AS IN FUNNY?

When I was fifteen years old, I took a bad fall off a horse. As I hit the ground, I still remember my first thought: "Dad's going to kill me."

I had gone horseback riding with my best friend of that time whose name was Nicole. My father didn’t know about it and I figured he would kill me if he found out.

Like many men of his generation, my father held intensely baroque ideas on the subject of what constituted virginity in a female. In his opinion, horseback riding provoked the piercing of a young girl’s hymen. A point of view which is fairly amusing in itself, but surrealistic - make that side-splittingly funny - when you look at it from the angle I choose to adopt today.

When the horse threw me, I landed on my back and conked my head fairly hard (a favorite pastime of mine, it seems). I may have passed out. All I remember is that my friend Nicole helped me up. We retrieved the horse, who was enjoying a bite a bit further. I got back in the saddle in a fairly woozy condition and we hippity-hopped back to the stable. From there, Nicole helped me limp to her family cottage where we were staying for the weekend, "studying" for year end exams.

I didn't get much studying done when I realized that if I didn’t keep moving my body, every muscle I owned was going to lock up and refuse to budge. And then, my father would kill me. That seemed to be the only consistent thought running through my slightly concussed brain.

So I spent the rest of the weekend hobbling back and forth down from the cottage to the boat deck and back up to the cottage again. It was painful as hell, I remember and I had a splitting headache. But apparently nothing was broken: liniment and my "cure" worked, sort of.

Well enough anyway for me to slide myself back into the house on the Sunday night. I explained my stiff gait by the fact I had slept out on the deck to watch the stars. That was just the kind of stupid thing my dad would have expected me to do.

I got a good tongue lashing over that. But he didn’t kill me.

***

And...this is funny?

No. It's a true story I'm using as the intro to the following summary of the day just gone: I took a bad fall off my metaphorical high horse recently. And was left staring at my metaphorical horse’s ass as it disappeared out of sight.

I am now hobbling around until my metaphorical horse – i.e. my natural, inborn and totally unstoppable high spirits – return of their own accord.

That’s what they say about horses, you know: if your horse knows you, there’s no need to go running after it, it comes back to you in its own sweet time. If it doesn’t know you, you’re damn lucky to be hobbling down the road in the first place, and don’t you forget it.

It so happens that my natural, inborn and totally unstoppable high spirits know me very well. And I know that I just have to keep on limping down the road till they come back. When they do, they'll probably give me a nudge in the butt and do that ugly laugh horses do. You know the one I mean? There stands man's most noble conquest, the equine. He opens his jaws, pulls back his lips and shows you a full set of horsey teeth.

And you go: oh please, just stand tall and look noble, will ya?

***
May 21'st stretch of hobble and limp was done with kind assists from the following:



1) The color yellow.

Yellow was the first thing I noticed that was out of the deep black and misty grey I’ve been traveling around in for the last few days. As in sunlight shining through the leaves of the geranium in the living-room - and empty yellow recycling bins on the sidewalk. I grabbed onto yellow and didn’t let it go all day. Didn’t matter where it was. I found it and went with it. The color yellow is a good place to be.

It is also the color associated with one of the four Humours , apparently: as in yellow bile.

Sounds yukky? Never mind. Yellow bile is way better than black bile, believe me. In my case, Black Bile is the name of the big black dog called depression. Big Black is snoring down in the basement at the moment - and I'm real glad he is. So yellow bile is a good place.

Granted, yellow is a better place for sunny and funny if I've cycled through red first. Red as in: the color for the Sanguine temperament. Red as in: I'm angry. Very, very angry.

But I didn't do much red on May 21st. Why? Because I decided to grab onto yellow and just ride with it, that's why.



