Saturday, October 06, 2007

Don't put a lid on a volcano

This is about all things that should be left to the open air, all things that should be left to breathe, all things that should be left to wander, all things that should be left to show, all things that should be left to ooze, things that should be left to grieve, things that should be left to expand and grow, all things that should be left to run around naked, all things that should be left alone, things that should be left in peace, those that should be left to swell, and pour out freely.
Don't put a lid on them. You think you gonna kill them by doing so? How naive. How selfish. How unconsiderate. How suicidal.
I recently made a trip to Mt St Helens volcano, and watching this formidable force of nature, permanently letting out that plume of smoke, I thought of how wise and powerful nature is, and this was a reminder to anyone who wants to watch, and listen, not only with their eyes and ears, but also with their hearts and souls, a reminder that we cannot - and should not- try to control everything the way we do. That we should accept - and respect- what happens. Who was it that put in humans' minds this silly idea that they could control things and people, that they could control what happened? What a presomptuous idea. We'll be on our way out of trouble, the day we admit that we cannot control everything, and that what happens was meant to happen the way it happens.
So why are we trying to put a lid on ourselves, and on others? Why are we killing ourselves by inches? Why are we putting so much effort in killing what little humanity remains in us? Why are we harming ourselves so much? What are we so afraid of? Tell me!

Match boxes retirement at computer age

You got matches? Check out your kitchen drawers. I actually found two in mine, totally forgotten at the very bottom of the drawer, unused. They must have been there for at least a few years. They're stuck together by humidity. Neglected, forgotten even. Useless? This thought came to me tonight as I was lighting my cigarette with my favorite lighter. I went to check my drawer, and found them there, weird objects from another century. Pretty soon they're gonna be antiques. People may start collecting them. I kept thinking about this, oddly enough, about all these match boxes lying at the bottom of drawers in people's homes, if any. What are we to do with those? I kind of felt a hint of nostalgia at the memory of the cracking sound, followed by the acrid sulfurous smell, and then, the light!of a match. The particular light a match produces, different from the one of a lighter. Who still uses them? On the bright side, you might tell me they were made of wood, so soon we won't have to cut trees any more to make matches. Sure, yeah. But don't we make lighters out of plastic? At least matches burned. I don't think those cheap lighters are recyclable. They try to make them look fancy, with bright colors, or personify them, but they feel cold to the touch, unlike matches. Plus they're more costly. How come we've become so dumb as to pay more for unrecyclable plastic lighters?
So I was thinking of what is to become of all these match boxes, maybe, if we're not using them, we should gather them all and make a huge bonfire, to offer them a dignified cremation, in return for all the loyal services they have rendered us.

The old hunter and the broken wing

One day as he opened his door he found a wounded bird on his doorstep. There it lay, very quiet, its head buried under a broken wing, shivering with cold. The old man had quit hunting for years by then, as his eyesight had been going downhill, till his eyes got permanently covered by a cloud of grey mist. So that morning he got aware of something unusual as he stumbled on something on his steps, which almost caused him to fall down. He managed to grip to the post and slowly bent over, as much as his old bones would allow him to. He could still see nothing but a dark mass on the ground. He had to kneel down, and touch the lying object, to realize what it was. It was warm, and shaking. It had feathers. The creature was not moving, except for the shivering. He understood the bird must be wounded, so he delicately took it in his hands and brought it inside his abode. Now the old man couldn't see very well, but managed to find out the bird had a broken wing, and its feet were cold and stiff. The old man quietly prepared a nest for the creature, using an old blanket and some cotton. He lay the bird there and wrapped it carefully to keep it warm. From that day, the old man spent almost all his time taking care of the creature, praying to be able to save it. He would blow in the nest to keep it warm, talk to the bird, gently rubbing it with some herbal remedy, trying to coax it into drinking or eating. He went to fetch the best seeds he could find with his meagre budget, hoping this would awaken the bird's appetite. For days the creature didn't move, its eyes half shut. Then one day, as the old man was almost falling asleep talking to the creature, it opened its eyes. The old man wasn't sure at first, because of the cloud in his own eyes, which made him see everything as if through a dense fog, then when the creature's eyes got the sparkle of life back in them, he could see it. The old man felt his heart beating faster with excitement and joy, and he frenetically started again blowing warm air in the nest, and rubbing the creature. The next morning the creature craned its neck to get some water, then started moving. He started feeding it, a little at a time, while talking to it of how it needed to eat and gather some strength to be able to go out in the world again. He told the creature about how wonderful it would be when it could fly again... and got sad. The old man had no companion and had become attached to the creature. So he told the bird to please come back every now and then when it got better, to tell him of the wonders it could see from above. He could swear the bird understood. He could tell because as the bird got better it would come and rub its head on his neck. The creature would soon be ready to fly again. He thanked God for this miracle. One day he woke up uneasy, and when he called the bird, he heard it squeaking by the door. Oh, that's it, you need to go now, huh? The old man couldn't tell whether he was glad or sad. He finally resolved to open the door, and took the bird in his hand, and reminded the creature to come back and visit. The bird strangely squeaked, as if in agreement, and one last time rubbed its head against the old man's neck. Ok, time to go, birdie, I'm gonna help you. He raised his arm, and blew the bird away. The creature, after a couple of attempts, flew away, and he could already not see it anymore, though he could hear the flutter of its wings. When he couldn't hear it anymore, he came back inside, locked his door and sat down, feeling very lonely. Then for the first time in many years, the old man cried. He cried and fell asleep.
The next morning he was awakened by a squeaking sound outside and jumped out of bed. He went straight to the door, opened it, and then got aware of the strangest thing: The bird had come to visit him, as promised, and he could SEE it. He squinted, thinking he was hallucinating. But he could see the creature with all its details. Then for the first time in many years, the old man laughed, the laughter of a kid marvelling at the world.

Friday, September 28, 2007

Pacific Northwest fall kicking in

In the last few days I had the opportunity to be reminded of how beautiful the fall season can be here. After having tried to stretch the summer season as long as I could, I am now embracing the coming fall. The first signs are well in now: Ghostly fog in the mornings on the river, the first ducks arriving, maple trees turning gold and red, the last berries, the dampness settling in, the rains hammering the roof of our boat at night, best lullaby ever. It is good that we're having seasons, and that our bodies and minds adjust to them. Cycles, the circle of Life.

jumping fish

Tonite as I was sitting on the deck of our boat I was startled by a fish jumping, a trout it seems. It was of a transluscent silvery grey. I took that as a gift. :)

Saturday, September 22, 2007

Vroum-Vroum Run

Today as I was relaxing on the dock playing lizzard, my peace was quite disturbed by a double racket. The first one was brought about by the Oyster Run, a local motorbike rallye. I didn't know you could catch oysters with a Harley... Those guys were raising hell even here on Fir Island. Well, kids need to play, right? As my mum used to say, "Those Americans are all big kids". The only thing is, most of these bikers are in fact in their 50's, the Harley obviously a substitute for a receeding sexual life. The older they get, the bigger the toy. Since when do you need a big, expensive toy to have fun? So these modern days cow boys hang around in our little towns, clad in leather from head to toe, (I wonder if the underwear is leather too?), not to speak of the obligatory bandana. That looks so cool, huh? Of course all that heavy accoutrement, together with the "image de marque", gives them a particular gait, somewhere between John Wayne and the Bad Boy. All of them. It's a tribe, you know, one of those modern tribes that come to substitute for an identity and sense of belonging. The unwritten code of conduct, of the Vroum-Vroum tribe, that is, is Let's make as much noise as we can, Vroum-Vroum,VROUM! and the hell with who doesn't enjoy it, look at us, folks, we're cool, we're the real thing. Vroum. The other thing I noticed is they take an evil pleasure taking their time gathering and taking off, just to let you enjoy the Vroum! a little longer. Who needs a sonotone earplug, come to the Oyster run, it'll be much cheaper than consulting a physician, and in no time, the miracle will occur, your hearing is restaured!
Now nuisance number 2 today was the Pan-Pan tribe. Hunting season is kicking in, so there was also all these Pan!Pan-pan-pan! shots. They're on the loose! I wonder what they're targeting, as there are no feathered animals around lately. However, believe it or not, me the French woman, came to adopt a much more understanding attitude with that other tribe. Number one, some are my neighbors, so, diplomatie oblige, you get to look at their hobby in a different way. The only thing about this that actually disturbs me is those guys, when the season hits, come by our boats way before dawn with their motor boats, and the wake, and the noise, wake me up. I still remember when I moved here, the first fall season, when I saw these groups of guys with their rifles, I'd pass by them as if I were walking on a landmine. The mere idea of having all those guns close made me nervous. Had to force a commercial smile when addressing them, ah, you catch anything today? Oh good! I guess after four years here something happenned as I do not have to force the smile anymore. Of course I'm a perfect hypocrite, since I couldn't do what they do, but I'm always glad to eat the meat.

