More Thoughts on Dreams, Dreamers
11.25.06
Last night’s lobster was soft, pillowy, sweeter than the East Coast crustaceans I’m used to but I did miss the claws. I contribute to the pockets of two minstrels in the form of a “canta romantica” and sip at one of the worst glasses of “chardonnay” ever. Surely a mis-labled cheap Riesling, it looked like pee. I must now admit to having something of a discerning palate, after all.
I awake early after a night of car and house alarms and the what the intermittent refrigerator motor had already done me the favor and head out for a blissfully sunny morning walk. Passing houses in various states of dis-repair and future construction, (rebar sticking out of the roof like the hopeful sprouts of Rogaine on a bald pate) I imagine what it must be like to live with so little. For some reason I am more drawn today to the tiny houses than the more opulent ones that rest side by side. I think of how little I really want to have with me in life and how little space I need for it. This projection always occurs when I travel; I feel alive in a place in a way I don’t feel at home and I ask myself why? Is it the association of my happy childhood summers traveling? Or is it that we always feel more freedom when away from the daily known routines? Or is it this eternal search for a place where I feel connected in a way I have not before? Or for long? Is it this deep rooted Hungarian blood, linked to some gypsy family in my past somehow, always seeking, never settled? (Michael reminds me this is highly unlikely as my father’s side was Jewish and they and the Romany never mingled.) Or is it having lived through a family dissolve, I am ever ready and prepared to move on, take care of business, set up shop again. My sister is the true gypsy in my family, I guess, never longer than 3 years on one continent for the past 20 years. Ah, hell, I just like the dangly earrings, long skirts and kohl rimmed eyes. One can dream, can't one?
It would be quite easy for an American to move here and not feel much different except for the lack of easy internet access and the poor plumbing and street lighting. Too many U.S. franchises dot the highways and, as an international port/resort, too much “English Spoken Here.” I do like our empty retreat though. We’re the only guests and the kids are exploring the empty buildings, making up their fantasy worlds in the absence of their “stuff.” The blue sky yawns overhead as they conjure up their adventures and I think, this is who we are, we humans. We are constantly telling ourselves stories, whether about the fish we are going to catch to fill our empty bellies, or the spirit who took away a loved one or the deal we’re going to make at work today. On both sides of the Nile we can tell ourselves the donut will not adhere to the hip and the loved one will call back or if we study hard enough we will get ahead and when we buy our dream house we will be happy.
When do we tell a story about now, where we sit in any given moment? Perhaps it is in this is this bloggery, You-Tube-ery, IM-edness we are saturated with. The need to constantly update, check in, connect, express, receive in a busy world with too much noise, and not enough listening. I wonder if we listened better, would we trust that we are really here? Could we sit with, in the quiet and trust in our inherent being?
The afternoon is spent searching for a wetsuit and boogy board for Hanah, my fearless daughter, who only yesterday was tossed and tumbled by a surprise wave. Today, dressed like a California surfer girl, with the poses to match, she jumps back in and rides a few while Noah and I tackle the ones further out. It’s cooler and windier but the kind of day that makes you shiver in delight and then huddle in the waning sunlight, feeling your naked skin under your clothes and all the more alive. To warm up the kids have cocoa and play a dice game called Pass the Pigs on their bed, while M works and I nap. I had planned to work on a script but Updike’s novel is more enticing and it’s only a day before leaving that I feel almost relaxed. There’s never enough time, especially with kids and their agendas, to completely unwind it seems, but these moments reveal something of who we are and my inner hedonist needs only the scent of the sea to revive.
With M off watching a football game somewhere, I practice, listen to flamenco and the kids watch a movie. On a break from cooking dinner, I engage the passing custodian in conversation under a clear night sky and he asks if it’s okay, has had too many husbands get pissed. I laugh and reassure him we can talk, but he keeps his distance. He’s 44 just moved here from the LA area to follow his dreams, of living more in touch with nature. He’s working on getting the place ready for the summer, doing a lot of re-painting and fixing, has big plans for the place and came down here with nothing. He feels his God is down here and that “doors keep opening” and I smile. I’ll be interested to see how things turn out for him. He keeps interrupting, yet apologizing for doing so, and I recognize in him another kindred soul, excited to connect with someone, eager to know more.