2) I Ching. I took hexagram 46 "Pushing Upward" to mean: move on up to the next level in your head - i.e. humor. I spent the day writing horrifically bad jokes, skits, puns etc. Nothing I care to share with anyone, believe me. But I did it to keep myself moving: to me, that's all that counts for yesterday. Not every writing day produces prize material - let alone saleable stuff. In my case, I haven't produced saleable stuff in many months - as in over a year, to be exact.

A sad fact but there you have it. It's no reason to stop writing. Frankly, I wouldn't know how to stop even if I wanted to. But I have to tell you: pushing on to humor from where I was yesterday morning uses up a lot of energy. No wonder my sense of humor is the first thing I lose when my system goes into overload.

So thank you I Ching, and congrats to me.



3) I had a special assist from Bubba at Not Quite Right . Bubba is the Officially Designated Crap Blaster on Lee's River. Has been since the first time I came across his blog. Whenever I find myself getting insufferable, overly solemn or just plain full of it, I head out to Moberly, Mo for a blast of Bubba's Mopin' n' High Falutin' Airs Remover. Works every time. Thanks, Bubba.



4) Dennis also provided a nice slow ball for me to bat. Sorry to make light of your unrequited love for Daisy, Dennis. Not nice of me, making fun of your finer feelings like that.

But when my old cat friend, the oh-so-deceased Rollmops showed up to serve as a guiding light from the great beyond, you felines helped me clear some cobwebs out of my brain. Whether the great Kodachrome Cure works for Dennis or not, I know I danced vigorously to this over in Graulhet. Nothing like vigorous dancing to shake the pain out of your bones (OK, make that: shake it around enough to start thinking of other things.)

The upshot? I'm getting my head screwed back on straight. I think. Wait - does this thing here go in the front or...on the side? What is it anyway? Gotta find a mirror. Be right back.

***


Oh right. Still need to do phegm. As in flegmatic. That's the fourth humour. You know: cool, calm, composed. Your basic grey tie-in for porches, sidewalks, ordinary rocks, beat up old slippers and so on? Don't worry. I can swing it. As a matter of fact, I do flegmatic so well, I have glowing testimonials from former employers commending me for my unflappability. My grace under fire. My skills at conflict resolution.

And that? Now that is seriously funny.

***

So, high-flying, crazy horse spirit of mine. Whether you show up today or you don't is your own business. You know where to find me: where I always am.

And where's that? Through thick and thin, heading myself over to my idiosyncratic, genetically modified and highly personal version of this place . Those who know me can vouch to that - be they family members, relatives, old or new friends, blog buddies or strangers telling me their outrageous travel stories on the road.

You don't show today, horsey mine? that's fine. I'll just keep on walking myself down the road, now that I've made it out of the bushes. Catch up with me later. I'll be headed this way it seems. Should be interesting. Wonder what color that will be?

E IL MONDO VA*

* And the world goes on / Et la vie continue

If I approach this particular post as a summary of what truly mattered to me yesterday, I would say:

1) Music. I alternated between Bratsch and Portuguese fado as my principal mood regulators. I've always preferred music to pharmaceutical compounds for that purpose. Music leaves me free to do the required fine tuning instantaneously without having to wait for an imported chemical to finish its run through my system.

This song is one of those that kept me company yesterday:

C’EST MAINTENANT

Poses tes bagages
Dans les profonds ombrages, souris
Et le fil qui nous unit s’étire à l’infini.
Voyageur mystère ici tu es dans ma chanson,
Porte ouverte sur le ciel, courir à l’unisson.

Rien est écrit au grand livre
N’oublions surtout pas de vivre
C’est maintenant.

Partout nos voyages laissent un sillage profound
Et tout s’efface un jour il n’y a pas de retour
Oiseau dans ta cage, laisses aller ta rage, vas-y
Envoles toi là-haut bien au-delà du gris

Rien est écrit au grand livre
N’oublions surtout pas de vivre
C’est maintenant.

Translation:

IT IS NOW

Put down your luggage
in the deep shadows, smile
and the thread that links us stretches out to infinity
Mystery traveller, you are here in my song
open window on the sky, running together in unisson.

