Pacific Northwest fall kicking in

In the last few days I had the opportunity to be reminded of how beautiful the fall season can be here. After having tried to stretch the summer season as long as I could, I am now embracing the coming fall. The first signs are well in now: Ghostly fog in the mornings on the river, the first ducks arriving, maple trees turning gold and red, the last berries, the dampness settling in, the rains hammering the roof of our boat at night, best lullaby ever. It is good that we're having seasons, and that our bodies and minds adjust to them. Cycles, the circle of Life.

jumping fish

Tonite as I was sitting on the deck of our boat I was startled by a fish jumping, a trout it seems. It was of a transluscent silvery grey. I took that as a gift. :)

Vroum-Vroum Run

Today as I was relaxing on the dock playing lizzard, my peace was quite disturbed by a double racket. The first one was brought about by the Oyster Run, a local motorbike rallye. I didn't know you could catch oysters with a Harley... Those guys were raising hell even here on Fir Island. Well, kids need to play, right? As my mum used to say, "Those Americans are all big kids". The only thing is, most of these bikers are in fact in their 50's, the Harley obviously a substitute for a receeding sexual life. The older they get, the bigger the toy. Since when do you need a big, expensive toy to have fun? So these modern days cow boys hang around in our little towns, clad in leather from head to toe, (I wonder if the underwear is leather too?), not to speak of the obligatory bandana. That looks so cool, huh? Of course all that heavy accoutrement, together with the "image de marque", gives them a particular gait, somewhere between John Wayne and the Bad Boy. All of them. It's a tribe, you know, one of those modern tribes that come to substitute for an identity and sense of belonging. The unwritten code of conduct, of the Vroum-Vroum tribe, that is, is Let's make as much noise as we can, Vroum-Vroum,VROUM! and the hell with who doesn't enjoy it, look at us, folks, we're cool, we're the real thing. Vroum. The other thing I noticed is they take an evil pleasure taking their time gathering and taking off, just to let you enjoy the Vroum! a little longer. Who needs a sonotone earplug, come to the Oyster run, it'll be much cheaper than consulting a physician, and in no time, the miracle will occur, your hearing is restaured!
Now nuisance number 2 today was the Pan-Pan tribe. Hunting season is kicking in, so there was also all these Pan!Pan-pan-pan! shots. They're on the loose! I wonder what they're targeting, as there are no feathered animals around lately. However, believe it or not, me the French woman, came to adopt a much more understanding attitude with that other tribe. Number one, some are my neighbors, so, diplomatie oblige, you get to look at their hobby in a different way. The only thing about this that actually disturbs me is those guys, when the season hits, come by our boats way before dawn with their motor boats, and the wake, and the noise, wake me up. I still remember when I moved here, the first fall season, when I saw these groups of guys with their rifles, I'd pass by them as if I were walking on a landmine. The mere idea of having all those guns close made me nervous. Had to force a commercial smile when addressing them, ah, you catch anything today? Oh good! I guess after four years here something happenned as I do not have to force the smile anymore. Of course I'm a perfect hypocrite, since I couldn't do what they do, but I'm always glad to eat the meat.

Beyond the quackshacks, the prize of a 45 mns walk

If you continue to follow the dike after the quackshacks, you get into the wildlife area. A sanctuary that starts with a woodsy path bordered by swamps, dense berry thickets, immense trees, Firs, Cedars, cottonwoods, red elderberries, I can't recall them all. The path itself is shaded, grassy and soft under the feet. You'd better not be on a mission when you go there, for you'll get distracted by all sorts of things on the way: Skunk cabbage - what an incredible plant- a couple of little wooden bridges on the right over a slough, overlooking fields. If you go on the bridge you discover that the still water of the slough is mostly covered with a thick coat of green, sometimes reddish, mossy substance, and bordered with giant grasses. Insects. Organic matter in all its splendor. Life.

As you walk further away, the trees start to change and rarefy, the air circulates better, and you can start smelling the iodine, a faint smell at first. Then as you approach the bay the swamps turn into small lagunas, cluttered with logs and driftwood. Nature's sculpture. The iodine smell gets stronger: just follow it.

As you reach the bay area there's a viewpoint with benches, you can sit, rest, and have a first sight of the estuary. Then if you really want to be there, you have to engage in a dense, thick thicket and elbow your way through. You may think this leads nowhere, but it does. And then your efforts are rewarded, you are there. Suddenly, you're in the open, no trees, except from those huge logs, the driftwood, and the vast expanse of water, sky, grasses, pools, and mud. For the estuary is VERY muddy. If you don't like the sensation of your feet slighly sinking in, and the ploc-ploc noise with each step, turn back. For if you want to be by the bay, that's what you have to do, walk in the mud, climb gigantic logs, but when you're there, it's the edge of the world. It's as good as a trip to Patagonia. When I go I like to walk, climb, explore, touch, for a while, and then just sit, breathe, smell, and watch. Drink it in, by truckloads. No risk of intoxication, so fill your lungs, your nostrils, your ears, rinse your eyes. Who needs to take a relaxation class? Just step outside. It's there.

The Quackshack tribe

No it's not one of the local Native tribes. Just a peculiarity of Mann Rd on Fir Island. At the very end of the dike bordering the South Fork of the Skagit, there is an alignment of a few quack shacks, that is, small wood cabins that I always have pleasure to look at, due to their weather beaten aspect, some kind of askew, the angles not quite right, and all of different colors. Most of them are the cutest things. In spite of their funky appearance, some display pompous names, such as "The River Ritz". All have in common the incredible imagination, love, and humour that has been put in keeping them up and imprinting the owners' personality on them. Most occupants are fishermen or hunters. Some use their cabin seasonally, some are local people, some end up living there permanently.

