Pity. Without a paid subscription to the Times Literary Supplement, I can’t access the March 8 2013 edition in which appeared the English version of this article in L’OBS BiblioOBS. The part that most holds my attention isn’t whether our dreams are political or not but the way our dreams treat past, present and future in a non-linear way we find difficult to respect when we attempt to share them. When awake, we are grammatically bound: the past is before, the present is now, the future is later. Anyone who says otherwise may as well walk around with a cuckoo-clock on his or her head. Said cuckoo-clock being perfectly acceptable headgear in dreamtime.
What caused the spectacular allergic reaction that felled me for a few hours last night? My only clue: cherries that didn’t taste like cherries. Why did they not taste of cherries? Because they tasted of pesticide. Therefore: whether the merchant scowls or not, taste before your buy. A mild attack of sneezing from one cherry eaten in public is better than borderline anaphylaxis while alone in your apartment.
But lunchtime was an unexpected treat. I dropped by a friend’s house to deliver a birthday plant bought at the market. Ended up feasting on the terrace and discussing black holes, the drift of galaxies in the Virgo Cluster toward something called The Great Attractor, those pesky quarks and their strange living habits, and time, of course.
Not the usual lunchtime conversations around here. There was a visitor from another town who started the ball rolling in that direction so I hopped on for the ride.
Further work on story made possible by another day off here in France where the month of May is thick with official holidays, some more obscure than others. Today, for instance, we celebrate the Pentecost. According to wikipedia, portal of all knowledge, this is a christianized version of Shavuot, reinterpreted as the day the Holy Spirit descended on the Apostles, and other followers of Jesus Christ.