Feng-Shui?

As I didn’t have work today, I used this down time to start a small – well, not so small - home project: sort out, throw, recycle, re-arrange stuff in order to gain space and functionality. Yeah, not so small. If I allowed my Mediterranean sense of exaggeration to take over, I’d say Titanesque project. Today I attacked the first portion of this task, consisting in sorting out all my magazines. You’ve heard me. I keep them all, it’s real bad. So after three years in this home, in which I had already transplanted all my magazines from my previous home, some of which already originated from the previous before the previous home in France- Yeah! - I found myself with no room left for them, unless I’d wanted to let them pile up on the floor, which is nice when you got a really big home, but not in my living room, which also serves as my office and my Art studio. My Gypsiness has its limits, folks. So here we go, and as I’m pretty particular with my magazines, I first sorted them out by category. Don’t get mistaken, I don’t collect the women’s “de-clutter your home” and the like. I’m more on the cultural side: Art magazines, travel and geography magazines, of places I’ve been to, or places I want to go to – yeah, I know, but I did restrict my pile of New Mexico magazine to 5 samples – maps, literary magazines, gardening magazines – got lots of those- home décor magazines, - mostly “Côté Sud”, my favorite- holistic care, and environmental magazines. And newspapers of course. So I made piles, by category. Then came the painful task to decide, Aïe!, which ones to discard and recycle. Most of them were stocked in a special cabinet I have, plus the rest in three magazine racks, two in the living room and one in the restroom. Took me a couple of hours, but I managed to get rid of one magazine rack, and store most of them in the cabinet. I’m not a hoarder, nor a packrat, no, but I like to keep those things. They’re part of me, like an appendix. They’re part of my world. Just like my books. I’m not particularly attached to “stuff”, but books and magazines are almost more important to me than furniture. I like to have them around me in every room. Got books and magazines in my living room, my kitchen, my bedroom, and in the restroom. I ended the day with a big pile of those to recycle, a sense of satisfaction, and inspiration to cook a nice winter stew.
What’s next? Sorting out my photos, you know, those we took before the digital age…

On stillness

On stillness

The pond knows when it's time to stay still,
and chill
The mud knows when it's time to gather itself,
and wait
The grass knows when to fossilize in sheets of blue ice,
turned into white lace where the sun has broken through Sharp, ciseled cracks.
The disheveled grasses have given up combing.
That was the raw, comforting stillness found this crisp afternoon,in the naked beauty of the winter.

Instant eternity

A cotton blanket is spread above us,
Layers of muslin veils and cotton balls,
Incandescent with the last embered juice of the sun,
Soon turning Lilac,
Stretching indefinitely,
A foretaste of Eternity.

Sweeping view on Swinomish channel

A golden, powdered light shrouds the firs on Eagle's Nest behind Rainbow Bridge. The soft, iridescent light lands on the boat masts, making them look like transluscent cobwebs.
Tiny toy trucks go over the bridge, powered by the magic mecanism of a child's model track.
On the other side of the channel, the Swinomish houses and their rickety piles of wood, tired furniture,tired trucks, tired yellow dogs, cry out their freedom from the tyranny of Martha Steward design and the like.
The channel has its dark, blue belly full, waiting for the eagles and the fishermen to come and harvest the precious bounty from its entrails.
A hot cup of lemon ginger tea is trickling down my stomach, and I'm waiting for the eagles.

Sun,re-heating the accumulated harvests of summer juices, that the body will preserve and store in deep recesses, pantries, and holds of the extraordinary vessel of the human body, getting ready to sail the long journey on the dark, cold abysses of the vast winter ocean.
Breeze, messing up my hair, turning it into tortured sagebrush, strong, gnarled, but flexible bushes, that bend wherever the wind goes.
Salt,in the marine air,bringing over to your face, your nostrils,and then your brain,
all the tales of all the purposeful migrations of salmon,geese,swans,fishermen,
refugees,
all for one single purpose, survival.
Humans thought it fit to invent the concept of purposeless,leisure migration,"voyage".
If we combine both, we get the ideal chemical reaction:
A quest with a purpose, that we enjoy like a leisurely cruise.
One day at a time.