Nothing is written in the big book
let's not forget to live.
It is now.

Everywhere, our travels leave deep wakes
and everything erases itself some day
there is no return
bird in your cage, let your rage fly, go ahead
fly away well above the greyness.

Nothing is written in the big book
let's not forget to live.
It is now.

It is from the album "La vie, la mort, tout ça..." by Bratsch. You can catch a bit of the song here . Or order the recording here .



2) Writing. As in pages and pages of. As in: active meditation on my own mood swings through grief, anger, bitterness, humor in various shades of black, etc. I spare my readers the outpourings of fresh lava. Will wait for it all to cool a bit to see what, if anything, is material for further elaboration.

But it did inspire the following thought which seems rational enough for public airing:

It's been said that the hardest thing to write well is light comedy. I once thought so myself. But not anymore. The hardest emotions for a writer to convey well are profound grief, blazing rage and catatonic stupor. Once you manage to nail them right, you can treat them any way you want: as tragedy, farce, lyrical incantations, whatever.

But nailing them right? Not easy. You must be impeccable. One shade off and you might still produce any of the above - but not by design, unfortunately.

And chances are excellent you will only produce total fiascos.

E il mondo va
Il tempo se ne va
Non tornera piu
La juventu.

And the world goes on
Time does not return
Nor does one's youth.

***

On to the next day.

I may be feeling like this:


But I Ching says this .

Who am I to argue with the universal orders? Let's do it.

FREE FLOW

The flowers are for me. At 1 € the bunch, I can afford them.

On September 20 2007 I started this blog for my birthday. The title of the blog then read: Lee's River - freefloatin' on life's patchy innertube.

Now, exactly eight months later, it reads: Lee's River ... moving on.

Indeed. Today, I am at the place of free fall, or free flow if you prefer. By which I mean I am temporarily free of the following:

Writing to impress someone.

Considering anyone as holding a VIP pass issued by Manifest Destiny, or sent on a special mission from dreamland.

I am free to soar and crash by myself, according to my own inner rythms and no one else's.

I am free to blog for myself and for those of you who want to read my words, because you find something useful or entertaining or thought provoking in them.

C’est tout. C'est assez. Bonne continuation to those who have left. No blame to them. No blame to me. The best to us all on our respective journeys.

So, hello day. Let’s see what we can do with who and what you bring to my attention.



For those who don't know what I look like: no, this is not me. But when I complimented the woman on her color sense - le panier, les fruits, elle-même - she reacted in typical style for the folks around here.

***


Portuguese fado is the musical space that suits me best at the moment. It does the crying I feel the need for, a bit like opera takes care of our need for drama. In other words, music that does the necessary emoting - and lets me get on with the business of living.

This one by Mariza one of the new generation of fado singers. It is called Medo .

***


Histoire en queue de poisson

Tu m'avais dit: j'apprendrai tes mots, tu apprendras les miens, nous les lirons comme si nous déchiffrions nos visages.

Tu m'avais dit: nous entreprenons un long voyage ensemble.

Tu avais dit. Et moi, j'ai dit. Et puis, ensuite?

Ensuite, il y eut les malentendus.

Ensuite, tu ne m'as plus répondu.

Et ensuite?

Et bien, comme toujours. Ensuite, la vie continue, ensuite la vie se vit en nous, ensuite il nous reste à vivre la suite.

Celle qui passe par l'absence* .

Et continue sa route.

Adieu. Je t'aimais donc je t'aime. Vas, poisson, vas. La rivière se chargera bien de nous tous, allez.

***
* translation



The Absence

It is a beating shutter
It is a slight tear
On the sheet where once
You put your arm
Meanwhile downstairs
The street talks to itself
Someone is selling mandarins
A dark blue lady
Is walking her godchild
Absence, here it is

Of a child, of a love
When one has said “I love you” once
The silence is the same.