Thursday, September 20, 2007

Beyond the quackshacks, the prize of a 45 mns walk


If you continue to follow the dike after the quackshacks, you get into the wildlife area. A sanctuary that starts with a woodsy path bordered by swamps, dense berry thickets, immense trees, Firs, Cedars, cottonwoods, red elderberries, I can't recall them all. The path itself is shaded, grassy and soft under the feet. You'd better not be on a mission when you go there, for you'll get distracted by all sorts of things on the way: Skunk cabbage - what an incredible plant- a couple of little wooden bridges on the right over a slough, overlooking fields. If you go on the bridge you discover that the still water of the slough is mostly covered with a thick coat of green, sometimes reddish, mossy substance, and bordered with giant grasses. Insects. Organic matter in all its splendor. Life.
As you walk further away, the trees start to change and rarefy, the air circulates better, and you can start smelling the iodine, a faint smell at first. Then as you approach the bay the swamps turn into small lagunas, cluttered with logs and driftwood. Nature's sculpture. The iodine smell gets stronger: just follow it.
As you reach the bay area there's a viewpoint with benches, you can sit, rest, and have a first sight of the estuary. Then if you really want to be there, you have to engage in a dense, thick thicket and elbow your way through. You may think this leads nowhere, but it does. And then your efforts are rewarded, you are there. Suddenly, you're in the open, no trees, except from those huge logs, the driftwood, and the vast expanse of water, sky, grasses, pools, and mud. For the estuary is VERY muddy. If you don't like the sensation of your feet slighly sinking in, and the ploc-ploc noise with each step, turn back. For if you want to be by the bay, that's what you have to do, walk in the mud, climb gigantic logs, but when you're there, it's the edge of the world. It's as good as a trip to Patagonia. When I go I like to walk, climb, explore, touch, for a while, and then just sit, breathe, smell, and watch. Drink it in, by truckloads. No risk of intoxication, so fill your lungs, your nostrils, your ears, rinse your eyes. Who needs to take a relaxation class? Just step outside. It's there.

The Quackshack tribe


No it's not one of the local Native tribes. Just a peculiarity of Mann Rd on Fir Island. At the very end of the dike bordering the South Fork of the Skagit, there is an alignment of a few quack shacks, that is, small wood cabins that I always have pleasure to look at, due to their weather beaten aspect, some kind of askew, the angles not quite right, and all of different colors. Most of them are the cutest things. In spite of their funky appearance, some display pompous names, such as "The River Ritz". All have in common the incredible imagination, love, and humour that has been put in keeping them up and imprinting the owners' personality on them. Most occupants are fishermen or hunters. Some use their cabin seasonally, some are local people, some end up living there permanently.
Now a recent phenomenon started taking place, that I'd call the gentrification of the shacks. One after the other, the occupants started not only putting on the yearly coat of fresh paint, but also started enlarging or remodelling their cabins. They're starting to look really nice, but also more uniform. In their endeavour to preserve their little paradise, the cabins owners are starting to uniformize the paint colors, more of that (nice) bluish grey. The cabins are getting almost too cute. Now I'm not pontifying here on what should or should not be done, I'm just observing the changes. While it is perfectly understandable to be willing to keep those cabins in good shape, or to improve the comfort if you turn it into a permanent home, I just hope they're not gonna end up looking like suburban condos, with the assorted rent increases, which may eventually make a whole local culture disappear.
The French liveaboard who should mind her own business.


Fall ride


Fall colors are starting to kick in. I took my bike at the end of the day, followed the dike to the wildlife area, and came back through Wiley road, and back into Mann.
On the dike, I met my neighbor Bob, also riding his bike. Then by Allan's quack shack, I smelled wood burning. At the end of the dike, I saw some quack shacks completing their gentrification remodelling. Bob's neighbor carved a totem pole in front of his cabin. Once in the wildlife area, I could smell the iodine from the Bay. Hunting season's gonna start soon, so I want to enjoy the last quiet days. Past the Wildlife area headquarters, I admired the fields, the silos, and then into Mann the tall grasses bording the sloughs. A neighbor walking her dog, some sheep. It felt SO good. Back on the river I sat on the dock to watch the fall colors on the trees: tangerine. Many leaves have already fallen, piercing the screen on the opposite bank of the river with a few patches of sky. The river was very quiet, deep green and golden. Last show, the flaming colors setting on Beck's canoe on the other side.
What is really important?

Sunday, September 16, 2007

The patience of the Great Blue Heron

I often wondered what made the same blue heron regularly land on the same logs by our boat. The cartesian thinkers and environmentalists alike are gonna tell you that he comes there to feed himself. Well yes, but there are many feeding places on the Skagit, and some probably even more sheltered from human activity than our spot. So what makes him come back, and once gracefully landed, wait there, immobile, for hours? I watched, and listened. He's waiting, waiting for something. He can remain motionless for long moments, only every now and then imperceptibly, gracefully turn his neck, or stretch it forward occasionally to look for food. But what is he waiting for?
I fancied he may be coming from another world, a world of ashes and chaos, and that being the sole survivor of all species of that world, he landed here because he thought he could survive. I also fancied that what he's tirelessly waiting for is a female from his species that could have survived the chaos too and found her way to here. If only all humans could have the faith, patience and determination of the Great Blue heron. We should look at him attentively, look at that ash colored robe, the last witness of an untold, unheard of chaos. Look at that beautiful and sad robe, and remember, remember to preserve this world from turning into ashes.

Monday, September 10, 2007

The Friend

If you have a friend who shares laughter and tears with you,
If you have a friend who comes to you in times of sorrow,
Looking for consolation,
If you have a friend who opens her house to you
And makes you a hot beverage
And tries to distract you
And hugs you,
Bless her, and cherish her, like you would for your own child.
If you have a friend,
Who hasn't got much,
But unfolds everything he has for you,
And even more than he has,
And makes you a hot beverage,
And listens, and never judges you,
If you have a friend who lays a cot for you to rest and forget your sorrow,
And covers you with a blanket,
Without asking anything in return,
If you have such a friend,
Cherish him, for life is short.
Blessed be the friend.

Wednesday, August 22, 2007

Tug, his chauffeur, the guitar and the breadtree, or how the Blues was born

Tug was a small, very energetic dog, that in spite of his bad manners, had become the mascot of the Gypsies. They called him Tug because he usually tugged behind him his chauffeur, Rick, who reluctantly followed, mind you he had no choice, as when Tug seized your pants and started pulling, you got no option. So Tug's chauffeur, bon gré mal gré, followed, usually dragging his guitar, which also reluctantly followed, but she had no choice either, since when Rick held his guitar, he wouldn't let go. However the guitar always got her revenge when the gypsies gathered for a feast: she had a life of her own, and she played faster than her master could move his fingers along the strings. So whenever Rick grabbed his guitar, she soon started moaning about the tough life her master submitted her to, and that's called the Blues. That's how the Blues was born, don't believe all the other crazy stories you hear. However, the guitar had many things to tell about the sordid life she had to live: First she had no name, have you ever heard of a guitar with no name? Then Rick made her live on a tugboat, which would periodically cause her to catch a cold and therefore she'd be out of tune. The only thing that would then revive her would be the gypsies campfire. Then she would, for a while, be able to sing the blues.
In the meantime, Tug's main activity during gypsy gatherings would be to run around in circles, like a circus horse, but way faster. I think the purpose of that infernal manège was to keep Rick within the circle and make sure he wouldn't try to escape. The other thing Tug loved about gypsy gatherings is that there usually was abundance of food, and especially his favorite, bread. Tug LOVED bread. So he started thinking of how to make sure he had a constant supply of bread, and started thinking he should grow a bread tree. Since a bread tree couldn't grow on a boat, one night as the gypsies were gathered around a campfire on shore, he subreptitiously abducted a big loaf of bread, the biggest he could find, and buried it in the ground on a veggie patch. Therefore, he thought, the future bread tree would get plenty of nutrients. He planted the bread tree in a state of the art fashion: just deep enough to allow roots to spread, but not too deep so it could receive the light of day, and he covered it and surrounded it with a mound. From then on, Tug would have something to care for.

Bread, oil and harissa

Reading on my friend's blog http://ablogeclectic.blogspot.com/ about the highly refined pleasure of crackers and sardines reminded me of similar tasty experiences with my father, peace to his dear soul. One of our shared pleasures was to have a Tunisian trash snack consisting of bread, olive oil, tomato paste and harissa, which is a Tunisian hot pepper paste. So the refinement is to put out a small plate, put in it some tomato paste, harissa, and olive oil, and to scrape it with the bread. The best bread for this was what Tunisians call Italian bread, a big, thick bread, very dense, with a cracky crust. Of course you have to get high quality olive oil for the experience to be complete. My dad would often get up at night to have a snack, and whenever I'd hear him I'd sneak in the kitchen to share this deli. Of course Mum thought this perfectly disgusting, which made us giggle, so it was our thing. Like two kids plotting, we'd prepare the gourmet snack, me still half asleep, and we wouldn't leave the kitchen till the plate was all scraped from its content. The middle of the night is a perfect time if you want to tempt the experience.

