Sunday, January 28, 2007

Goat

Gonzalo. That's his real name. Pretty pretentious, for a dog. Ludicrous, I'd say. Sounds like you'd baptize a dog "Don Hernandez" or something like that. However when I moved here that was the deal: My spouse adopted my daughter- and that is not a meagre task to embrace- and I adopted his dogs. Or rather they adopted me. I guess if they hadn't he would have repudiated me and sent me back to Douce France? But they did, and so did I. Who wouldn't melt for these creatures? Everything is not idyllic however. Mr B is that cool, goofy, carefree but not troublefree Westy. Always puts himself into trouble, falling in love with my Parisian kitty, for example (see archives for previous posts on this subject) . Gonzalo is another story. Neurotic, manipulative, whining creature. The problem is he decided he was Mama's dog. So when I sit on my armchair, there he is, sitting right on my feet, the wicked creature. When I go up the gangway to the shore, who's constantly in my feet, Goat. That is when I really can feel murder instincts surging in me. When I open the van door, who pretends he can't climb inside on his own, Goat. And he whines, till we're in a hurry, have to go, and finally help him in. And he knows it, the wicked one. Notice that he has no problem at home climbing the sofa, which is higher than the van... For his defense, the poor creature seems to have been somewhat abused in his youth, and on top of that he was castrated, so I guess he's got some excuses for his being an almost constant nuisance. But you know what? every now and then, when for some very temporary miraculous reason he is calm, or when he walks ahead of me, turning his head back every half second to make sure I'm still there,..... I like him, the damn manipulative beast.

The Other People

As I was sitting out on the deck of our boat tonight I was listening to the river creatures. I could hear the beaver relentlessly gnawing at a tree: tic-tic-tic-tic-tic. Tic-tic-tic-tic-tic. An inexhaustible worker, that guy is, always busy at night. And then the loud splash when he dived. That made me think of all these creatures living here by the river, and it made me feel small and insignificant, just another creature among the others. What is it that makes us humans think we’re the center of the universe, what is it that makes us think we’re the most intelligent? How presumptuous. Maybe beavers think too, and maybe they think they are the center of the universe. Maybe they think we are those insignificant obnoxious strange creatures. Which makes reminds me of another popular belief in Tunisia, the one of “The Other People”. Seriously. They are there. We can’t see them, we poor limited humans, but they are out there. Cats can see them, that’s why cats seem sometimes to be following something with their eyes, or suddenly spring forward at the pursuit of an invisible chimera. Some people can see them. Folks who know of similar traditional beliefs welcome to comment. There may be a common ground, something of that “collective inconscient” where all these stories originate

Khalti Chrifa.

Among other colorful characters in my father’s Mediterranean family was a witch. I’m serious. Khalti Chrifa - peace to her soul- was the most ancient one in the family, a widow, with fading blue eyes, deep wrinkles, a handkerchief tied at the top of her head that made her look like an old gypsy, the blindest faith ever, and a talent for telling terrifying stories to us kids at night at bedtime about heaven and hell and monsters. Though her vision was not very good, she still had all her wits, and directed the entire household of my uncle with an iron hand. Everything had to go through her, even things that were none of her business. Starting with marriages. So when my father, her sister’s prodigal son, came back from France with a French concubine (my mother), that he eventually married to conform to local morality rules, and me, she did everything she could to prevent him from marrying a “rumia”, that is, an infidel. I actually saw Khalti Chrifa in some of her witchcraft sessions, her specialty was to melt lead over a brasero while uttering incantations from God and Satan alike, I suspect. That was quite a sight, seeing her ghostly face over the fumes of the brasero, and knowing this, of course no one dared going against her will, as she could always cast a spell on you. When she failed with my father, she also later on tried with me, telling me never to marry a “rumi” but a Muslim – and somewhat succeeded, since my first husband was a Muslim- But I guess that like my father I was too much of an independent spirit to fit in the mold, and that lasted only a time. To render her justice, she did all this of course with good intentions – saving us from damnation- and she was also a generous woman: she adopted an orphan who was raised with us, and took care of him no matter what, till the end. When she died he immigrated to Germany and made his life there, a successful one, and he now got a summer house home where he comes with his family for vacations.

The daily show of the pumpkin trees.


They grow on the river bank, each day late afternoon they come to life, glow, and then extinguish themselves at dark.

Call of the wild


We went to Rosario beach today, which felt like a visit to a long neglected friend, and after a walk on the south beach I had an impulse to climb the cliff to reach the trail above. I could have gone back on my tracks and taken the regular path leading there, but no, I felt like climbing, which I did. I had to cling to gnarled tree limbs for support, and finished the climb on my knees and in the dust to be able to push myself up to the top of the ridge. It felt really good, the physical effort, calculating the risk, looking for the best place to put my feet, and then once up I followed the trail uphill that followed the contours of the cove. All the smells, the Douglas firs, the cedars, and those crazy Madrona trees that grow on any surface, whatever the inclination of the cliff might be, adopting incredible postures to cling to the soil, the stubbornness with which they do so, all this was exhilarating. Walking in nature I guess must trigger the production of some kind of hormones that produce that feeling. I was going from one tree to another, taking pictures, stopping at the overlooks to watch the green waters below, or stopped every now and then to look up to the top of the trees and their outline against the sky and couldn’t decide to leave the site. I must have been a mountain goat or something like that in a former life.

Saturday, January 27, 2007

El encuentro

Yo vi la unión perfecta hoy
Cuando el cielo se encontró con el horizonte
Color de naranja
Y cuando juntos encendieron el firmamento
Como dos amantes se abrazaron
Y después cayeron en los limbos oscuros.

Wednesday, January 24, 2007

Who's that guy whistling from a tree?

Believe me or not, it is that time of the year, when this yearly visitor comes and settles in a tree on shore, right by my boat. He whistles like a man who whistles at a beautiful woman- I know it may not be correct in this country, but in other parts of the world, it is an appreciative and appreciated sign - So this guy whistles, "Fiuifu!", Fuifu!" endlessly. Sometimes I venture to answer him, and of course he answers back. Some days he wakes me up, and in that half awake state, even before I open my eyes, I smile, and then wake up amused. I know what you're gonna say, it's a bird. Well nobody was able to tell me so far which bird sings that way, and I never made it to actually see the creature. So what I think is that it must be a secret admirer. Skeptical? well, he follows me when I go to my workshop on shore, and goes on "Fuifu, Fuifu!". I've been here three years and he comes back each year, never missing the "rendez-vous gallant". He is one of the announcers of spring, you can tell, his song is so insistant and amusing. As if he wanted to tell us all "Wake up, rejoice, spring is on the way!".