Under the village tree II

Inside the village tree
Now remember what happens under the village tree? Well that was on warm days. Now that the soggy season is here, our characters had to find shelter for the winter. Which they did. Our barista with a sense of atmosphere, that knits fire gloves and sets exotic flower extravaganza on the round table outside, produced one of his tricks from under his sleeve: He slowly pulled out a packet of his favorite tobacco, which he gets preferably at our local Ish tribe’s trading post, then took a paper that he placed in a perilous situation between his moustaches, and patiently started rolling the tobacco in a dollar bill – I tried this method, thinking that might be the secret to rolling cigarettes that don’t end up looking like a bazooka, to no avail – I suspect that either he has a secret ingredient or hidden device between his fingers, or I have a missing bolt, since I have not, so far, despite numerous attempts, been able to produce anything even remotely looking like a cigarette. However, so with the paper stuck between his lips, and his beret tilted on his head, making him look like a Basque shepherd, he patiently rolled that very special cigarette, then got up with that slow, retired Basque pace, knelt at the foot of the tree and lit the cigarette.
Then he stated blowing the smoke in a little opening in the tree trunk, which caused the village tree to start expanding. Our barista with a sense of atmosphere that knits fire gloves and sets exotic flower extravaganza on the round table outside, kept blowing the smoke inside the trunk, till it grew into a hobbit coffeehouse.
Then each of the regulars that used to hang out under the village tree contributed something to make it cozy for the winter for humans and animals alike: Charity, the creature with the voice of a bird fallen from a tree, whose mission is to tame invasive bamboo trees and attract bees who are persuaded that she’s covered with pollen, brought a couple of lamps; Christa, the other barista, a twiggy creature with doe-like eyes whose long tentacles are forever glued on her cell phone screen, somebody please come and rescue her from this annoying situation, I mean, it’s kind of hard to make coffee with your fingers glued on a cell phone, just try it, that’s a real challenge, man, so Christa brought a few more cushions so we’d feel nice and comfy;
Michelle, the wizard whose house is built around a huge tree, brought some dreams woven with butterflies and hung them inside the village tree; There are also three couches now inside, for the numerous dogs that hang out at the now re-baptized Troy the druid’s hobbit coffeehouse inside the village tree; There is endless supply of dog treats naturally -one has to live up to their standards- , and power cords to plug in the machines that spit out songs and poems, for the barista with a sense of atmosphere has such a daily output now, that one machine isn’t enough to chew, process and regurgitate those poems and songs, especially as Troy the druid also has his own machine that produces songs in Druidic language, which conflicts with the barista with a sense of atmosphere’s machine, that produces songs preferably in the language of Cervantes. So some days you’ll hear, inside Troy the druid’s hobbit coffeehouse inside the village tree, you’ll hear a strange cacophony, that will be the Titans combat, the Celt druids against the Don Quijotes.
Troy the Celt druid will turn his bean roasting machine on, which in turn will, by means of an intricate system of pulleys, trigger the Celt song machine full blast. Needless to say that against that, the barista with a sense of atmosphere, who starts his song machine by turning a handle manually, and has to keep turning it, has no chance in this quixotic pursuit. Especially as he needs to keep serving the precious dark potion with the other hand, and keep blowing the smoke inside the tree, which otherwise would shrink back to its original size.
Where was I? Ah, somebody even brought a giraffe inside the tree. That, I guess, might be a useful means of transportation if the recession isn’t fixed soon, or when the deluge comes.
The great improvement too is the sign; Troy the druid’s hobbit coffeehouse inside the village tree now has several certified bona fide signs, to make sure the hobbits don’t get lost and find their way to their regenerative dark nectar. The installation of those signs hasn’t been a small business, believe me. First there was the positioning, which had to be at a certain precise distance from the village hobbit coffeehouse, to be precise 10.50 mètres. This first odd demand alone gave the druid quite a headache, as he wandered why the code had to use a foreign language. Then the color, shape, size, took months to determine so as to conform to the code. But the worst is yet to come, as the bloody sign tends to have a life of its own and to flip over to “closed” position when it’s supposed to be “open” and vice-versa. Morality, DO NOT trust what you read.