Tuesday, August 07, 2007

The giant aluminium eggshell

No it's not a plane, though it was originally meant to be a transportation device, with springs as propellers to hop around the planet. However the giant aluminium eggshell arrived one night out of nowhere and painfully landed in the very heart of The Village. Its springs were getting so rusty it couldn't hop anymore, so it landed there, unnoticed, at the back of a building, and there it lay, hidden behind an extravagant flora. Shortly after the landing its sole occupant ventured out in The Village, willing to explore new ways to survive, as he was now doomed to remain there. Melchior, for that was his name, soon found different sources to get all he needed: A grotto where he could connect with other stranded travellers, gypsies, and poets. Some fields where he could find the most beautiful vegetables he'd ever seen. And the unique sacred cafe fountain in town, which would spurt the precious beverage if you were willing to sing a tune, dance a gig, or say a poem for the audience. This is how bards, dancers and poets and their muses became popular at the fountain, as everybody knew the day we'd have no music or dance anymore would be the end of it. Melchior endeared himself to the population, and made a modest living, by carving miniature replicas of the sacred cafe fountain. Once back to his now sedentary home in the aluminium eggshell, Melchior would dedicate himself to nesting. He first surrounded the aluminium eggshell, that was stuck between the back of a building and a bunch of trees, with tall plants and extravagant flowers that would allow him to remain concealed. He soon also introduced some of the local vegetables he was so fond of, so as to have his own food. I can't tell you how he made these grow on concrete, but it is now a jungle. He then spent some time making his aluminium eggshell, now his permanent home, a warm and comfortable refuge. He counselled by telepathy with the best interior decorators available, read about Feng-Shui-backward, the latest craze in home decoration, which consisted mainly in rebelling against decluttering and in regaining your nesting instinct, and found a way to make it work, which was relatively easy, as Melchior himself, like his aluminium eggshell, has an ovoid shape, with two big wheels as shoes, that he puts on when he wants to venture in The Village, and hangs outside the door before to come in. So he just had to arrange everything inside to fit his particular shape. Outside, the giant aluminium eggshell had pipes connecting it to the earth for feeding, cleansing and regeneration, which, it is true, made it look like a plane getting fuel. What potions went through these pipes is a mystery, however I remember one of them was a thick, pink potion that Melchior would press in large quantities out of a noisy little machine and feed into the tank, so as to have enough for the season, as he consumed that one daily. One day the grotto and the sacred cafe fountain had to close, as not enough people were ready to dance or sing for the sacred beverage, so the sacred fountain got rusty too, and finally ran out of service. Since then, in the regenerating pipes connecting the giant aluminum eggshell to the earth, you now also have a dark brown beverage, concocted daily by another noisy little device, that constantly has to be fed beans, for Melchior got the lesson and knows Gypsies are unreliable for dancing and singing for coffee, you never know when those guys are gonna show up, if at all, so he designed this sacred coffee machine that you feed with beans. Now you know why Melchior has those tall, very tall pole beans growing in the little jungle outside the giant eggshell...

Monday, July 30, 2007

Stretching out time

That damn civilized notion, Time. Well this is the heart of the summer, and time almost doesn't exist anymore. Number one, as I'm off my main job for the summer, no schedule but my own, I'm having a hard time figuring out what day of the month we are, if not what day of the week. And it feels good. Does it matter? No. It's 7pm, which I know only because I glanced at the bottom right hand corner of my laptop, since I don't wear a watch during my summer break, and it still feels like 4pm, siesta time. Sitting out in the garden here, enjoying how green it has become, thanks to the healthy alternance of rain and sun we've had in late spring and early summer, I'm listening to the breeze in the trees, the birds, the wind chime, the occasional cries of neighbor's kids playing in the distance, and I delight in watching the playful effects of sunlight and shade on everything. So days are endless, you can actually accomplish a lot at your own pace, and nights are short, very short, but so beautiful. A couple of nights ago I was awakened at 2 am by a pack of coyotes howling like crazy, which lasted for about half an hour, and then it took me till dawn to get back to sleep. But it didn't matter. No schedule, remember? Yesterday night, in spite of the accumulated tiredness, I went to sleep pretty late, since from my bed around midnight I saw the moon rise over the trees, surrounded with a halo of clouds, and it was so soothing to watch these clouds change shape as they moved along, and listen to the summer breeze and the water on the river. And I thought once more of how fortunate I was, how many people can watch this from their bed? Living in an environment like this one can make up for anything, and cure just about anything. And thus help you get along and go forward. I'm so glad I left Paris!

Wednesday, July 11, 2007

Nenni, nenni...

... Nenni, nenni, Allah, Allah, jaake'noom... I had a very busy father. A journalist, political activist, and an artist, but he never failed in being there for me. No matter how tired he was, or how late it was, when he came home, he'd come by my bed and lullaby me to sleep. Always the same song, passed along by my grandmother Mahbouba, bless her soul, and he'd sing that song indefinitely,while gently patting my back at the same pace as my heart beat, till I fell asleep... He never failed to do so, no matter what. I had my mum during the day, but in the evening, he would lullaby me to sleep, even in my early teenage. No wonder no man can compare to him, "Allo,Sigmund?!"

Heat memories

The current heat brought back to me some memories from Tunisia. Tunisian nights. Staying up late, because of the heat, going to bed only when it starts cooling down a bit, all windows open, with a mosquito screen, and the heat was so intense and wet that you could barely stand the sheet on your skin. Then in the dark, to forget the heat as well as to lullaby each other, my cousins and me would tell each other stories, we'd tell stories, real or imagined, till we finally, one after the other, fell asleep. That was open no mike, or Slam, before it was fashionable.

And The River runs through it...

... The Skagit of course. Started my day by it, ended it by it. Another very hot day, I decided to attack boat scrubbing. We have two houseboats, so that can take quite a while to do both. I started today scrubbing and washing the Lady K, the wooden boat. I started with that one because it's the one that requires more work. But today was the day. Around 10 I started, and spent several hours on it. Once I'm on it, I LOVE boat scrubbing. You got to have the right weather for that. Since the heat was early, I saw no better way to cool off than fooling around with the deck brush and the water hose. Oh, the infinite pleasure of brushing off all that slime! I had forgotten how cute that boat is, when it's clean. Every now and then I'd hose myself to cool off, and I'd wet my hat to keep my head cool. What is it that humans like so much to play with water? As far as I'm concerned, it dates back from my childhood and teenage years in Tunisia, where the heat was so intense in summer, that back from the beach where I spent most of my day, I'd have a cool shower and that was a taste of pure paradise, the coooool shower in that concrete floored bathroom, with the window opened on to the sea. In my dad's family we're all "bent el'bhar", sons/daughters of the sea. I had an uncle there, uncle Mohsen, peace to his soul, who at the age of 80 still swam several miles in the Mediterranean daily, and we'd sometimes accompany him. He'd do it every day and if for some reason he couldn't, he felt bad, if not sick. That was his food: the sea. At 80, he had a very lean, but muscular, body, and he was as tanned as an old piece of leather. He'd go for his long, slow swim, summer and winter, no matter what the weather was like. My dad, even though he'd lived in France for so many years, was also a very good swimmer, even in his old age. He also had that very slow, beautiful swim.
Now I have one problem here: the Skagit river is SO cold, impossible to swim in it. Last year I did dip in it for a few seconds, and could not safely stay in, unless I wanted to end up on the frozen food shelves of the local market. VERY frustrating. When I went gunkholing I experienced that frustration too, the water was so nice, but too cold to swim in.
So I was content today to dip my legs in the river-briefly- and hose myself like a child would.
Then I went on shore to water the garden, and played with the hose again. Oh, the tonic splash of cold water on the legs! Then when time came to sit and read with an aperitif, it was still too hot, so I came back down the gangway to the dock, where it was shady and cooler, though still hot. Again today I sat, this time on the cool dock by the river, with my book, and would stop every now and then to listen to the endless concert of the birds. This time of year the Skagit is like the Amazon: Lots of green, thick green screening, and hundreds of birds all singing different songs. The river has taken its turquoise summer hue, and after all the steady snowmelt, it is now a slow, quiet flow. This is an enclave, a hidden Paradise, and I never forget it. No neighbors (a part fom our landlord, on shore). No intrusions: You got to know there is a marina here, and you'd still have to find it. No neighbors but the trees, birds, beavers, seals, river rats, and other critters. This is my Walden Pond.

Epicurian evening

Three days in a row I have finally found my summer pace. The climate has helped a lot: we're having a long dry spell, an unprecedented heat, the kind that forces you to slow down. So I found the right pace, one thing at a time, including time for myself and by myself. After spending much time in the garden yesterday in spite of the heat, carefully and slowly tending it, I decided to stop to enjoy it. So I set myself on my bench under the arbor with some French dry goat cheese I found at the coop, some crackers, pickles, and a cool glass of white wine. I delected in that treat, mouthful by mouthful, rinsing the cheese every now and then with wine, then I slowly rolled myself a cigarette of my favorite tobacco, and looked at the garden, still wet, as I had to water it several times. Looked at the work accomplished, and pondered about the one remaining to be done, not in a frantic, overwrought way, but as a constructive, creative, anticipative pleasure. Butterflies, hummingbirds, and bugs of all kinds were at a feast. Everything was suspended, as if time had stopped, indefinitely prolonging siesta time. I picked up a book and lied down onthe bench to read,with cushions in my back. People say the good times always pass too fast, it's not always true. That evening, as most these days, -it's that time of the year-, are endless. Time is not an obsession any more. You just live the moment, and you're glad it's infinite.

Friday, July 06, 2007

What do you dream of?