It is night falling
It is a poem too
In which doves flew by
During a night of jealousy
A book is open
You had touched this page
You had chipped this glass
Returning from a long trip
There still remains the luggage
Absence, here it is

Of a child, of a love
When one has said “I love you” once
The silence is the same.

It is a beating shutter
It is, on an old agenda,
The x of an old rendez-vous
When we still said “vous”
The vases are empty
in which we placed flowers
And the mirror takes on new wrinkles
While the past keeps watch.
Absence, here it is

Of a child, of a love
When one has said “I love you” once
The silence is the same.

TO MY ENGLISH READERS

I've noticed in my personal writing that I'm experiencing a growing need to revert to French these days.

I've tried maintaining two separate blogs but that hasn't worked well for me. I will start posting in both languages on this blog.

I know at least one blogger who does a bilingual blog. How this will work for me, I don't know. Nor do I plan to be systematically translating the same post from one language to the other.

So if you suddenly find yourself wondering what is is you're reading when you land on lee's river - relax, no one has changed your brain chip without prior warning.

***
Petit Rondo inachevé

Et puis vient le jour où l’on se dit:
Voilà, je suis grande maintenant.

Puis cet autre jour où l’on se dit:
Je ne suis plus une enfant.

Arrive le jour où l’on pense:
Quoi, déjà?

Celui qui commence par:
Ah bon, et pourtant je croyais…

L’autre aussi où l’on se dit:
Ça y est, je suis vieille maintenant.

Et pourtant, et pourtant,

Revient le jour où l’on se dit:

Mais voyons! tu es grande maintenant.


(Inspiré par Cristina Branco, era um redondo vocabulo .)

DESAFINADO

Whether the heart is singing a sad song or a happy one, things must get done and obligations met. That is one of the most precious lessons I was taught by my colleagues when I worked for Union des Artistes. You may feel like retreating under your bed, like my Portuguese neighbor did for several months last winter, but if you are scheduled to go on stage at 8, well, you show up, do your makeup, put on your costume and cross into the light when you get your cue. Unless, of course, you are under your bed. At which point, there's really nothing much to be said about it.

Blogging carries no such obligation to show up, obviously - unless one decides to use it as a form of discipline. But feeding one's self and others is that kind of responsibility. On any particular day, you may not be excited at the thought of cooking. But the food has been bought. The next step is to cook it. It's as simple as that.

After I had bought some pork on Saturday for the preparation of my petit cochon français à la tex-mex, I showed up at monsieur Cesse's stand only to discover he had some pigeons. His are the finest pigeons one could hope to find and so I bought two for the Sunday meal and decided I would thus be ahead of the game, with meals for a few days.

The pigeons came out like this:



The pork, like this:



For those who may be interested, I will add the recipes later at the end of this post.

Of course, if neither of these dishes appeal, one can always go down to visit my Tunisian friend at Sandwicherie Carthago for one of his Humburgers. To each his own, n'est-ce pas?



While the food was cooking I went for another look around at the brocante. When I saw this fine specimen of Belgian headgear, I couldn't help thinking that some might appreciate owning one of these when approaching me on one of my not-so-good days.



I was in a hurry to get back home to check on the baking so I didn't have time to look through this military instruction manual.



I would have loved to see if it contained two of my husband's favorite recollections from his own training in the manly art of warfare. The first being: "Le métier de soldat comporte parfois de réels dangers." (The job of soldiering sometimes entails real dangers.) And: "Chercher à comprendre, c'est commencer à désobéir." (Trying to understand is the beginning of disobedience.)



The presence of the brocante disorganized the loading area for the local bus. I was quite taken by the appearance of this woman as she waited to take herself and her victuals back to one of the hillsides surrounding Graulhet.



In the afternoon, we checked out the pollen count at Lac Nabeillou. The situation has improved, thank goodness and that walk in the woods looks appealing again - at least, it will until the mosquitos come out, so we'll have to follow up soon, if we plan to explore that area this year.



