An early morning breakfast of wild plums and blackberry, chosen and picked straight at the source (the wild pears aren’t ripe yet). Photos of the morning light. A fabulous dream, after sharing some of the wilder stories from the troves of my family and that of my hostess.* Walking along the road to Puech Miséry with Cybèle this morning, I recall something I read once about the Buddha – The Buddha – having a clown as a constant companion. The clown’s job was to – yes – clown around every time The Buddha turned too lofty for even The Buddha’s own good.
This morning’s agenda includes a trip to a Salvation Army type place called Emmaüs where my friend has made most of her priceless finds of authentic nineteen thirties furniture and other such goodies, at prices ranging from two euro to a grandiose twenty euro for a solid mahogany writing desk.
The dream? Delightful. One in which I wake up in a strange house, the guest of a family whose members start telling me some of the vile and astounding things I did during the night. To say I’m ashamed and appalled at their narrative doesn’t begin to describe my state of mind. Especially since everything they’re telling me I know to be fact (or wild inventions by the principals) straight out of my family book. “You mean, I did all of this myself – including the bit on your dining room table – overnight?” Yes, they say with a gallic shrug. People start arriving while I nurse my shame. The man of the house holds a dish-shaped object above their head. Peers at the underside of it and describes to the person all the images streaming up from the person’s head. Goodness gracious. The horrors. The stupendous events. The Stories!
I turn toward the woman of the house (still in the dream – editor’s note). Ah, say my eyes. In dreamtime, the usual rules about I-you-he-she-it-we-you-they don’t apply. Everything up in the attic becomes me, right now. Ah, the woman answers with a twinkle in her eye. You’re starting to get it.
* Good news for the masses: craziness is alive and well. Some of the stories from your own family may astound. But wait until you hear about so-and-so’s mother/father/sister/brother. You will fall off your chair. You will laugh, you will cry, then you will laugh some more.