It's strange how your environment can tremendously influence your dreams. I was trying to remember what I used to dream about back in Paris, and I can't remember most of them precisely, but they were definitely tainted with urban life and anxieties. And I had nightmares. I still have 1 or 2 of those anxiety dreams coming every now and then, like the back to school (almost) nightmare - I say almost nightmare, because I loved high school and it was a happy time for me: I loved philosophy, history, French, and language classes, and hated maths. And if I skipped a few classes, (which valued me this observation of my favorite philosophy teacher on my grade report: "Annabelle is very spiritual when she graces us with one of her rare mundane visits". Absolutely true: I loved her classes, and if I did skip a few classes, it's because I had important business to attend to, such as preparing a demonstration, attending a meeting, or just being at the cafe accross the street with my friends, playing flipper or babyfoot... As to the math classes, curiously enough I didn't skip them, as they were dedicated to two important activities for me: playing morpion with my neighbor, or, most of the time, reading the daily newspapers, (Liberation, Le Monde, or Le Monde Libertaire, an anarchist paper) which my maths teacher pretended not to see, since I finally had him admit I was a lost cause. He tried hard, one day, as he was handing me back a test for which I was graded something like 1.5 over 20, he asked why I didn't even try to cheat like normal people do. I told him I was not interested. So, in this dream I am back to school, and I do exactly the same mistakes that I did in twelfth grade: I skip some classes, but in the dream I skip so many classes that for some of those I don't even dare to go back. It's almost the end of the schoolyear and there is that history class I have skipped all year and I want to go back but realize it's too late. (why the history class? I never skipped history class in my day life) Very disagreeable. But doesn't qualify either for a nightmare.
Now here on the river, I can say the anxiety dreams I have are mostly related to the floods of the river: I dream that the boat sinks, that I see a tsunami arriving faster than I can run, I dream that one of the dogs has fallen in the river (this one also happens in reality), but all of these don't really qualify for me as a nightmare either. I also dream a lot about the wildlife. I dream about seals, wolves, and bears a lot. Seals is comprehensible, since they are in our backyard. Wolves and bears are more surprising: I know we're in bear country, but not right here in the valley, huh? So I don't know why these creatures visit me often. Allo, Sigmund! I also have dreams that I call "initiatic" because of their high symbolical value and their beauty.
However to come back to the point I noticed I almost never have any nightmare since I moved here on the boat. Not anything terryfying I mean. Not the type that wakes you up yelling. Very strange dreams, but almost all are connected to the nature surrounding us.
What do you dream of?

Gunkholing...


...My latest favorite English word. "cabotage" in French. Here I admit it sounds much more exotic and mysterious in English. The word in itself is a mouthful: Gunkhoooling.
That is, cruising in shallow water and spending the nights in coves. I recently had the opportunity to go for an overnight trip with a fellow liveaboard friend of ours on his boat to Hope island. Always a wonderful experience to view your world from the water, which provides a different perspective. In Paris, it is the "bateaux mouches" (Fly boats) cruises on the Seine river. Where I live on the Skagit river I like to take the little motor boat to Skagit bay and see the wildlife there. This time I got to see La Conner from the Channel, and all that is behind it on the way out to the bay: Shelter Bay, I didn't know it extended so far, and it is well named, as I saw the indeed sheltered bay for the first time, then a rundown Robinson cabin, then a tugboat working on logjams, then the loooow tide at the mouth of the channel, and the birds, the birds, the birds, and the wake, the wake, the wake! and then out to Hope island. The hike on shore reconnected me with the best of the Northwest's wild, as usually I couldn't help collecting a few stones, small pieces of drift wood, and such treasures. The pinnacle of the trip however was to sleep on the roof of the boat, in the open air. It was a long time I hadn't done this, and that was a so peaceful night. The moon on top and everything. I woke up several times during the night and admired the reflection of the moon on the quiet waters, felt the slight breeze on my face, smelled the iodine, felt the movements of the boat, and went back to sleep more peacefully than ever, listening to the water moving, and as I was falling back asleep, I could hear a lullaby: Gunkholing, gunkhooling, gunkhoooling, gunk.......holing....gunk....holing.....holing....gunk.......holing.....

Sunday, June 17, 2007

Where is the paper?

Today I found myself out of tobacco, so I stopped at the gas station and got myself a pack of my favorite. Tonite after dinner I open the pack to get ready to roll my cigarette and DANG! no paper. Fortunately I had some at home, but I tell you, the world is going astray, if you don't have the paper in the pack anymore.

Friday, June 15, 2007

Trolls,elves, dogs and Gypsies in the last days of the Grotto


This week, as the closure is approaching, at the cafe there was a decadent, "fin de règne" atmosphere. All the elves, trolls, bards, gypsies, and bees were more active than ever. The other day as I drove by I saw some of my fellow gypsies wearing all sorts of things around their neck, from Hawaian flowers to Tibetan prayer flags, glassbeads, etc. it was a hilarious vision.

Our resident dogs, Lucy and Buddy, are often being babysitted, as the matron of the cafe is getting busy packing her stuff, because she's moving to an even more remote area than ours, "Moses Lake". Now wait a minute. Moses lake. Think about it. Sounds like the title of a peplum movie or the destination of a pilgrimage. Maybe a miracle will occur there, which would turn our matron into... a saint? Gretcheeeeeeen! Don't go there, they'll make you go to church! and who knows, walk on water!!! - Imagine? We'd then have to prostrate ourselves in front of her? Disgusting. The sad thing is that since Lucy is less present, Luke, the now semi resident dog, babysitted by Michael, is getting neurasthenic. The only dog that doesn't seem to be affected by all this remue-menage, and who remains as active as ever, is Tug, but that doesn't count, as I suspect his chauffeur feeds him alkaline batteries.

Even the hours were not respected any more: the cafe would close earlier, or close then reopen, and treats come about any time of day. Suddenly you had no excuse not to spend most of your time at the cafe, like at the eve of the world's end, everybody seems to make the best of it, and all the rest can wait. Political discussions and such got feverish, newspapers were peeled, Roberto's angels are getting sold out, the sidewalk is now a permanent multicolored chalk Dazibao, regularly updated by kids young and old, so much that today I noticed they spread onto the wooden electric post by the cafe, which gave the said post the vague allure of a totem pole (with a little bit of imagination) . Any time of day you can find people sitting out cracking up laughter, or telling delirious stories that sounded like they came out of a magic hat. Those creatures have been more talkative than ever. And those already addicted to the cafe, that you'd see there every day or so, would come 5 or 6 times a day, or just spend most of the day there. You also had those who would storm into the cafe, incredulous, finally starting to admit the reality, "where are we gonna go when the grotto closes?!" . Others saying they wouldn't drink coffee any more. How will we call those? gotta find an equivalent of teatotallers. Watertotallers? The problem is some of those have a problem with water, so that won't work. No, even better maybe, a name for all the witnesses of the last days of the cafe, something like "the tribe of the witnesses of the last days of the saint grotto" now that sounds good.

Floating butterflies

As I was sitting this afternoon in front of the cafe when the sun finally made its appearance, at some point I suddenly became aware of 2 white moths floating around, one of which had landed in my hand, fact that I got aware of, busy as I was in a conversation, only once I had been playing with it without even being aware of it. I released it, hoping I hadn't damaged the beautiful creature, and wondering what this all meant. Moths are usually brown and quite ugly, those two were as white as doves, and beautiful.

Wednesday, June 13, 2007

The troll and the bee, LoCondo chronicles, continued.

In the quiet little town of LoCondo, lately a troll has started attacking the resident bee of the grotto. Everybody knows bees are inoffensive, and very productive beings, as they toil hard to produce honey. But our bee is special, as it produces special honey that spurts out of its mouth to form bubbles of spiritual honey, that has the property of making people think, which consists in allowing your neurones to connect to each other, and your electric curcuits to work properly. Now this is part of the Gypsies' regeneration process at the Grotto, collect the precious honey bubbles produced by our bee, before they touch the ground. But our resident bee is also important to the Gypsies, because it produces the strange brown beverage from the steam machine, beverage that is the indispensable catalyser to allow the honey to be operative. I don't know if this is clear, but however, lately apparently a villain troll has decided to attack our resident bee for a motive that is unclear. That troll is invisible, since it attacks in the dark, for it cannot see in the daylight, and is afraid of daylight, like vampires. I wonder if we could get rid of the troll by disposing some garlic here and there at the Grotto and around the beehive.

Of the viscosity of paint

Today I took my paintbrushes, that had been neglected for a few weeks. Took me a while to do it. I was in that moody state where I couldn't decide on what to do and was telling myself I wasn't up to it. However I managed to push the door of the workshop and put some music, I started working on a painting that has been giving me a hard time, though it's getting better and better I think. I like this stage in a painting because layers and layers are accumulating, giving more depth to the whole. So I took the big, wide, flat paintbrush, the one that forces me to go wild, with large brush strokes, it's kind of liberating. I used several more coats of paint, medium, varnish, re paint, medium, varnish, delighting in mixing up the sticky substance, applying it, fading it with my fingers, -I love that- then stepping back, more black here, more light here. More paint, more medium, more gloss, and without noticing it I was playing with the substance like a child, not being judgemental on my work, and(mentally) sticking out my tongue, just getting closer to where I wanted to go, and on the way discovering things that appeared by themselves on the canvas, almost by accident, that I then chose to use and enhance. As usually I don't know when I'll stop for this one.

Monday, June 11, 2007

Changing of the guards...

...changing hats. Today was my last day of the season at the university. 3 months off college, resuming my freelance translator self employed business full time. As I was getting ready to takeI5 south, I changed shirt, and put on Indian drumming on my stereo. On I5, many bald eagles above . Happy.

Gypsies photo gallery

MC. Roberto oficiating. Michelina & Nebilah at the GrottoEduardo El Grande.
Noronda, Catinda the witch, and Rigoberto the pew, under the spell of Neon's lights.








The Gypsies lighting up the fire








Mickie the silent, a.k.a "Silence"















Bobonet the troubadour.










Tug. The prince of the grotto.










Tug's chauffeur, the bard Ricondo.