I was quite proud of myself when I managed to grab this photo with a zoom and a fairly steady hand.

Even prouder when I caught sight of this little one and managed to get his likeness for others to see. I had never seen this kind of butterfly before. Does anyone know his/her name?



The I Ching had this to offer as words of wisdom for today.

I try, dear universe. Oh, how I try.

And what does Desafinado mean in Portuguese? It means untuned.

***

RECIPES

Pigeons en cocotte

For two pigeons of approximately 400 g each you will need

1 slice of
coppa
the gizzards and livers of the pigeons
parsley
bread crumbs
1egg
salt, pepper
eau-de-vie de mirabelle or other plum brandy
a few drops of oil or duck fat

an earthenware cocotte

Preheat oven to 200° C.

Chop the coppa, gizzards and livers and brown quickly in a few drops of oil or duck fat. Add chopped parsley and half a liqueur glass of eau-de-vie. Cook off the liquid, add about 1/4 cup of bread crumbs. Let cool slightly, mix in the egg and use the mixture to stuff your two pigeons.

Lightly oil the cocotte and place the pigeons in it; they should fit snugly. Sprinkle a bit more eau-de-vie on them, cover and place in the hot oven for approximately an hour and a half. When done the juices, should run clear.

***

OPEN FOR BUSINESS - SAME ADMINISTRATION

So. Let's all move on. On the topic of my personal moods and turmoil, I will add nothing other, save these two comments I jotted down in my personal notebook:

Allow the space for a new shoot to spring up from the same root.

There are good spirits all around us.They want us to be happy with them. The only way to do that is to stay on the growing edge of one's life - and not forget to feed it.

On which thought I headed out to Lavaur Market as is the custom on Saturdays. I didn't have my camera with me so I have no visual record of one of the finer moments of the day. But more on that later.

After lunch, I took Cybèle down to the river. We've had some violent storms over the Montagne Noire these past few days and the Dadou was showing the results of the turmoil. Thick, silty water flowed by and roared over the small barrage at the foot of the stone bridge.



Behind the Post Office, life was moving right along too, I noticed. The stand of pomegranate trees is coming into bloom. It's been years since I've seen pomegranate flowers. The last time was in a Druze village in the hills above Haifa. They have an extravagant beauty I look forward to seeing again.




On the walk along the river, Cybèle had a novel experience: meeting up with a dog more physically impressive than she. The first moments of her meeting with seven month-old Celia were slightly unconfortable. But soon they were running around so quickly I never managed to make a decent shot of them. I strolled with Celia's human, a young girl by the name of Estelle. We talked about dogs we have owned and loved and parted with the hope that our two canine friends would get to play together again very soon.




Heading back into town, I remembered that there was a brocante on Place du Jourdain and decided to have a look around. Quality flea markets are rare in Graulhet. They are usually filled with the flotsam and jetsam of poor people's lives. But this one seemed more interesting.



And so it was. My first delightful moment awaited right at the first stand with this little guy.



Soon followed by this game set that reminded me of the illustrations in the old
Semaine de Suzette we had at home when I was a child. Although the website describes the magazine as being aimed at "well-to-do" little girls, we were not exactly that, as my sisters will undoubtedly recall. But they were relics from our own mother's childhood in a fairly affluent family.



I came across this dog everywhere during my stroll. He must have belonged to one of the people working the brocante. He was quite elegant with his antique cordon as a sash. I am pleased to report that he took his patrol duties very seriously.



As for this serious piece of work, it reminded me of the cooking that's going to take place in my kitchen today. I bought a nice pork roast in Lavaur and plan to do a Tex-Mex variation on it with some of the goodies sent by Lori Witzel.



Right after I saw this fine piece of pork art, I encountered this. I couldn't help thinking about Saint-Exupéry, of course. And what did I encounter immediately afterward?



