… Aka Gypsy caravan /café, is stationing for the cold season at my place.
We decided, since our musicians several times observed they were getting rusty, to go back to having Open No Mike weekly, on Wednesdays as in the good old days, so as not to block people’s weekends during the holiday season. So we’re meeting every Wednesday at 7pm at my place.
Yesterday some of our regulars were missing, but we had a great time, as some other people showed up. The K Paul family came, and brought along the two English ladies of our little town, that was a nice surprise. Kevin Paul had brought his native drum, and honored us with wonderful drumming and songs. He and his nephew Jason brought the magic by singing their heart out, Bless those hearts, making my living room feel like a Pow-wow arena. Little Michael had fun with Charity and the two resident dogs of Open No Mike, Tug and Toolie. Gene had also brought her so well behaved little dog, Lilly. Patricia Paul read a poem from Robert Service, thus making me discover an author I didn’t know. I read one of my poems, and so did Roberto. Rick, aka Tug’s chauffeur, played and sang some old goodies along with Bill. I started a song for our friend Gary, who was missing. And we had crepes and Nutella and fruits with organic coffee. Smoke breaks allowed the political talk.
It was fun and wonderful sharing.
See you all next Wednesday…
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Friday, October 17, 2008
Getting old (sort of)
Every now and then I stumble upon the idea that I'm slowly but surely getting old. So what? Nothing extraordinary there but the course of nature. I mean, I didn't expect to be as fit as in my twenties but, when a calorie burning person like me, every now and then, is reminded by mother nature that well, she should pace herself, slow down (what? slow down more than I've already done so, by moving from Paris to Skagit valley? that possible?) Yes, it is. It is not necessarily about the physical thing, but about accepting the idea that you can do only a certain number of things a day. That the To Do lists I make every day are way too ambitious, and that well, if some items are not completed by the end of the day, I shouldn't feel bad about it. Yeah, but that's the very paradox of getting old, time flies, no time to waste, you gotta get things done. Ok, these are the bad days. Actually I do sometimes manage to think, well, let's just BE, for God'sake. Anyway in this country exhausting yourself won't do any good or bring you any medals, since exhausting yourself at work is the norm. But I'm not really fitting in that box.
As we say in French, "cherchez l'erreur" ("Look for the error".)
The real thing I should put every single day on my list and shouldn't derive from, is "take some time for yourself, every day". I do. But not enough.
As we say in French, "cherchez l'erreur" ("Look for the error".)
The real thing I should put every single day on my list and shouldn't derive from, is "take some time for yourself, every day". I do. But not enough.
Hoover Nirvana
Hoover Nirvana
I borrowed a carpet cleaner machine from Chef Roberto. Now he didn’t know what he was exposing himself to. First my giving in the French national sport, complaining and recriminating that the damn thing was too heavy and hard to handle, then guess what, you have to empty the damn bucket every ten minutes or so, and as each time the water was black, I figured it would take me a whole day to clean my carpets and rugs. But wait. La makina infernale is a Hooooover. And Hooooover made sure you get hooked. You push the machine forward and you see the water and soap soaking in, and it makes about the same soothing sound as inside a plane. As you push your jet machine along the lines of the carpet, you almost expect to hear the suave voice of a flight attendant asking you “Coffee Madame?”. Then you start being so concentrated on following those lines, you’re in a trance like state. Nothing else counts. You don’t see time flying. And Oh! The rotating brushes , that VROUM like the propellers of the plane seen through the window. I got so hooked that I came to consider the best part the one when you empty the bucket from the blackened water. It has something nirvanesque, orgasmic in it, to see all that dirt draining down the sink, then as you come back to your rug, to see the colors revived. Immediate gratification. The Mt Olympus of household appliances, that a few decades ago, were promising women’s liberation from chores. I don’t know about that part, though, as it did take me a few hours to complete the job, which left be back broken, ready to crash into bed with a body feeling like it had run a marathon. Lying down in bed, as I was falling into my (other) night life, I surprised myself wondering if I couldn’t have that heavy machine vroom vroom its rotating brushes over my back, providing me with a well deserved shiatsu massage that would flatten me out, leaving me as flat and stretched as a jelly fish drying in the sun on low tide.
I borrowed a carpet cleaner machine from Chef Roberto. Now he didn’t know what he was exposing himself to. First my giving in the French national sport, complaining and recriminating that the damn thing was too heavy and hard to handle, then guess what, you have to empty the damn bucket every ten minutes or so, and as each time the water was black, I figured it would take me a whole day to clean my carpets and rugs. But wait. La makina infernale is a Hooooover. And Hooooover made sure you get hooked. You push the machine forward and you see the water and soap soaking in, and it makes about the same soothing sound as inside a plane. As you push your jet machine along the lines of the carpet, you almost expect to hear the suave voice of a flight attendant asking you “Coffee Madame?”. Then you start being so concentrated on following those lines, you’re in a trance like state. Nothing else counts. You don’t see time flying. And Oh! The rotating brushes , that VROUM like the propellers of the plane seen through the window. I got so hooked that I came to consider the best part the one when you empty the bucket from the blackened water. It has something nirvanesque, orgasmic in it, to see all that dirt draining down the sink, then as you come back to your rug, to see the colors revived. Immediate gratification. The Mt Olympus of household appliances, that a few decades ago, were promising women’s liberation from chores. I don’t know about that part, though, as it did take me a few hours to complete the job, which left be back broken, ready to crash into bed with a body feeling like it had run a marathon. Lying down in bed, as I was falling into my (other) night life, I surprised myself wondering if I couldn’t have that heavy machine vroom vroom its rotating brushes over my back, providing me with a well deserved shiatsu massage that would flatten me out, leaving me as flat and stretched as a jelly fish drying in the sun on low tide.
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