Garidoo producing a raven from his magic yukulele

Wednesday, June 06, 2007

No cafe for the Gypsies

Yesterday on my way back from work, as often, I wanted to stop at the cafe to have that intermediate passage way between my work day and the unwinding at home. Guess what, the cafe was closed. Dang. I called a friend, who of course wasn't there, and then found myself driving in circles in the cotton candy town of Lo Condo, and discovered that one could drive in circles forever in Lo Condo. It's easy, the town is small, landmarks are easy to spot, and it's that kind of mindless activity that can actually bring you somewhere. (?) So I drove from the cafe, turned the corner in front of the kitchen towel, establishment that serves sandwiches wrapped in dead tree, then passed the pub, that serves mainly the staple diet of American cuisine, that is hamburgers (ask Rigoberto the pew for the recipe) and fish'nchips, asssorted with tap beer, then the caravan store, that sells exotic but deja vu escape artifacts for the inhabitants of the Village! On the waterfront, I finally got it that you can have frybread on weekend days only. But O, that frybread, put honey on it, sit down by the water, and suddenly you forget about the Village! Then accross the street you'll find the bank, post office, public restroooms -a stop that will become vital to the Gypsies when the cafe closes for good-, then the Museum- a respected and respectable institution, also dedicated to the respectable cult of paper money. Then the market, one of the interesting places in town, preceded and followed by tourist trap businesses selling things you don't need at prices almost competing with Christie's. Then The brewery. After that you come to a stop sign (indispensable after the brewery to gather your senses and remember that the cops are never far). If you turn right you are on Morris st, one of the 2 main thouroughfares of Lo Condo, furnished mainly with Art galleries, souvenir and gift shops, bunny stores- I still wonder, by the way, how you can survive -and even prosper- selling pink bunnies, and not selling coffee, a much more vital ingredient to the community-Ah, yeah, another public restroom, where you can relieve yourself of the beer you had at the tavern or the brewery-very important, and so far FREE- , then the thriftstore, soon to be moved to a luxury building that will justify the O rise in prices. No, I'm not being sarcastic. So far, what I saw showed me that gypsies, mariners, pirates and dogs, are gonna be banned from all restaurants, cafes, and even thriftstores. I proceed on Morris to reach the other bank!!! 2 banks in a town like this one, that tells you something. And then, a library -only one- (?!) for which by the way you have to pay something like 20 bucks- free access to culture my foot- and Ah! the gas station. By the way, to my knowledge, that is the only gas station in the county providing full service, like in the good old days. Go, you have an actual human being, saying hello, how are U doing today, what can I do for you, etc... you can tell me it's the usual commercial crap they serve every body, maybe, but it's still better, I'm sorry, than the screen that prints "insert card" then " pin number" then "do you want a receipt?" and that is,when it works. And it provides jobs. Actual jobs, to people who live in town. I'm ready to pay extra for that.
Then you can either head for the roundabout and leave The Village of Lo Condo, or turn right into Maple st, mainly residential, the only landmarks here being 1) the barber shop, Ah! the barber shop! where you can meet the heart of America, and gather gossip. 2)Then the Hedlin's greenhouse, one of the only really useful establishments in this town, that just sells FOOD! remember? FOOD! veggies! organic! (their son also sprouts delicious organic haikus on open no mike days at the cafe). And Janet's artist studio. Then if you go straight you go to the bridge leading to the reservation- but that's another story- and if you turn right, towards the water, you finally arrive.. at the cafe. DanG! still closed!

Tuesday, June 05, 2007

Moustique's feast

Have you ever seen Babette's feast? (Le festin de babette). Well my Parisian born, now liveaboard kitty knows that movie, without having ever seen it... actually she might have seen the movie with me, back in my previous life in Paris. Moustique LOVED watching movies with me. She loved watching TV too, and had her favorite programs.
However yesterday night I was awakened at 3.30 am by my obnoxious cell phone ringtone, "Brown eyed girl"- gotta change that, I'm getting sick of it, I need to find something more "zen".- However, so I hear my cell phone, manage to pick it up, and hear my daughter talking from her boat about Moustique having come in with a bird through the window of the loft. She explains that the kitty came in, and by the time Leila managed to wake up, turn her light on, she finds bird feathers in her bed, and hears Moustique down below in the galley apparently "playing" with the squeaking bird- understand chewing her prey- So I gather my senses, get out on the dock in my underwear- by the way it was warmer than I've ever felt before- and get into Leila's boat. We switch the light on, and do find Moustique, and a single grey feather on the Tunisian carpet. " Moustique, where did you hide the bird?" we ask, in French, since that rebel refuses to understand English, even after almost 4 years here. No answer. Moustique just gently, casually sneaks up the bookshelves, hoping to escape our scrutiny. We take a flashlight and start looking for the unfortunate bird, that according to leila, was still squeaking a couple of minutes ago, to no avail. We had to admit the evidence: Moustique had had a fine delicatessen meal. I look at her, for traces of blood on her moustache, nothing. The beast is not even licking herself. She's obviously done the job properly, delicately wiping her mouth after her feast. For a second I even consider practicing on her the heimlich maneuvre. Forget it.
Of course by the time I get back into bed on the Waleela I can't go back to sleep. For a couple of hours therefore I listened to the river gurgling- it's been high now for a few days, due to snowmelt-, and by dawn, at 4,25 precisely, I heard the first birds starting their concert. No way you're gonna sleep in these conditions: we've been sleeping on the boat with our windows opened all night for a few days now, and those guys awaken really early. A first bird starts, then all the ones of the same species answer: kouiiic-kouiiiic,kuoiiic,kuoiiic!. Then another species starts in their turn, and so forth, till it becomes a symphony, or a cacophony, and you give up sleep, but you're happy you've heard it. I finally went to sleep, sometime after 5 am, happy, and relaxed.

Up from the trench

Here is another one.
This dream I had a few months ago and still haven't forgotten, which is very rare. The beauty of it is very rare too. I am in an ascending trench, going uphill, and as I move uphill every now and then there are tiny nooks in the trench, where something produces an incredibly beautiful whitish light. I can't tell whether it is gold, diamonds, or something else, but these words are vain to desrcribe what I see there at each station, for these nooks are regularly posted on my way up. Each time, I stop, I look at them, awestruck at the beauty of that irridescent light, and I just look, I don't try to touch it or grasp it, for I do understand it has something sacred. Each time I encounter it I stop, recognize it as something I'm given the priviledge to see, I marvel at it, and then I proceed. At the end of that ascending path in the trench, I find myself in an opening, like at the top of a well, getting out in the open air, to be greeted by some people who tell me something like "welcome to the tribe of So and so..."
I never could forget that dream...

Monday, June 04, 2007

Allo, Sigmund?

Sometimes dreams are so vivid that you really think, (and I do) that they are part of our reality. I decided to consign them here whenever they come, as after a while they'll recede.
On sunday night I had one of those very strange, though not frightening dreams; just very strange. I bet they would be a piece of cake for any analyst. I have a cousin in Tunisia who may get a kick outta trying to figure out this one. Aazza, do you have a clue? All suggestions for an analysis of this dream welcome.
"So I am watching myself in a mirror and I discover that my left eye is entirely white: no pupil, no iris. I don't really get panicked (like I surely would in real life) but just get so curious, like what's going on, that I have that eye white? so I get to show it to somebody, who confirms that I got a white left eye, though nothing seems really wrong with it, since I can still see. Then I go back to the mirror, and find out I have this thin, transluscent skin, that is covering all my head, and I slowly remove it and then my eye goes back to normal."
Any hints to explain this weiiiiird dream welcome.

Sunday, May 27, 2007

Gypsies rehearsal in cotton candy town

Lo Condo chronicles, continued:
It's definitive. The gypsies'grotto is gonna close. It is gonna be turned into a flower shop, pretty much in tune with all the other inoffensive tourist trap businesses around town, divided in 3 categories: those who sell food packaged in dead trees, those who sell pink bunnies, and those who sell things you don't need at outrageous prices. The village! There we are, as in the Prisonner, Lo Condo is a perfect, O so cute, little town.
So as the inevitable is coming up, some of the gypsies are starting to rehearse living and meeting outside of the grotto. Venturing in that cheerful, pink colored little town, and trying to figure out where they could fit in, or at least squeeze in, and have their regenerating sessions without attracting attention. This is a survival issue.
For a few days now a lot of brainstorming has been going on among the gypsies, you could actually hear their outfits brain cells boiling and bubbling, and every now and then spitting out formulas for success of all the colors of the rainbow, but these formulas, they soon understood, wouldn't fit in, for the only color allowed in Lo Condo is pink. Pink bunnies, pink store fronts, pink flowers, and for all the rest you could, for the modest sum of a month of prostituting yourself to the tourists, get a pair of pink glasses, if you have a pink health insurance, that costs you the modest sum of a lifetime of labor, since you also have to pay for the pink condo houses, that you have to keep fresh painted cotton candy pink.

