They ARE back!

Good Morning Dear Reader.
Well, they are definitely back! I'd driven up to Nantes to get them from the station and to let them avoid the trip down to to Montaigu. The traffic in Nantes was slower than an asthmatic snail having a hard day of it. And it's when you're in a traffic jam that you finally realize that time does actually speed up when you don't want it to. Slow motion does exist. So does that bastard that's just cut in front of you. He's taken your place in the line of traffic. All he had to do was to slip in behind and everything would be fine. But no, he goes in front of you. I know that if he went in behind me he would still be cutting off somebody, but IT WOULDN'T BE ME! Not very charitable, and I am ashamed . I arrived at the station and the person in front of me took a huge ammount of space to park HER car. (nothing is meant of course by the emphasis -no, nothing at all) I pulled up beside her and asked very politely would she mind moving back a tiny bit so I could park too. The "oh shit I'm going to get shouted at my wife if I don't get a parking space and I'm late" look seemed to install enough pity in her (thank goodness that I didn't have to use the puppy dog eyes").

I arrived just in the nick of time. Thank you Mademoiselle. The signal "pour le départ de ce TER" had just sounded but the doors weren't shut. I saw them and have never seen Virginie move so quickly - well that's a lie when she wants to hit me she can move quickly too!

It's amazing how one can loose sight of details in such a short time. EG the really rapid rate of talking that Virginie has. Killian too. Whistling can be very annoying... I wasn't used to this; I was used to relative silence. Silence and jazz. Jazz and being told off by my cat because the food wasn't coming fast enough. I had grown accustomed to zero stress - except for being shouted at my cat for not hurrying up enough to feed her.

In the car Virginie was reminding me how to drive, and what a red light was. Killian was reminding me how the light had just turned green and how it was he who would tell me. Virginie asking me where the bloody hell I was going and me explaining to her that no I wasn't lost but as trying to avoid traffic. And Virginie telling me how she had NEVER been here before but oh yes that she finally knew where she was ad had I just seen that car in front of me breaking??????

I was told in detail about the weekend in bretagne. Who had said what, who had eaten who, I mean what. Who had gone where etc, and wasn't it a shame that I wasn't there (oh yeah????). Killian told me how is grandfather was a "con" because he had been given a hard time for being Catholic. I told him that sometimes people are like that and that just because he had seen the light it didn't mean that his Communist grandfather had seen the light too. I also discovered that my son (nearly eight years old) was an apologist in the making.

They got in and Virginie was still talking. I still don't know how she does it. The TV was turned on. And for the first time in four days I shouted. It was awful. I hated it. I had enjoyed my peace and had even started to feel guilty about having enjoyed it so much. But not anymore!

Yes Dear Reader, they are definitely back!

Ian

Heimat

Dear Reader,
I'm not just trying to write at least one thing a day and keep this thing up to date. Maybe it's the novelty value that'll wear off. I don't know. Anyway, There was a bit of Writing that did back in 1991 that I quite liked and thought you might like it too. If you don't then go directly to the next post...
It's called "Heimat" by the way.

In those twilight hours, where neither light or dark lingers, a lone figure sits writing, writing down the contents of his heart for all the world to see,
His memory Is of the love he lost somewhere In his past. The love remains steadfast, lost, but never, but ever, forgotten.
The sunset of my dream
I gaze out at the sunset of my dream, tonight, my dearest friend, I think of you, or rather the part of you that still needs me, but are you just a hazy memory?
As a wondrous dream I remember you, as if you still dwell within my heart. I imagine that you stay by my side, and will rest there for eternity, Reality, once more, rears its ugly head, consciousness takes over, and life continues its lonely Journey.
But the memory, so real, remains Intact, as a constant reminder of complete happiness.

June 10th 1991

I had come home, or at least I thought so. The appointed time had come and gone, but excitement lingered. In a frenzy I searched that station.

That station had seen as many arrivals and departures in its time, the sight of a lover's embrace as he is re-united with his mate, soldiers returning home on leave, away from the brutality and bullshit of army life, workers returning to the security of their town, their home, my home. The platform was full of people, in a stage of their own existences about to enter the next one. To me they were foreign and alien, just going about their travels in life's journey.