Last night’s lobster was soft, pillowy, sweeter than the East Coast crustaceans I’m used to but I did miss the claws. I contribute to the pockets of two minstrels in the form of a “canta romantica” and sip at one of the worst glasses of “chardonnay” ever. Surely a mis-labled cheap Riesling, it looked like pee. I must now admit to having something of a discerning palate, after all.
I awake early after a night of car and house alarms and the what the intermittent refrigerator motor had already done me the favor and head out for a blissfully sunny morning walk. Passing houses in various states of dis-repair and future construction, (rebar sticking out of the roof like the hopeful sprouts of Rogaine on a bald pate) I imagine what it must be like to live with so little. For some reason I am more drawn today to the tiny houses than the more opulent ones that rest side by side. I think of how little I really want to have with me in life and how little space I need for it. This projection always occurs when I travel; I feel alive in a place in a way I don’t feel at home and I ask myself why? Is it the association of my happy childhood summers traveling? Or is it that we always feel more freedom when away from the daily known routines? Or is it this eternal search for a place where I feel connected in a way I have not before? Or for long? Is it this deep rooted Hungarian blood, linked to some gypsy family in my past somehow, always seeking, never settled? (Michael reminds me this is highly unlikely as my father’s side was Jewish and they and the Romany never mingled.) Or is it having lived through a family dissolve, I am ever ready and prepared to move on, take care of business, set up shop again. My sister is the true gypsy in my family, I guess, never longer than 3 years on one continent for the past 20 years. Ah, hell, I just like the dangly earrings, long skirts and kohl rimmed eyes. One can dream, can't one?
It would be quite easy for an American to move here and not feel much different except for the lack of easy internet access and the poor plumbing and street lighting. Too many U.S. franchises dot the highways and, as an international port/resort, too much “English Spoken Here.” I do like our empty retreat though. We’re the only guests and the kids are exploring the empty buildings, making up their fantasy worlds in the absence of their “stuff.” The blue sky yawns overhead as they conjure up their adventures and I think, this is who we are, we humans. We are constantly telling ourselves stories, whether about the fish we are going to catch to fill our empty bellies, or the spirit who took away a loved one or the deal we’re going to make at work today. On both sides of the Nile we can tell ourselves the donut will not adhere to the hip and the loved one will call back or if we study hard enough we will get ahead and when we buy our dream house we will be happy.
When do we tell a story about now, where we sit in any given moment? Perhaps it is in this is this bloggery, You-Tube-ery, IM-edness we are saturated with. The need to constantly update, check in, connect, express, receive in a busy world with too much noise, and not enough listening. I wonder if we listened better, would we trust that we are really here? Could we sit with, in the quiet and trust in our inherent being?
The afternoon is spent searching for a wetsuit and boogy board for Hanah, my fearless daughter, who only yesterday was tossed and tumbled by a surprise wave. Today, dressed like a California surfer girl, with the poses to match, she jumps back in and rides a few while Noah and I tackle the ones further out. It’s cooler and windier but the kind of day that makes you shiver in delight and then huddle in the waning sunlight, feeling your naked skin under your clothes and all the more alive. To warm up the kids have cocoa and play a dice game called Pass the Pigs on their bed, while M works and I nap. I had planned to work on a script but Updike’s novel is more enticing and it’s only a day before leaving that I feel almost relaxed. There’s never enough time, especially with kids and their agendas, to completely unwind it seems, but these moments reveal something of who we are and my inner hedonist needs only the scent of the sea to revive.
With M off watching a football game somewhere, I practice, listen to flamenco and the kids watch a movie. On a break from cooking dinner, I engage the passing custodian in conversation under a clear night sky and he asks if it’s okay, has had too many husbands get pissed. I laugh and reassure him we can talk, but he keeps his distance. He’s 44 just moved here from the LA area to follow his dreams, of living more in touch with nature. He’s working on getting the place ready for the summer, doing a lot of re-painting and fixing, has big plans for the place and came down here with nothing. He feels his God is down here and that “doors keep opening” and I smile. I’ll be interested to see how things turn out for him. He keeps interrupting, yet apologizing for doing so, and I recognize in him another kindred soul, excited to connect with someone, eager to know more.
posted by Barbery at 10:55 PM
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