent, very green suburban street.
The first few things I saw written on the bench at the bottom of the steps was "Fuck you Courtney!!" and "Courtney Love has a festering pussyhole" - the funniest message I had seen scrawled innappropriately in a while. But no, I must contain myself.
We spotted a bench, almost glowing in the middle of a clearing. There were more messages, from all over the world. If you look to the left of the bench, you see the house in which Kurt Cobain lived and died. Couldn't quite believe it when I saw it, right there infront of me.
It seems to be the only memorial for Kurt in the world, but we had that bench all to ourselves. Just us, with the messages of love and thanks, flowers, bracelets and cigarette butts.
I left my own message of gratitude, as well as some lyrics from "Beans" (always a favourite!) and the single bracelet I wear on my left wrist. Robin left a donut and a cigarette, being the Good Samiritan that he is.

I can see the bench now in my mind, looking out onto Lake Washington in the darkness of night, with only the sounds of rustling leaves and the lights on in his own home. From the short time I spent at Kurt's last place on Earth, however cliche, he really is still alive.

Golden Gate Park. The revolution begins.

As I sat in amongst the young, the old and the neithers at Golden Gate Park - with a $5 punnet of strawberries beside me and my boyfriend in my lap - I felt slightly overwhelmed.
If it weren't for the historic gathering of 1967, this could be any regular, run-of-the-mill land of brown-green grass and dog shit. The grassy knoll of people in black, white, green, red, grey and most definitely brown, many of whom clutched an instrument, say otherwise.
These are the ones who are keeping that summer alive each and every day: with the smell of pot wafting through the air alongside the sweet, soothing sounds of bongo drums and percussion. Although I wasn't there at the time of the Summer of Love (nor was my mother, actually), I still found myself sitting on my little patch of grass in the middle of born-again hippies doing their thing, satisfied with my little piece of 1967 - however insignificant it may be!