violaimelesmots, le blog qui aime les mots

Like everyday since the beginning of my holidays in my little house in the Pyrenees mountains, Ariege, France, I set off for an excursion in the woods to walk my dogs and thereby do some exercise. I felt I had the soul of an explorer because myriads of paths crossed each other and got lost in this mysterious and eerie sylvan area. Why eerie ? What dangers can you find in French forests ? Apart from a wild sow protecting her little ones or a dead branch falling on your face, there is nothing to fear. We – actually, we women – fall victim to our television frights after all. How many times did we shudder - or not – watching those American thrillers showing a terrorised woman chased by her future murderer in the middle of a sinister forest wondering what the hell was she doing in this dark and gloomy place ? All in all, the only wolf you can meet in there is but your fellow man, in other words, your neighbour.

Accompanied by these pleasing thoughts, I was going my way looking for manure. Why manure ? I have to tell you that horseback ridings ran through the forest and made the paths clear, which I found exceedingly pleasant. So I was tracking down horse manure that would eventually lead me to the next village where the riding stable was located. Despite the cool air coming up from the river, I felt the sweat dripping down my spine. My two old pooches were also displaying a big pink tong from which occasionnaly dripped a slobbering bead. I reached two paths that intersected. I perused the ground still searching for manure to decide which trail to follow - on the left I could see tyre marks and crushed ferns - on the right, no manure but hoofprints. Naturally I chose the right track.

After I had walked down a small valley, crossed the brook and climbed the opposite hillside I decided I had had enough. The village was still not in sight but never mind, I was thirsty and I was exhausted. I started back. The dogs, always attentive to the least of my actions, did not need my calling them. They were sticking by me like magnetic loving balls.

As I was getting closer to the aforementioned junction, I heard a car door slam. My eyes searched for the origin of the sound anomaly, emphasised by the peacefulness of the place, and through the branches fell on the shape of a man, whose posture was unambiguous ; he was emptying his bladder or to speak more bluntly he was taking a squirt. Apparently he did not see me because, after having finished his task, he turned around and spoke rudely with an older man. The volume went up. I slinked away as discreetly as possible despite my splendid orange tee-shirt. But like in any good fiction, I walked on a dead and dry branch which broke and let out what seemed to me a thundering crack in the air. Then I heard the men shouting at me. Their voices did not sound cordial at all. Consequently, I packed up bag and baggage and bolted away, the dogs at my heels, delighted to run along with me. Needless to say they had not gotten the peril of the situation.

After some strides – which seemed a marathon to me - the heat, if not crushing thanks to the closeness of the brook, was nonetheless slightly overpowering, I began considering the worst. Fortunately, my aggressors – What did I interrupt? Poaching - ? Murder - ? - did not seem battle-hardened sportsmen. Nevertheless they were approaching dangerously. At that moment, something still inexplicable happened to me. Wrapped in my distress – and my loneliness, my dear pooches being completely unhelpful – I found myself embracing a tree – a beech tree, so it seemed to me – with all my strength as if I were catching a life buoy. I felt the bark against my cheek and my body stuck on the solid and powerful trunk. I felt a flow of energy running along my body as if the tree had transferred its strength to me. For a moment, my stress seemed to vanish and a fullness took hold of me. I almost forgot the perilous situation I was in. Then I heard screams that transformed into yells of distress and terror. I opened my eyes. The two men were hysterical and gesticulated frenzily as if an invisible force was attacking them from everywhere. An acid rain was showering them - a rain that was not falling from the sky but from the leaves of the trees. Still stuck to my tree, I was watching the scene - incredulous. Was it possible that this living being I was embracing had answered my call enjoining its mates to protect me from these men - ?

I don't know how but some time later, I found myself seated on my sofa as if from a quasi hypnotic topor, the dogs lying at my feet snoring peacefully. How could I explain what had happened ? Did it matter after all ? I could not wait to tell my partner but I gave up the idea. My story was too irrational. The only thing I could do was to write it down.

(Special thanks to Michel Richard for his precious help.)