This, of course. In the 1946 edition, complete with its dust jacket. For 6 € . I don't like to throw around our money, there's not enough of it to do that these days. But frankly, this was something else. I have the book beside me as I write. The previous owner was an underliner. Opening at random, I find this passage underlined in lead pencil on page 81:

"Les hommes de chez toi, dit le petit prince, cultivent cinq mille roses dans un même jardin ...et ils n'y trouvent pas ce qu'ils cherchent...
- Ils ne le trouvent pas, répondis-je...
- Et cependant ce qu'ils cherchent pourrait être trouvé dans une seule rose ou un peu d'eau...
- Bien sûr, répondis-je." *



I headed home with Cybèle and my new treasure, past this impressive display. Which way true North? For me, I know exactly where it is. I will never be able to show it or pinpoint it on a map. But when I experience it, I know; it's where the heart is. For me, that doesn't change other than the way the river changes. Or the way a pomegranate or a fig tree moves through its cycle of growth - every day different. Every day business as usual. Every day same administration.



***

But I mentioned a fine moment at Lavaur Market at the beginning of this post, didn't I? It was this:

The musician at the Market was a different one from last week. This one played the tenor saxophone. And played it very well, I might add. So I stopped, listened, enjoyed and dropped a coin in appreciation. On my way back out, I noticed a young woman with a small baby boy in a carriage. She placed the carriage at a good angle so that the baby could watch the man playing his sax. The boy was probably fifteen or sixteen months old and watched in wonderment.

Then his mother moved the carriage closer to the musician, opened her coin purse and crouched down next to the boy. She placed a fifty centime piece in his hand and guided it over the musician's instrument case. The child dropped the coin. The mother got up, smiled at the musician and strolled away pushing the carriage.

The sax player removed the instrument from his lips, blew a kiss toward the woman and her child and resumed his playing.

The song he was playing? This one .

Best to you all and to those you love.

***

* "The people of your world grow five thousand roses in the same garden... and they don't find in them what they are looking for", said the little prince.

- They do not find it, I answered.

- And yet they could find what they are searching for in a single rose or in a bit of water...

- You are right, I answered.

"VOICI MON SECRET"

"Voici mon secret. Il est très simple : on ne voit bien qu'avec le cœur, l'essentiel est invisible pour les yeux." Le renard dans Le Petit Prince .

"Here is my secret, a very simple secret; it is only with the heart that one can see rightly, what is essential is invisible to the eye."
Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

***

To those of you who left such lovely comments, thank you. Your words are much appreciated.

To those of you who left kind thoughts, thank you also. I hold them dear.

Over the past few months, I have experienced some of the finest moments in my life.

I've also learned many things about myself and about others: some wonderful things. Some, not so fine. Some very funny. Others, quite painful.

I've learned that I can change, that all of us change, all the time.

What those changes lead to and why they happen, I do my best to understand. But I'm no better or worse than anyone. Sometimes I understand, sometimes I think I do. And sometimes, I understand nothing at all.

The only thing I know with any certainty, is that the fox in
Le Petit Prince speaks the truth. There's nothing very fancy about it. Maybe that's why it's so easy to pass by for bigger sounding ones.

Every time I forget it, I make huge mistakes.

Every time I remember it, I know that despite the hurts and the mistakes, all is well with me and with those I love.

May we all be well. May we all feel better about ourselves and about others.

Amen .

***

Just back from Lavaur market, I find this delightful website in English for those of you not familiar with Le Petit Prince , or who wish to acquaint young children with him.

And Dale? I caught sight of The Tyrolean Lady from Lavaur but only from a distance. She was wearing black pedal pushers and beige walking shoes, a short red raincoat and her famous red hat with the feather - but she had left her walking stick at home.
Information you requested concerning the details of the visitations from and banishments of her Mystic Lover will have to wait for another day. I will be sure to ask (as politely as I know how), should the opportunity ever arise.

Best to all.