Fall is finally spreading its wide wings,
multimorphic clouds in all possible shades of grey
looming over the teal channel pregnant with last night's pouring rain,
reflecting the pearl color of September skies,
a fast current streaming hundreds of diamond necklaces,
iridescent bounty the occasional seagull loops over to gather.
This, today, reconciled me with the Fall.

Acknowledgement

When the mud starts settling
When the clear water surfaces
When you can see the polished pebbles
And grab them with care,
When you think you can follow the water
To see where the creek goes, and do so without fear,
Then the healing is ahead.

To the Bear, and to the Raven, who showed me the way.

Under the village tree

Under the village tree on certain warm days, the barista with a sense of atmosphere that knits fire gloves and sets exotic flower extravaganza on the round table outside, will pull out his writing and music machine that spurts tropical songs in the language of Cervantes, and if you give him two words will sprout rosaries of two minutes poems for you.
-Under the village tree at the round table you will also find Bill the turtle who, carrying his house on his back, was trying to grow a transmission tree out of it, to finally find out that if he wanted the transmission tree to grow in his house, he had to set it down by the Skagit river, for there, and there only, lies the fertile silt that allows Transmission trees to grow and thrive. Transmission trees are a delicate, demanding species to grow, but if you are patient enough and obstinate enough, and God knows Bill the turtle is, then when the Transmission tree finally grows and blooms, it can take you to remote lands planted with guitar trees and song trees, watered daily by children and gypsies.
-Under the village tree you’ll also see Jim and his time machine, a memory box located in a membrane inside his skull, which keeps memories of times gone, the way our grandfathers used to do. If you are there on a good day, Jim will cough up bits of these and make you travel back in time. Jim sometimes brings with him his dog Quila, that has a map of the US on her flanks, which is in a pretty advanced state of decomposition, and stands as a gloomy prophecy.
-Under the village tree, you will find the patron, Troy the druid, who amorously roasts rosaries of dark beads brought by mule from Costa Rica or Brazil, and will tell you of the wizard talents it takes to make the precious beads reach the perfect shade, and how then they turn into a magic nectar. Troy the Druid goes in pair with Charity, a creature with the voice of a bird fallen from a tree, whose mission is to tame invasive bamboo trees and attract bees who are persuaded that she’s covered with pollen, information yet to be verified. You can recognize Charity as she is usually diving into the bamboo forest with a machete, with a slow, patient determination, and every now and then will too, release a sigh of contentment after each battalion of bamboo is topped down.
-Under the village tree you may also encounter Bob the inspired carpenter, who has been busy for ages building the perfect woodshed, a lifetime project requiring lots of thoughtful meditation, patiently gathering and harvesting the materials. Maybe a little Jesus will end up in that woodshed.
-Under the village tree you’ll see John the Greek mariner, who after drinking the dark roast concocted by Troy the druid and artfully served by the barista with a sense of atmosphere who knits fire gloves and sets exotic flower extravaganza on the round table outside, will be transported on a flying carpet to the islands of Greece and Crete, under another village tree with a shot of ouzo, and release a sigh of contentment.
-Under the village tree you’ll also meet Mary-Lou the fairy queen, discreetly elegant, a diaphanous creature with rainbow crystals growing out of her ears and blue sapphire eyes.
-Under the village tree you’ll encounter Fred, the obstinate dazibao writer, who will hand deliver his pages to Troy’s roastery, to be read while sipping the sacred dark nectar made by troy the druid and served by the barista with a sense of atmosphere that knits fire gloves and sets exotic flower extravaganza on the round table outside.
-Under the village tree you will see Pat the tree dweller, who moulds out of his tree gnarled gnome benches that at night will speak all of the forest’s voices and change shapes for the true believers.
-Under the village tree on some days you’ll also see George the gladiator, who never departs of his helmet, even indoors, for whom we should build an arena so he can finally be at peace, maybe on the site of the defunct fishery.
-Under the village tree you’ll meet Janet skullbone,usually arriving there on her silver high horse, an artist who squirts strange iridescent flowers and magic creatures that she brings back from her night dreams, by which means? I have yet to discover.
- Under the village tree, you may, if you're lucky, also see a white haired, white bearded character, Mikie,who's usually either sleepwalking across town or deeply asleep under the tree. But he has a very good reason for that, for he is, - and that's a scoop- a reincarnation of Noah. I know that for a fact since he's just dormant,and otherwise taking care of people's pets, getting them ready for the next deluge.
- Under the village tree you'll often see The Tasmanian devil and his chauffeur, Rick, who has long ago abandoned the idea of wearing his uniform and is easily recognizable by a looong, expandable haircut, -you know, like those Barbie dolls, you pull, and the hair grows- so an expandable haircut, and each week Rick cuts a few of the longest to serve as guitar strings, for as a genuine Gypsie, he posesses a guitar that, equipped with Rick's hair, whines endless ribbons of highly addictive Blues songs. Beware of The Tasmanian Devil though, as while his chauffeur distracts you with his songs, the beast usually sneaks out your bread to bring it home on the deck of his boat, where he started growing a bread tree a few years ago after sneaking out bread from my place, the problem is the bread tree has now grown quite a bit and demands loaves of bread to be fed with, otherwise it threatens to shave Rick's hair, which is his breadwinner. So Rick is condemned to slave labor, nourishing his guitar with his silver hair so it can sing the ribbons of Blues songs, and he has to employ his beast to steal bread to feed the bread tree, otherwise the tree...Life is a vicious circle.