Même pas besoin de remuer le bout de mon nez comme dans Ma Sorcière Bien-Aimée, je me retrouve en centre-ville. Formidable, les rêves !

Ma mère m'a souvent montré l'appartement que ses parents louaient pour les vacances. Un petit logement au premier étage d'une maison de village toute proche de la plage. De la rue, on aperçoit le balcon. J'observe. Rien. Puis, comme si je l'avais décidé (on n'attend jamais bien longtemps dans les rêves, il se passe toujours quelque chose) la porte s'ouvre sur une femme élégante et ses deux filles, une petite et une ado. Elles descendent les escaliers qui donnent sur une courette et sortent dans la rue par un petit portillon. Elles me passent devant sans me regarder. Je suis scotchée. Je reconnais de suite ma grand-mère, une beauté slave, ma mère qui lui tient la main et derrière ma tante. Je les suis. La petite-fille (j'ai du mal à dire maman) se retourne et me fixe tout en marchant. Châtain, des yeux bleus en amande. J'ai l'impression de me voir au même âge. Un peu perturbant, je dois l'avouer. Autour de nous il n'y a rien ; pas de passants, pas de commerce, pas de bruit.

Le cliché qui fait de nos rêves des images dans un monde flou et cotonneux, et bien c'est exactement ce qu'il se passe. Je suis absorbée par cette famille (qui est la mienne en l’occurrence!) et il n'y a rien d'autre. Plus de décor. N'existe dans mon rêve que ce qui me captive.

C'est alors qu'un homme apparaît. Lui aussi je le connais ; de taille moyenne, mince, très classe, une cigarette à la main. Mon grand-père. Ils échangent des paroles mais je ne comprends pas ce qu'ils se disent. Je les suis un moment puis me retrouve sur un banc. Tous les personnages ont disparu, tout est blanc. Je tourne la tête et aperçois assise sur le banc, tout à côté de moi, ma sœur tenant en laisse mon chien. Cette image-là ne colle pas. Elle m'adresse la parole mais c'est ma fille qui parle 'Qu'est-ce qu'on mange ce soir ? Tu as pensé à faire les courses ?' Cette image-ci colle encore moins. Il y avait jusque-là un semblant de logique dans ce rêve mais l'intrusion de ma fille sous les traits de ma sœur – que j'adore par ailleurs! - sème la zizanie dans mon esprit. Rien ne va plus, je dois me réveiller et m'échapper à tout prix de cette pagaille onirique.

No need to twitch my nose like Samantha in Bewitched, I find myself straight away down town. Dreams are so amazing !

My mother often showed me the appartment her parents used to rent for the vacations. It was on the first floor of a village house near the beach. From the street you can see the balcony. I observe. Nothing. Then as if I had deciced it (you never have to wait in a dream ; something always happens), the entrance door opens and appear an elegant woman and her two daughters – a girl and a teen. They climb down the stairs until a tiny courtyard and go out into the street by a small gate. They pass before me without looking at me. I'm gawking at them. I recognize straight away my grandmother, a Slavic beauty, my mother who is holding her hand and next to them, my aunt. I follow them. The little girl (I have trouble saying my mother) turns round and gazes at me as she walks. She has chestnut hair and almond-shaped blue eyes. She looks so much like me at the same age ! I must say it's quite unnerving. Around us, there is nothing ; no pedestrians, no shops, no noise.

That our dreams are made up of cotton-like and blurred pictures is a cliché, nonetheless it is exactly what is happening. I am attracted by this family (which, as a matter of fact, happens to be mine!) and there is nothing else. No more setting. Only exists in my dream what absorbs me.

Then a man suddenly appears. I know him too ; meduim size, slim, classy, a cigarette in his hand. My grandfather. They talk but I can't ear what they say. I follow them a moment then I find myself sitting on bench. All the characters have disappeared ; everything is white. I turn my head and see sitting just next to me on the bench my sister keeping my dog on a leash. That picture doesn't match. She talks to me but it's the voice of my daughter 'What's for dinner tonigh? You didn't forget to do the errands, did you ?' This one still less ! So far there was some kind of logic in this dream but the intrusion of my daughter under the guise of my sister – who I love by the way!- brings chaos into my mind. It's all breaking apart. I have to wake up and escape at all cost this oniric mess.