The essence of simple moments

Today after a Skagit County French Circle gathering, back home I did a few things in the garden: planted some jalapenos in containers that I put in a sunny area. -My husband is fond of those pimientos-I also planted some eggplants on that very sunny spot at the back of the trailer. The summer veggie patch on the slope of the dyke is getting crowded anyway. Then I weeded, and got tired, that good kind of tiredness from working outdoors, and decided to sit down under the arbor and have munchies. Then though the sun was warm, the breeze was really cool, so we went back down on the boat.
These are the moments I enjoy most, the simple pleasures of life. I've had so many of them, and if it were just for that, I consider that those alone make life worth living.
Yesterday as I was sitting on a bench by the channel in La Conner with a friend I enjoyed one of those: just watching the water, boats and birds, and having fun chat.
I remember back in Tunisia, one of those I appreciated was siesta time. As a teenager, and then later on in my life as well, I was among the "shwaatan el qaila", that is, the devils of the siesta, which means that contrarily to most people I rarely slept in the afternoon. And I am still a chitaan el qaila. The amazing thing is when I do have a siesta, I really enjoy it and think I should try and have it more often. It is so restorative, and the other reason why I do enjoy it, is that it also allows a space for daydreaming.
However, in those days, in Tunisia, when everybody else was asleep in the torrid, stifling, unforgiving afternoon heat, when I was not at the beach with my cousins or friends, I'd be in the veranda with my aunt Nabiha, who'd make green mint tea -the most refreshing drink when it's hot- and we'd sit on the cooling tile floor of the veranda, overlooking the mediterranean, and eat dried pumkin seeds - qlub in arabic-, and chat, chat, yakking a storm and smoking cigarettes.

Saturday, May 26, 2007

Aknowledgements

This is a thank you post. As I realize I am having the lifestyle I've always loved and wanted, I often think I'm very lucky, though I'm also aware of the fact that a lot of it has to do with the choices I made throughout my life. However a great part of it also has to do with the people who were on my path, and who were such good guides. My wonderful family, my friends. I've always been blessed with wonderful friends, I don't know why. So as I'm not up to writing extensively tonite, I just wanted to voice that thank you all, for being on my path and reaching out, thus contributing to who I am today. That goes from my father, who was such an incredible teacher, in the broader sense of the term, and my uncle Abdelkader, who were both so good at transmitting the love of litterature and debate of ideas, to my philosophy teacher in 12th grade in France, to Mr. Adamschenwski, (I still can't spell his name correctly) my English linguistics teacher at the Paris III university, to my sister who's always been there as such an encouraging person and role model, to my stepfather Claude, who had such an impact on the framing of my mind too, to my Ballet teacher, then colleague Nickie, who's been such a good guide and genuine friend , and to my very dear Navajo friend Shaudi, now on the other side, but still so much present, to my friend Anne, who's been so good at problem solving and for her cheerfulness and special, mean humour, and to the wonderful friends I found on this continent now. And to all the others I still hope to meet, if I live long enough. Another thing I often think I'm so thankful for is having eyes to see the world.

A circle was completed

Almost exactly a year after my father passed away, yesterday at 2 am I completed the re-reading of his favorite novel ever, One hundred years of solitude. What a delectable companion. I want to read it all over again, in Spanish. I want to re-read all Garcia Marquez's works.

Night time on the river thoughts

One of those wonderful, quiet, slow days. Days are getting really longer. I mowed the lawn, then met my friend at the cafe, went to the thrift store, got a trivial pursuit game for 50 cents, we gathered a few small town gossip, made fun of tourists, had, O, Indian frybread on the waterfront, then back to the cafe, small silly talk and brainstorming with friends. Then I was back home, planted that vine for my arbor in the garden on shore, had that cane roof mounted above the arbor, looks very zen, watered the veggies. Went back on the boat for dinner, and tonite around 10.30 I stepped on the dock, sat down for a cigarette, looked at the moon and its reflection on the river, all in shades of black and white and grey. A patch of clear sky, and a crown of clouds around the moon, I started looking at those clouds, the closest one to the moon definitely had the shape of a gigantic vertebrae. By the time I had dragged a couple of cigarette puffs, that cloud had turned into a big wolf face. I had that thought for a second: "what did I do to deserve all this beauty around me? then just said to myself, don't ask, just enjoy it".

Tuesday, May 22, 2007

The other adventure of the day

Today at the campus where I teach the subtilities of the French language we received an email from the campus police warning us about... a cougar sighting. (kind of changes from last week's warning about a rape and burglaries having occured on campus). Somebody reported having seen a cougar yesterday around midnight there, so we were all forwarded information on "how to behave if you encounter a cougar".
Advice #1: "Stop & don't run". Sure dude, I'll remember that when I meet the guy.
Then, I quote" make yourself as big as possible" for this piece of advice I'm already disqualified, since I'll never look as imposing as a cougar with my 48 kilos, (90 pounds or something like that), so let's be serious, if I met a cougar, I doubt I can convince him I'm not a prey.
Advice #2: "do not approach the animal" Do they think we are THAT dumb?
then, "Never take your eyes off the animal", fuck, do they expect me to stare at this guy without shitting in my pants??? or fainting???
Next, "If the animal displays aggressive behavior, shout, wave your arms and throw rocks. The idea is to convince the cougar that you are not prey, but a potential danger.
If the cougar attacks, fight back aggressively and try to stay on your feet. Cougars have been driven away by people who have fought back. ". I don't know why, but I really don't see myself fighting a mountain lion.
Maybe, after all, I'm living in a wild area.
BTW, I've always feared AND admired cougars, the first time I had such information on them was on my first visit to the US southwest, in the late 90's, as I was camping in Mesa Verde, CO, they had closed a whole area of the park, as a child had recently been attacked... because he started running when he saw the cougar. And because he was small... I wish I were a giant...

Mr.B under dock

Today after dinner we had a strong emotion: As we were cleaning up after dinner my daughter came running on the dock calling Eddie. Mr.B, our resident westy dog, had, once more, fallen in the river and was stuck under the dock. We all ran out, I carried the flashlight, and we got him just on time. So we dried Mr.B with a couple of towels, and then used the hair dryer to finish the job. Now the reason why he fell is of course because he was chasing our resident Parisian kitty, Moustique, whom Mr.B has been loving for more than 3 years now without being given any encouragement. So whether it was an accident or if Mr.B tried to commit suicide out of despair, is still to be determined.

Monday, May 21, 2007

Today's visitors


They're back. A couple of blue tree swallows that nested last year in the birdhouse I hung at the back of our workshop in the garden. I had just finished planting some squashes, and I was standing at the top of the dyke, looking at how fluffy the garden had become in a few days, breathing in the earthy smell brought about by the rain, then I saw them. One of them was perched on top of my arbor, the other one on the parasol. I didn't move, so as not to frighten them. After a while they went back in their rental birdhouse. I wonder if they are the same individuals as last year, or if it is the color I painted the birdhouse that attracts this paticular species. I let you judge...

Thursday, May 17, 2007

The Viking woman, the filibusters and the gypsies

She's the one who opened the grotto to the gypsies. She came a long way on board a flying drakkar, for she had a mission: find the little lost town of Locondo and save the gypsies. It took a while, as Locondo is - was- a well kept secret. Niched at the extreme northwest of the United States of Analphabetism, in a valley plagued by periodic floods that managed (somewhat) so far to keep real estate developers away, -I mean, think of Everett, comparatively- Locondo was hard to find. She landed there then, and soon opened the Grotto, where she sold nothing but organic coffee, green tea, and Art, for a very reasonable price, as, for some reason, she seemed totally immune to the local frenzy of the town folks dedicated to the cult of paper money, which kept them busy all day. The rest was all free: regeneration, internet connection, conversation, human connections, newspapers, jokes, getting job contacts, advertizing your business, the services she rendered to the community are numerous.
As a regular comer to the grotto, I enjoyed the Art openings a lot. There are many art openings in the valley, but here nobody tried to look intelligent or intellectual, people came just to see, meet, talk, enjoy, laugh, and yes, buy Art. Art opening attendees there didn't have that arid "collet monte" (translate: "broom in the ass") leftist tormented intellectual look and speech that I personally vomit for having had too much of it on the old continent.
So she would stand there as the matron of the grotto, tactfully making you feel comfortable, with the least possible intervention -live and let live- but watch out, don't be fooled, for she is quite something too, she does have a sword, and a viking helmet, that she puts on for great occasions-in the USA, translate halloweeeeeeeeeeeeen-
The problem with our matron there, is she was totally impermeable to the local drive in Locondo: making money! When everybody around kept raising their prices to keep up with gas prices, real estate prices, rent raising, she kept selling her organic coffee the same price. And I'm not sure she really cared about making big bucks anyway. But what she sold -and gave- had no price, what price can you put on saving a whole gypsy tribe? and what about all the pirates and filibusters? and what about the bards and poets? what about letting the grotto to the gypsies at night once a week so they could declame, yoddle, and stomp to their heart's content, and thus regenerate so as to gather enough energy to survive in Lo Condominium? What price do you put on that?
As Catinda, the witch among the gypsies, said, once the grotto is closed, you'll find a few lost souls banging their heads on the entrance door, barred by an enormous rock. But this won't be the wall of lamentations:the gypsies are resourceful people, and they are itinerant and ubiquitous.

The sub-tribe of the flying boaters of Locondo

Among the Gypsies of LoCondo, there is a new tribe on the block, the tribe of the flying boaters. Those guys are filibusters who are being made undesirable from the fashionable town marina, that prefers to attract jet-set boaters, sunday mariners, more likely to fill their cashiers with precious dollars necessary to the survival of the cult of paper money, for their goddess is very greedy, and never satisfied. She demands sacrifices of human lives so she can expand her tentacular arms, endowed with succer cups at each end, that are programmed to seperate you from your money. The recipe is very simple, nothing new on the horizon, you sell folks the same stuff as anywhere else, wrap it in a nice paper box (the said paper boxes require the killing of X number of trees), so you give them, let's say, a sandwich, wrapped in dead tree, and what would cost you between 4 to 6 dollars elsewhere costs you 10 dollars plus tax here. Bingo. And you know what? I don't blame them, if the tourist is blind enough to buy sandwiches, rabbits, candles, and trendy clothes at an outrageous price, why not take advantage of it? the town must live. So get rid of the filibusters, pirates, and gypsies, so that Godzillacondo can survive, que viva Godzillacondo!