A cotton blanket is spread out above,
Layers of muslin veils and cotton balls,
Incandescent with the last juice of the sun,
Cotton embers soon turning purple anthracite,
Stretching out endlessly,
A foretaste of Eternity.

August kicking in

I stepped out on my porch tonight
The breeze was agitating the tall poplar
And the curly willow
Dark night,
Cool air,
Still summer,
So gentle breeze,
I want to camp out.

Open No Mike at La Conner La Crema!

Yesterday was another magic one, I have to say, at Troy's La Crema Coffee Company.
13 people were present, with new blood also, the variety was welcome. We held Open no Mike on the front garden of the cafe, and a wonderful evening it was. We welcomed 3 new people, David, Steven, and Dave. 3 good musicians, and in different styles, David and Steven both have wonderful singing, and Steven plays his guitar upside down, with a great, deep raspy voice. Bill surpassed himself singing from his heart. Kevin Paul came over with his drum, and in spite of his recent surgery, honored us with great drumming and signing and joke and laughter. Roberto was the Barrista in charge and served us excellent coffee. And of course our 2 mascot dogs, Tug and Toolie, participated their share of running around and barking.
And thanks to Troy, the spirit of the place, who made this possible :)

Iodine

Tonight as I stepped on my porch I smelled iodine coming from the channel. A powerful smell it is for me. Associated with my childhood in Tunisia by the Mediterranean sea, and all the summers I've spent there in the subsequent years after we moved back to France.
I'd spend all my days in the water, I'd come down the hill from the family beach home to the beach around 9 or 10am, and wouldn't come back up till after 5pm. I'd end up with a dark skin and sun burnt fair hair.
We had an uncle, uncle Mohsen, then about 80 years of age, who'd do his daily lap swim in the sea no matter what the weather or season. Nobody could persuade him not to do so, even in the winter time.
Me and my cousins would occasionally follow him in his long, slow lap swim from Marsa Cubes to the Gammarth beach, coming back on foot hiking along the beach.
It was a long, slow swim, several miles long, but we were trained to do so, we were "Bent El Bhar" as we say in Arabic, which means "daughter of the sea"
Uncle Mohsen, in spite of his age, was a very healthy, lean, muscular man. The sea was his lover, he couldn't live without it. It runs in the family blood, my dad was a very good swimmer too, and nothing would make him happier than eating fresh seafood on the beach or on a boat.
My childhood and teenage memories are peopled with the taste of salt,cold showers to cool off from the heat, eating fresh urchins and octopus, watching the sea drinking mint tea, and large family gatherings, hence, I guess, my taste for large gatherings and cookout parties.

