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.

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".

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.

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...

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!

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.

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.

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...