Wednesday, May 16, 2007

Where's the Ninja?

A while ago I found this in the Channel town press police blotter column:
"7.17am: Report of a teenage boy walking with a Ninja sword on his back, 3rd St. A deputy checked the area and talked to several people walking, none of whom saw anyone carrying a Ninja sword" (From the La Conner police blotter, Channel town press May 17).
Now this is the case of the week: who was it? a member of a new neighborhood block watch militia? an alien entity playing a trick on the peaceful population of La Conner? a sorcerer? a member of the Shao-Lin temple on his path to wisdom? All suggestions welcome. I thought this might be a good starting point for a collective story writing, but right now I'm stuck.

Monday, May 14, 2007

Locondo chronicles II

As I'm patiently(?) waiting for my next regeneration, I'll introduce some other Gypsies of Locondo, and give as faithful an image as possible of these troglodytes as they gathered for their weekly grand regeneration gathering at the Grotto. Another female species who'd often attend was Miguelina, an authentic Gypsy. Now don't let yourself be fooled by that friendly sounding mediterranean name, for Miguelina, under her live and let live, O so baba-cool appearance, hid a genuine avatar, a priestess that would bewitch people with love, compassion, and friendship, values seriously threatened in Locondo by the cult of paper money. That's what made her dangerous. She'd come up at the gatherings, would have a cup of Garido's mysterious potion, and then would put on her third eye, her gri-gris, and spread the wings of her velvety magician dress and start dancing to never stop, till exhaustion. She'd start close to the floor and curling up, undulating like a snake coming up of its basket on square Jamaa al' Fnaa in Marrakech. Quite a sight. Very kundalini dance. But after all, as theGypsies originally came from India, that makes sense.

Wednesday, May 09, 2007

Locondo chronicles

This is the story of the Gypsies of the little town of Lo Condo, that I’m telling you before the said Gypsies disappear, as they are bound to be expelled, due to the galloping frenzy for paper money to which the inhabitants are devoted. Lo Condo is a quaint little town at the extreme Northwest of a huge, wild country known as the United Swamps of Analphabetism. Lo Condo’s population is divided into two main groups: the wood people, who live on a reservation on the other side of the channel separating the town from the island, and the waterfront people, living on the mainland. Two worlds cohabiting cahin-caha, with not much in common, but trying to make the best of it. The best of it the waterfront people get, thanks to their elaborated cult of a powerful goddess, paper money.
Now on the mainland, a few years ago a group of Gypsies came by that wouldn’t fit in any of those two categories. They came gradually, some on flying carpets, some on flying boats, and then started gathering in a grotto of their own downtown. Those Gypsies came from all over the place, some of them from other, remote lands locals only knew by name. So they found a comfortable enough grotto where they could gather and worship a different Goddess: friendship.
Every morning you could see them dragging themselves to the grotto for regeneration purposes, so as not to be contaminated by the ambient money frenzy. Those Gypsies were interested in ideas, concepts, Arts, instinctive, popular expression, and poetry, values on the brink of extinction in the rest of the town, too busy trying to snatch paper money, make their cashiers ring, and amass colossal quantities of crap they thought would secure them a place in the pantheon of the greenback.
Pretty soon the Gypsies decided that was not enough, and that they also needed to gather periodically to have full sessions of regeneration. So they also met once a week to have a feast, Gypsy style, where all talents, real or imagined, great and small, could express themselves. Pretty soon the weekly meetings of the Gypsies of Lo Condo became popular, and even reached out to people from the waterfront. The meetings were known by word of mouth, no publicity by the classic mercantile channels.
Those Gypsies were an incredible mixture of improbable encounters: you had first Rigoberto the pew, officiating as Master of Ceremony, a patriarch like figure,who had the power and license to produce a magic beverage, of a deep brown color, that would come out of a formidable steaming engine, and who also officiated as the distributor of speech, with his imposing scepter, thus preventing the meetings from getting too rowdy, which would have attracted the attention of the omnipresent town police. Rigoberto also treated the assembly with stories that he wrote, and that nobody but the Gypsies themselves would understand. Every now and then he would also come up with a magic trick, or a crystal ball, and thus would state his unique position as MC.
Then you had Garido the ukulele player, and magician, who would show up at every meeting with new musical instruments and wild, custom made campfire songs that brought joy and hilarity in the assembly. Garido’s magic powers didn’t stop there, he also used to bring about home made dishes and strange beverages that had magic powers: As the goodies were consumed, a raven appeared on top of Garido’s head, thus stating his sanctity.
Theses assemblies counted two main other musicians-magicians: Bobbonet and Eduardo El Grande. Bobbonet was exiled from his own home while Eduardo El Grande was about to be ousted from his own flying boat, as the port authorities had decided that no flying boat could moore any more at Lo Condo’s once peaceful marina. They made a terrific team that had the faculty, at a certain hour, to produce two dwarf female gypsies, that would come out of their guitars to crush cockroaches with their wild flamenco stomping, crushing all those demons with the heels of their dance shoes.
The assembly also counted writers and poets: Kyledo, who would read organic haikus, only at a certain hour. Haikus require a certain setting, and the right frame of mind to be ready for it. The other poet, Jeffredo, would read pieces he wrote that nobody would understand in the first place but that everybody would appreciate – that’s the magic of poetry- at the antipodes of the rational world of the waterfront people, who’d always want something nice, not offensive, not threatening, that would look or sound nice, and above all, that would bring paper money.
There was also for a while a wild, Gypsy woman artist named Janondo, who’d also read, only at certain hours too, wild things she’d have written at the wee hours, as she was insomniac. She looked like the queen of Saba, draped in rich, iridescent velvety capes, with extravagant hats that made her look like a tsarina.
You also had, only on certain particular nights, and at a certain hour, Rigoberto that would call his muse, and suddenly you’d have Noronda’s trembling voice coming out of nowhere to sing Summertime, and while she sang, you could actually see her levitating over the assembly on a thin veil of iridescent butterflies.
The weekly assembly of the Gypsies also included dogs, among which Tugondo, who would drag his master Ricondo at the end of a rope. Tugondo was a highly energetic being, living with his hairy master on a flying boat. Tugondo had magic powers of his own too, what humans would call a circus dog I guess, that were pretty fascinating. I guess that without Tugondo, Ricondo wouldn’t survive in the tough little town of Lo Condo. Now you got to understand that they form a team, a perfect Gypsy team: Tugondo amuses the crowd while Ricondo fools them with his incessant blabbering, and then when everybody surrenders, and fall into a drowsy state of abandonment, God only knows what happens...
There was also a witch in the assembly, known only as Catinda, who invariably would come up with devilish cakes and pies aimed at bewitching whoever dared to taste them. As a regular attendee of the sessions myself, I never got to know what she puts in those...

Sunday, April 29, 2007

Hissing tea pot

After the heron episode, as my tea pot is hissing, I turn around to see what it is like outside on the river, the night has come out,and there, is the moon, shining on the black river. Sometimes I can't believe all these blessing good things befalling on me. How can I give that back somehow? Maybe by taking even greater care of mother nature that is being so generous with me. My best friend ever, that gives without counting and without missing any appointment, always there, if you just know how to watch, and listen, and smell. I've always thought that nature is the most rewarding and faithful friend you can ever have. Nothing compares to that.

Impromptu Zen meditation on the river

On this sunday as I was getting ready to go to bed early with my book (Jean Luc Hees, La Saga de la Maison Blanche) and as I was preparing herbal tea from my garden, :) I saw this great blue heron flying over right in front of our boat. I fetched the binoculars and sat down on the dock, and spent half an hour watching that guy. Hadn't I seen him flying over the river, I wouldn't have noticed him, as once he settles somewhere, he blends in in such a way that you got to know he's there to see him. So the heron landed on the shore of the island facing our boat, on the grey sandy beach, and started pacing the beach back and forth, looking for his dinner. He had 3 fishes in less than 15 mns. The guy, as everybody knows here, has that ashy grey-blue hue, so that he can blend in almost any landscape. There you could hardly see him against the grey sand on shore. As I watched him patiently, very, very slowly pacing the shore for his meal, I was fascinated by the gracefulness of his quest, and the reason why it looked so graceful is because it was slow, very slow, and cautious. Fishermen should learn from this guy. There is a ballet called the Swan lake, there should be one about those blue herons, the most graceful creatures ever. The way he stretches his slender neck while very cautiously moving towards his prey is unbelievably beautiful. I think he's actually much more elegant than a swan. So he caught 3 fishes, and then flew over to another little nook on the river, O what a gracious flight, O those wide, heavy wings, O that slow flight that looks like a slow motion picture! and the discreet noise of the fluttering wings! Then he landed on a group of tress bending over the river, stayed there for a while, stretching his neck, turning his head right and left like a prima ballerina, as if trying to show his best profile, and then he cautiously, again with that very slow gait of his, receded into the woolands, gradually disappearing in the twilight zone. I don't need to meditate tonight.