(Special thanks to Michel Richard)

J'insère la clé mais la porte d'entrée est déjà ouverte.

- Coucou Mamie, c'est moi !

- Monte, ma chérie.

Il n'y a pas de courrier dans la boîte aux lettres et la maison est baignée de lumière chaude. Une délicieuse odeur de riz à l'espagnole embaume la petite cuisine. Image familière de ma grand-mère aux fourneaux. Dehors un bruit incessant de ballon mal gonflé que l'on envoie d'un coup de pied en haut de la rue, qui redescend en roulant, rencontre de nouveau le pied de son assaillant et repart. Je regarde par la fenêtre et observe le petit garçon qui joue au ballon tout seul.

- Va me chercher de l'eau à la fontaine et dis à René de monter, on va se mettre à table.

Comme si c'était tout à fait naturel, je prends le seau à côté de l'évier et redescends le remplir à la fontaine qui se trouve en bas de chez nous. Je dois préciser que je n'ai jamais vu cette fontaine en état de marche, l'eau courante ayant été installée bien avant ma naissance. Bref, ayant effectué ma besogne, j'appelle René, qui se trouve être mon cher papa, et lui dis de monter car nous allons passer à table. Vous avez du mal à me suivre ? C'est normal, vous êtes dans mon rêve. J'ai du mal à comprendre moi-même. J'observe le petit garçon. J'en profite, je ne l'ai vu qu'en photo à cet âge. Je reconnais bien mon père ; un visage rond mangé par de grands yeux marron qui semblent avoir été maquillés tant les cils sont longs et noirs. Si mes calculs sont bons, nous devons être un été quelque part au milieu des années 50 ; mon père a une dizaine d'années et vu la façon dont il est habillé c'est l'été à Banyuls. Je ne me fie pas à la chaleur car je ne la sens pas, bizarre mes autres sens ont l'air de fonctionner.

Pour être sûre, je m'approche de l'almanach des PTT accroché par un clou sur le mur de la cuisine. Entre deux colonnes de mois et les noms des saints, se trouve la photo d'un adorable chiot habillé d'un tricot rouge et de chaque côté de la photo, l'année 1956. 1956 ! L'année inscrite au dos de la photo que j'avais entre les mains ce matin. C'est donc bien l'année des 10 ans de mon père, et de ceux de ma mère également. J'en déduis que ma mère doit être dans le coin aussi puisqu'elle passait ses étés à Banyuls. Je meurs d'envie de voir de quoi elle a l'air !

A suivre...

Photo : http://amisdebanyuls.canalblog.com/

I insert the key but the front door has already been opened.

'Hi, grandma, it's me !'

'Come up honey'

There is no mail in the letterbox and the house is flooded with a warm light. A delicious smell of Spanish cooked rice perfumed the air of the small kitchen. This a familiar image of my grandmother cooking. We can hear coming from the outside the continuous noise of a deflate ball kicked up to the top of the road, which then rolls down and is kicked up again and again. I look at the window and I can see a little boy playing with the ball on his own.

'Go fetch some water to the fountain and tell Rene to come back, we'll have lunch.'

As if it is quite normal, I take the bucket next to the sink and go down to the fountain, which is next to the house, to fill it. I have to precise that I have never seen this fountain in working order, running water having been installed well before I was born. In short, my task being done I call René, who happens to be my father, and tell him to go back home because we are having lunch. Are you confused ? That's normal, you are in my dream. I'm quite upset too. I observe the little boy. I take the opportunity because I have never seen him at that age except in picture – obviously ! His features are quite the same ; his face is round with huge brown eyes whose eyelashes are so long and black that they seem to have been made up. If my calculations are good, it must be summertime around the mid fifties ; my father looks like he is about ten and if you look at the way he is dressed, it must be hot. I don't rely on the heat ; I don't feel it, which is weird because my other senses seem to work. To be completely sure, I get closer to the Post Office calendar which hangs on a nail on the kitchen wall. Between two columns of months and the names of the saints is the picture of an adorable puppy dressed up with a red cardigan, and on each side of the picture is written 1956. 1956 ! That's the year which was written on the back of the photograph I had in my hand this morning ! This confirms that my father was 10 and so did my mother. I deduce that my mother must be around since she used to spend her summer vacations in Banyuls. I'm excited to see what she looked like at time !

