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.

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.

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.

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

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!

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...

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.