Monday, April 16, 2007

Open letter to all the Mr.Z's in La Conner

I was reading the local paper of my neighboring little town of La Conner, where the cafe is, trying to catch up on an issue presently being debated in La Conner, the fact that 57 liveaboard families are currently threatened of eviction from the La Conner marina. I don't live in La Conner, but as a liveaboard myself, I was naturally interested in this issue. I found comfort in the mobilization of the population of La Conner regarding this matter, and also in the coverage by the local paper, that did its job by providing the public with detailed articles as well as letters from readers. In that section I read two letters, one from a lady taking sides for the liveaboards, and one from a certain Mr.Z, both citizen rightly exercizing their freedom of speech and thought. But my attention was more attracted to M.Z's letter, since he seemed to find it unfair that liveaboards don't pay property taxes since they live on water, while they voted on how the town spent HIS tax dollars. it's amazing to see that some people have nothing else to do than count what the neighbors pay or spend. I suggest M.Z to read the other letter on the same issue of the Channel Town Press to start with. And what about the freedom to live where you choose, which is one of the last bastions of freedom in this country? Shame on you, descendants of pioneers!
I also remind Mr.Z that the said liveaboards are nevertheless citizens of the town, who live, work, and consume in La Conner, therefore contributing to the local economy and to community life. But community might be a foreign word for all the Mr.Z's. Therefore we may excuse his not understanding, - or not willing to aknowledge- that those families, if evicted, will probably have to move out of town, if not of the county. But that is none of Mr.Z's business, in this case Mr.Z doesn't look too much at what his neighbor's next move is gonna be, in this case Mr.Z and all his peers will look the other way. Then when those 57 liveabord families will have left their home,town and jobs and lost everything, then the cute little town of La Conner will finally breathe, and move forward to its brilliant destiny as just another cute candy color Disneyworld coastal town, where everybody's nice and rich. Where everybody will lick the asses of the tourist hords to separate them from their money. (no offense meant to the merchants of La Conner, their commerce-and they do it well, and very nicely- does bring money to the town) And where anybody who can't afford a minimum of half a million dollar for a home is not welcome. Where anybody with original thought or lifestyle - so threatening - will not be welcome. Where anybody who doesn't participate in the galloping real estate massacre isn't welcome.
Watch out, people of La Conner! here is what is expecting you, "The village", like in the TV series "The Prisoner"with plenty of neat Mr.Z's in cute little cars, carts, motorcycles, all rutilant and brand new, and brand new brains with nothing in them. And anybody who wouldn't conform to THE lifestyle would immediately been taken charge of, and chased out of town by, the gigantic ball...

Saturday, April 14, 2007

Color festival


I finally did it. Went to the tulip fields. To take pictures. To store sensorial experiences for my paintings. I walked there for an hour, looking at the flowers, the wooden crates, taking pictures of the flowers from above, looking at the crevices in the soil- what a beautiful artwork!- and was taken by surprise by the incredible fragrance. It was cold, but I didn't care, felt like the garden of Eden. When I came back home I turned into the squirting artist I wished I were a few weeks ago. I went loose. I reworked on my two landscapes that have given me such a hard time for months, and turned them into something else, I ran wild. I was liberated, using larger brushes, and operating with large brush strokes, fearless. Squirt!

Monday, March 26, 2007

The turkey's side of the story

Ok. We read that police blotter too. Now wait a minute. here's the story.
We are the turkey people. We are among the native people of North america, even though we were introduced in this area primarily to establish populations for hunting. WE are here to feed you, and all you find to do when we occasinally and for a short moment block the traffic in Lo Condo, is to calll 911? That is pathetic.

la Conner Police blotter, continued.

" Thursday March 15, 9.27am. Foul jam: An apparent stranger to these parts -you bet- called to report that turkeys were causing a traffic jam, near the intersection of Morris and Second streets. The turkeys, which have laid claim to La Conner's streets, eventually moved on, allowing motorists to pass ".
Now imagine. imagine my French relatives and friends reading this. Just one minute. Even assuming they know where La Conner is. (the 3 that came know, and the 3 LOVED La Conner, BTW).But just imagine, OK?
Well to me, if I imagine, this sounds like it's straight out of a Garcia Marquez novel.
So you could call that quaint little town Macondo, or La Conner, somewhere in Western washington, not far from the Canadian border with Bush country. The country of bushes, of course. So what you learn reading this police blotter in the local newspaper is that in this quaint little town of La Conner, WA, the most politically active citizens are a group of turkeys, who regularly demonstrate to claim and reclaim theit right as the indigeneous inhabitants of the area. Usually nobody ever bothers to call the police for the "traffic jams" caused by the creatures. Devilish or not, that remains to be determined. However, the fact that this caused a 911 call is very significant to me, of the frame of mind some people in this country are in.
I mean , the same thing happened to me a few days ago, and several times before, to be bloked for a little while by a group of turkeys in downtown La Conner, but then I just waited, amused, till the creatures crossed the streets and allowed me to proceed. You see where I'm heading? I mean of course it had to be, number one, a stranger, number two, a dummy, number three, an asshole with time to spare, to call 911-and therefore monopolize the police services attention much more needed elsewhere- about a group of turkeys blocking "traffic"?!
Let me tell you, the person who called was an alien with a capital A. I also think there should be a penalty for people who calll 911 when it is not justified, therefore using the precious time of police forces who might be needed more critically elsewhere. THAT is what I'd call irresponsible behavior.

Awakening of the senses




Finally. I got my topsoil. Finally. A decent enough temperature. Finally. No rain!
So yesterday I started working in my garden. Shoveled topsoil in my two boxes. One for salads and veggies, one for herbs. (my friend Roberto told me to pronounce "erbs" not "herbs".) What's the matter with those people who don't want to pronounce the H's? I guess Americans would have a hard time learning to speak Arabic properly, since H's are the staple diet of that language.
So I planted a few salads. As I was shoveling topsoil from the top of the dike to the wheelbarrow, and then to the boxes, I got aware of a smell, something like the smell of an exotic flower. I still can't tell what it was, and it was still present today as I was doing some cleanup in the garden. It kind of transported me in Macondo, the town in the middle of the swamps in "One hundred years of solitude". It almost smelled like Monoi oil. Maybe it was a combination of the topsoil, the wild flowers blooming at the back of the garden by the beach, and the herb garden. What an exhilarating feeling it was! Some see gardening as exercise. Others view it as another way to arrange their environment. As far as I'm concerned, I like my garden to look cute, and as natural as possible. The least human intervention possible. Today for instance I was wondering whether I should keep the back of the garden sandy, its natural look, which implies a daily fight with the knotweeds, or do what I did last year, cover it with cedar bark, which was of considerable help in controlling that weed, besides the nice woodsy smell it provides all the season.
I do agree though that gardening is a healthy exercise, for the body as well as for the mind. Once there, like when I paint, I forget EVERYTHING, including the worst human invention: time. I forget about time. I forget that I have to cook dinner. I forget my husband, my daughter, and my own self- the latter is the probably the healthiest for me- I have internal monologues about where is best to place that plant. So I put it there, then step back, look at it, try another place, do the same, till I find something I like. Actually sometimes I speak ou loud to myself, and I'm not ashamed of it. Very healthy. Try it. Not only for gardening.
Sometimes I look up at that cottontree where the bald eagle is calling. Today he was alone, his-or her? partner probably away fishing. I looked at the eagle, and tried to communicate with it: "I know you're watching me, that's fine, I like your company", that's what I told him.
However my gardening is more than physical exercise, and it is everything but trying to domesticate nature. Rather, it is trying to learn from nature. It is taking what she offers, giving whatever I can to help, - yes, how presomptuous, huh?- trying not to disrupt anything. It is taking -just what I need, no more,- and hoping she'll allow me to continue to feed myself. It is giving, my respect, my care, my love, my gratitude. It is also a feast of the senses, something that would be as a good as a good, hearty, earthy French meal, amourously cooked, accompanied with the right wine, as good as making love, as good and refreshing as an early morning swim, as good as meditation, and therefore a spiritual practice above all. I don't garden only to get veggies, I garden to commune with nature. Oh, the healthy effort of shoveling the topsoil, pushing the wheelbarrow, -that thing is darn heavy, and I'm so tiny- :)
Oh,the tender dialogue when I put that fresh soil in my boxes, how the rosemary, the lemon balm- yes, what a balmy smell it has- how the lemon balm, the chives, the parsley, the Italian oregano, the thyme, liked that fresh soil, I could almost hear them sighing with satisfaction. And the bounty of smells they gave me in return!
My garden is located between the dike and the river, so it is rectangular, stretching from the back of our workshop to the beach. It is part of the space we're renting on shore. I started it up when I arrived here and it helped me a lot at a time when I didn't have many connections here and in the first few months when I didn't have a job. The only disruption I caused there was to reclaim the space from the knotweeds, a long battle that is never totally won.
Another factor that every gardener experiences I guess is the pleasure of anticipation. It's like love, it may be even better before. All the months you spend preparing your yard for the season, anticipating the pleasure you're gonna have having your dinners outside by candle light, - and the mosquitoes- another long battle- are almost as good as, if not better, than the actual summer season, let's face it, so short anyway, you give two parties and hop! Gone,!It's fall! Welcome to the pacific Northwest.
A few years ago, I was having another wonderful life, though in a different way, in Paris, but I felt I had expored it all, and I heard the call of the Skagit river. No, yes, this sounds like an old hippy's statement, but it's true. In my trendy-artsy rue Oberkampf, in Paris, at this late hour -10pm- which would be early there, all I heard was motorbikes, music, drunk people, and here, just the river-once more lately just below flood stage, bubbling and gurgling, and the frogs. I then felt sort of out of place in my own country, and now, here, I'm where I knew I was bound and meant to be: my new home. Two key elements contributed to this: the garden and the cafe.