I passed the bookstore, its books, over-priced but never-the-less the old lady was still selling, novels for the lone traveller seeking an escape from his own world into another where life is tainted by the writers own inadequacies and fears, a life where all "turns out OK in the end, non-­fiction about far away places in far away times; the ideal realists escape for that reality that they face so admirably. The paper shop, selling its papers, views of the world through the eyes of journalists having to meet deadlines, editors that control those very views. Row upon row, of cigarettes, a myriad of variety, but still the same thing, offering an artificial boost to the mundaneness of the addicts' lives.

I journeyed out onto the station facade, searching but almost in vain. I continued up the length of the station, and, there she was, her face, so friendly, beckoning. No encouragement was needed as I ran, arms outstretched, heart pounding. There stood the object of my hopes and anticipations, my fantasies and desires, the object of my greatest love.

I "had" eventually come home. Our arms locked in embrace, Through my mind drifted the letters, snippets of talking on the phone, those very things that had ruled my emotions for the last five years. These two simple things effected me like drugs. Letters were like a joint, as you get through it, the high intensifies, and finally It was the turn of the ultimate high, but letters can be read over and over again, and they're legal! Phone calls were sad because they didn't last as long, but the high started as soon as I began dialling her number, and her voice put me in another world of comfort where I felt wanted. I even had to pinch myself to make realise it was actually "her". And there she was, my dream fulfilled, my prayers answered, in my arms. It was the first time we had met but it was if we had known each other since childhood.

We said goodbye to her mother who, I must admit, looked quite amused at the spectacle before her. For the slightest of moments I felt as if an intruder had entered my dream and I wanted her to leave as soon as possible, after all the dream was mine and nobody else's.

The girl and I walked into the downtown area which was both modern and old, but still beautiful, but the real beauty was by my side. The typical chatter issued forth from our lips, the nervous chatter of two people that have been re-united after a long separation, talking but saying nothing.

Before long we were sitting in a Biergarten sipping beer and smoking Camel cigarettes, the smoke disappearing as soon as It left our lips. The beer was cool and refreshing and coupled with the slight breeze It was neither too warm nor too cold, like the moment, perfect, We continued our drinking whilst watching the people around us, small children being reprimanded by their mothers, young lovers seeing nothing but each others eyes. The nervousness of our conversation stayed with us as hither to unknown aspects of our personalities came to light. The overhanging trees gave us shade but the sunlight still peered through like an ever-present guardian, but it didn't concern us, I called the waiter, paid for the drinks and was thinking of someway to show this girl 1 loved her, In mg pocket were the ear rings I had bought for her back in England, but the moment was not yet right. As we resumed our walk I spied a flower shop, made a discreet exit and purchased a dozen red roses. A cliché? Granted, but for me it was much more than mere pleasantries, but a token of my deepest devotion.

A friend of hers met us by the river and drove us part of the way into the mountains to a playing field. Another couple of friends joined us and they talked in a dialect which was totally incomprehensible to me, and anyway the conversation was not for my ears. 1 just watched the training session of the local American football team in silence, from time to time, smoking a cigarette. Boredom began to set in and some waste land beckoned me over and lead me to hill top restaurant. 1 had a beer and returned to the girl who gave the impression that my novelty value had momentarily disappeared, and that an example of her own life style was being laid before me for my approval.

Her brother collected us and we went to the village where she lived. The road was like a snake but the mountains took us gently ever upwards to the village. The village could have been anywhere, but it was what I felt was hone. It was only 25Km from the town but the country side was the definite master, and its subjects, the fields, the animals, the farm yard smells, had gained a stronghold over the community. The houses dotted the hill side in no particular order but the two churches faced each other as if about to commence battle, and on Sundays the village would divide up into their camps, and lead by the priests would worship God in their own way, but after mass the two camps would mingle together in the no-mans-land of the village.

I was shown to my room and I realised it was her room. It was a bold room, the colours simple but arranged into such a fashion, to make the room more an office, rather than a place to sleep and dream of better things than reality~ By this time the conversation had become relaxed and I felt comfortable after this five year search for my destiny.

It was now my turn to discover this treasure! I was introduced to her past in the form of photographs, images of lost youth that would remain only in the mind, Out came the stories that the letters had hidden, and it was as if I had been exposed to just a very small sample of her persona. She had kept some of my letters and I began to see how the relationship had developed from adolescent ideals to a nature devotion, Almost every little item had a history all of its own, a history that 1 was trying to, re-live. The music in the background was from the sixties and fifties and it stirred my emotions into a pathetic frenzy of sentimentality, This very special part of my emotional development was disturbed by the calling of her mother for us to eat.

