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.

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...

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!

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.

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.....

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.