Fireworks and Earth essences

On this summer evening in La Conner,WA, I hear the fireworks from the Swinomish reservation loud tonight, and I step out on my porch and I am overwhelmed with the smells and essences of the earth. I worked my garden today for four hours, and I guess it is thanking me for it, sending back to me a strong smell of soil, BBQ and nightly summer parties.

The visit

Somewhere in the heart of beloved Dinetah
In the midst of sagebrush and junipers
There she lies, the friend,
In the most peaceful place where she belongs
A simple mound of soil
A name, surrounded with faded desert flowers
There I deposited two tears with my own hands
For the friend, lost to an addiction
Poisoned gift of our ancestors

Nambe

Rugged mountains and rusty canyons of Nambe,
Disheveled sage brush, blue-grey,
Cactus bloom, cyan,
Purple clouds pregnant of the coming rain,
Last light of the day, stroking the mountain slopes,
Pinion pines and junipers incensing the air,
The numbing song of the creek,
Then the fire crackling,
And you’re all mellowed out,
Sleep…
Wake up in the middle of the night,
Watching the stars till you get dizzy,
Sleep… Sleep…
Dream, of the Land of Enchantment.

Kaleidoscope prayers

In the middle of the desert and mountains of New Mexico
hides a tiny valley and the village of Chimayo,
that shelters the sanctuary of all hopes.
It is a very green valley with a creek running through it,
and trees whose blossoms are prayers,
deposited there by invalids, pilgrims, lovers, and families.
Candles, icons, and crosses, O! the crosses of Chimayo!
From the most artfully crafted
to the modest ones improvised with sticks and twigs,
tied with ribbons, yarn or reeds.
Walking through Chimayo is walking through a rosary of prayers,
seeing in the hearts of all these people through a kaleidoscope.
Prayers of many colors and shapes like many voices
whispering their desperation and their hopes twisted together,
almost tangible in the air.
At Chimayo I saw, heaven on earth.

UNM wifi stop

After completing my contract at WWU I decided to take a semi vacation, semi work break and go to my other favorite area in this country, and flew to Albuquerque, NM, with my laptop.
I am now having a wifi stop at the University of New Mexico campus main library. This campus rivals the one of Western Washington in beauty. I always stop here when I come to Albuquerque. Now in the summer the campus is very quiet, outside a flawless blue sky, 84 degrees, and the gorgeous Adobe buildings, landscaping and Art displayed make my day.
Next as my stomach is claiming its due,I'm gonna have a bite across the street from campus at the Mexicans. The food will be good.

First Open No Mike of the summer

Well, technically we're not in the summer, but we've been blessed with summer weather for quite a while now.
So today we gathered our scattered group of friends at Troy's La Crema Coffee Company next door to my place. It is a perfect venue for Open no mike/Gypsy caravan. It was good to be all together again.
Troy made excellent coffee, and we had munchies. Were present Troy and Charity, and Charity's friends; Bob, Cath and Jan, Gary, Toolie managed to drag Roberto behind the bicycle, and Tug the Tasmanian devil brought Rick, his chauffeur :); Michelle came along with Kevin, Tammy and her husband, and "B" our new character in town came on his Pedicab, and my Flamenco dress dragged me along as well as she was itching for some cockroach stomping.
Tonight was one of those magic Open no Mikes, the dogs behaved, Bob and Rick played their best, soon joined by "B", who has quite a voice of his own, very moving.
Gary treated us with storytelling and hilarious campfire songs old and new, Jan was doing her crochet on a deep armchair and obviously had a good time. I did a bedeviled Flamenco fire dance, accompanied by Bob, and that was lots of fun.
Community at its best, lots of music and laughter.
We decided to have our next at Gary's place on June 27.

Paint Squirt

My first off campus day, my first real summer off day. Been seeing my friends at the La Crema coffee next door, been receiving friends visits at my place, been working, housecleaning, and now painting, forgetting EVERYTHING, having a blast with my favorite music full blast and squirting paint. Re connecting with my north African roots, the most inspirational for my Artwork. It's a good day and a loooong early summer day, plenty of light late. Happy.