Cléo the Cat

Dear Reader,
Let me introduce my cat Cléo, who as usual has taken position on my desk... She sits on my mouse pad and keeps my hand warm.

I don't know about you, but I've always found cats the most interesting creatures. They seem to suffer you as one would suffer a rather undiplomatic mother-in-law who couldn't care less about you. She does care about me especially when she wants feeding. She's a thief - when I come home from having done the shopping she will climb into the car and sniff out any meat I might have bought. I have even caught her with her head in a shopping bag eating the meat still in its packaging. She gets mad when she smells ham, and she is like a beast possessed.

As Cléo herself would say Dear Reader,
MEOW

They're fungis to be with.....

Dear reader,

I firstly want to apologise for the really corny title for this post. It is absolutely dreadful but it's all you're getting until I can think of anything else. Yes today was mushroom hunting in the Forêt de Grsala.

The thing is though, that yesterday everyone seems to have had the same idea as me today. I found only two boletus that are edible, the rest poisonous or ones I don't like eating. But maybe the idea is to be out in the forrest, to breathe in the odours of the forrest floor, the leaves, the moss, the smell of mushrooms... But you still had to be careful - the wind on Monday last had scarred the forrest and uprooted alot of trees. There were piles of logs and some of the "parcelles" were cordonned off.

I was also struck by the beauty of certain mushrooms and by the fact that they are deadly. Just this last week in the news, 10 people have died after having eaten some mushrooms... Fungis to be with indeed!

Not Tonight Dear Reader

Dear Reader,
The idea of facing another Bavarian Night with the Band is just to terrible to mention. They have a guy that plays my part -or rather I played his part before he came into the band. The idea of having a night like all the others fills me with dread. In French they have a saying "se faire chier comme un rat mort" which literraly means "making oneself shit like a dead rat." I am that "Dead Rat" who's having such a good time! And it's like that everytime I do that kind of concert. I prefer being alive and constipated than dead and relieved.. Just a personal choice.
Keep hanging in there Dear reader...
Ian

This Morning

Well, Dear Reader,
I seem have failed in my quest to avoid the house work! Yes, sad isn't it... I have not only vaccumed everywhere, I have also washed the floors. I have emptied the cat's litter - OK I still have to clean them and fill them up again, but I'm a bit peckish. Taramsolata on wholemeal bread. Wonderful.

Is it the absence of family that has brought on this cleaning spree? Am I suffering from some new disease or is it just a way of cutting through the boredom. Or could even be the desire to have a nice clean and tidy house? Am I fed up of clutter?

Whatever it is I think my wife will be happy about it. Plans for this afternoon? Too right. The dishes have to be done in the kitchen, and I have the music in the background to help me. Jazz again. I have put my jazz on the computer and hit the random button. Shit! The floors are dry - it looks as if I'm going to have to clean the litter trays. I'll finish eating first though.

Take care Dear Reader,
Ian

Last Night

Hello Dear Reader,
Last night was the first night in a long time where I was completely alone in my house. Killian and Virginie have gone to see Virginie's parents in Brittany. The day was long.

Last night then, I had a couple of friends over. Frank who said call me and talked about Strangers in the Night and a certain Dianna Krall who sang a melancholy jazz.... Django played some guitar, and we all chilled out. I phoned another friend and talked for what seemed like hours.. I even ended going out to MacDonald's! Sad isn't it. Yes, the buggers were open at 23h! The graveyard sift. I guess they're waiting for people to die from the cholesterol in the big mac, then tidy them away and serve them the next day as "Royales with cheese!" Eat your heart out Vincent - oh and clean the car too, I'll make the coffee!

But despite all this partying, I felt lonely in bed waiting for sleep to carry me off. Just had a cup of tea and two rounds of toast with raspberry jam, trying to find a way to avoid doing the dishes and changing the cats' litter! It stinks of s, s, s, something not very nice that rhymes with hit! Sometimes cats are less cute...

Tonight I have a Bavarian night where I'll be playing. People actually quite like this evening but I'm starting to get fed up of them. Maybe it's seeing people getting shitfaced and me staying completely sober, and not finding them funny. Something like that anyway. So what's left for today? Avoiding housework and waiting for tonight to arrive.
Take care Dear Reader,
Ian