Now a recent phenomenon started taking place, that I'd call the gentrification of the shacks. One after the other, the occupants started not only putting on the yearly coat of fresh paint, but also started enlarging or remodelling their cabins. They're starting to look really nice, but also more uniform. In their endeavour to preserve their little paradise, the cabins owners are starting to uniformize the paint colors, more of that (nice) bluish grey. The cabins are getting almost too cute. Now I'm not pontifying here on what should or should not be done, I'm just observing the changes. While it is perfectly understandable to be willing to keep those cabins in good shape, or to improve the comfort if you turn it into a permanent home, I just hope they're not gonna end up looking like suburban condos, with the assorted rent increases, which may eventually make a whole local culture disappear.

The French liveaboard who should mind her own business.

Fall ride

Fall colors are starting to kick in. I took my bike at the end of the day, followed the dike to the wildlife area, and came back through Wiley road, and back into Mann.
On the dike, I met my neighbor Bob, also riding his bike. Then by Allan's quack shack, I smelled wood burning. At the end of the dike, I saw some quack shacks completing their gentrification remodelling. Bob's neighbor carved a totem pole in front of his cabin. Once in the wildlife area, I could smell the iodine from the Bay. Hunting season's gonna start soon, so I want to enjoy the last quiet days. Past the Wildlife area headquarters, I admired the fields, the silos, and then into Mann the tall grasses bording the sloughs. A neighbor walking her dog, some sheep. It felt SO good. Back on the river I sat on the dock to watch the fall colors on the trees: tangerine. Many leaves have already fallen, piercing the screen on the opposite bank of the river with a few patches of sky. The river was very quiet, deep green and golden. Last show, the flaming colors setting on Beck's canoe on the other side.
What is really important?

The patience of the Great Blue Heron

I often wondered what made the same blue heron regularly land on the same logs by our boat. The cartesian thinkers and environmentalists alike are gonna tell you that he comes there to feed himself. Well yes, but there are many feeding places on the Skagit, and some probably even more sheltered from human activity than our spot. So what makes him come back, and once gracefully landed, wait there, immobile, for hours? I watched, and listened. He's waiting, waiting for something. He can remain motionless for long moments, only every now and then imperceptibly, gracefully turn his neck, or stretch it forward occasionally to look for food. But what is he waiting for?
I fancied he may be coming from another world, a world of ashes and chaos, and that being the sole survivor of all species of that world, he landed here because he thought he could survive. I also fancied that what he's tirelessly waiting for is a female from his species that could have survived the chaos too and found her way to here. If only all humans could have the faith, patience and determination of the Great Blue heron. We should look at him attentively, look at that ash colored robe, the last witness of an untold, unheard of chaos. Look at that beautiful and sad robe, and remember, remember to preserve this world from turning into ashes.

The Friend

If you have a friend who shares laughter and tears with you,
If you have a friend who comes to you in times of sorrow,
Looking for consolation,
If you have a friend who opens her house to you
And makes you a hot beverage
And tries to distract you
And hugs you,
Bless her, and cherish her, like you would for your own child.
If you have a friend,
Who hasn't got much,
But unfolds everything he has for you,
And even more than he has,
And makes you a hot beverage,
And listens, and never judges you,
If you have a friend who lays a cot for you to rest and forget your sorrow,
And covers you with a blanket,
Without asking anything in return,
If you have such a friend,
Cherish him, for life is short.
Blessed be the friend.

Tug, his chauffeur, the guitar and the breadtree, or how the Blues was born

Tug was a small, very energetic dog, that in spite of his bad manners, had become the mascot of the Gypsies. They called him Tug because he usually tugged behind him his chauffeur, Rick, who reluctantly followed, mind you he had no choice, as when Tug seized your pants and started pulling, you got no option. So Tug's chauffeur, bon gré mal gré, followed, usually dragging his guitar, which also reluctantly followed, but she had no choice either, since when Rick held his guitar, he wouldn't let go. However the guitar always got her revenge when the gypsies gathered for a feast: she had a life of her own, and she played faster than her master could move his fingers along the strings. So whenever Rick grabbed his guitar, she soon started moaning about the tough life her master submitted her to, and that's called the Blues. That's how the Blues was born, don't believe all the other crazy stories you hear. However, the guitar had many things to tell about the sordid life she had to live: First she had no name, have you ever heard of a guitar with no name? Then Rick made her live on a tugboat, which would periodically cause her to catch a cold and therefore she'd be out of tune. The only thing that would then revive her would be the gypsies campfire. Then she would, for a while, be able to sing the blues.
In the meantime, Tug's main activity during gypsy gatherings would be to run around in circles, like a circus horse, but way faster. I think the purpose of that infernal manège was to keep Rick within the circle and make sure he wouldn't try to escape. The other thing Tug loved about gypsy gatherings is that there usually was abundance of food, and especially his favorite, bread. Tug LOVED bread. So he started thinking of how to make sure he had a constant supply of bread, and started thinking he should grow a bread tree. Since a bread tree couldn't grow on a boat, one night as the gypsies were gathered around a campfire on shore, he subreptitiously abducted a big loaf of bread, the biggest he could find, and buried it in the ground on a veggie patch. Therefore, he thought, the future bread tree would get plenty of nutrients. He planted the bread tree in a state of the art fashion: just deep enough to allow roots to spread, but not too deep so it could receive the light of day, and he covered it and surrounded it with a mound. From then on, Tug would have something to care for.

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.