To be continued...

A ce moment, ma fille cadette qui passe par-là, nous lance « On appelle ça des rêves lucides ». Marina confirme. Je regarde ma fille, éberluée. On a toujours le sentiment de tout connaître de nos enfants et surtout de savoir ce qu'ils savent. Grossière erreur. J'avoue ne jamais avoir entendu parler de rêves lucides. Intriguée, je me tourne vers Marina qui poursuit en disant que certaines personnes parviennent à faire des choses extraordinaires pendant leurs rêves ; des étudiants révisent leurs cours, d'autres apprennent à traiter des difficultés psychologiques comme le manque de confiance en soi ou le stress, d'autres encore développent leur créativité bref c'est une véritable chance de contrôler ses rêves. Alors que ma copine logorrhéique continue son exposé sur les rêves lucides, mon esprit décroche et se perd dans les méandres de ce mystère qu'est le cerveau humain ; un ordinateur surpuissant dont on ne connaît pas le dixième des capacités. Et dire que notre boîte crânienne recèle un super pouvoir dont on n'a pas le mode d'emploi ! C'est comme si on éclairait le gouffre de Padirac avec une bougie alors que l'on aurait besoin de néons. L'héroïne de Luc besson, Lucie, en avait sûrement à sa disposition!

At that moment my younger daughter, who is passing by, says 'That's what we call a lucid dream.' Marina confirms. I look at my daughter, stunned. We always have the feeling that we know everything about our children and especially all that they know. This is such a big mistake ! I admit I have never heard about lucid dreams. Intrigued I turned back to Marina who goes on saying that some people are able to do extraordinary things during their dreams ; some students revised their lessons, others learn how to tackle their psychological disorders such as stress or lack of self-confidence, others still can develop their creativity, in short to be able to control one's dream is a real gift. As my talkative friend is continuing her lecture, my spirit starts wandering and looses itself in the meanderings of the mysterious humain brain, a superpowerful computer which we know only but a tenth of its capacities. And to think that our cranium contains a super power which owner's manual we don't have ! It is as if the Padirac chasm was lit with a candle while it would need neons. Luc Besson's heroine, Lucie, had probably some in her possession !

Gouffre de Padirac : The Padirac Chasm is a cave located in the Lot department, Occitanie, France.

Soudain mon téléphone portable hurle 'I'm still standing' d'Elton John. Je suis brutalement ramenée à mon époque et réponds au énième appel de ma fille qui me rappelle que nous devons faire des courses, ce qui, sans aucune surprise vous vous en doutez, est une véritable corvée. Néanmoins, elle n'a pas tort de m'arracher à mes rêveries car j'ai invité mon amie Marina à venir prendre le thé ; habitude, je l'admets, que j'ai chipée à mes amis Anglais. Et comme dirait je ne sais plus qui.. moi sûrement....'When you feel empty, take a mug of tea !'. Oui, chez moi les cups of tea sont des mugs d'un demi-litre : I'm a tea addict !

J'adore prendre le thé avec Marina car elle est passionnée par les esprits, le paranormal, la transcendance, tout ce qui n'est pas cartésien. Cette fois-ci, nous discutons rêve. Je dois dire que c'est un sujet captivant car mystérieux. Lorsqu'elle explique, impressionnée, que certaines personnes ont la capacité – le don ? - de contrôler leurs rêves, je ne comprends pas vraiment où est l'originalité. Je lui dis  " Mais c'est ce que je fais." Pause avec regard interloqué. Je continue. "Ce n'est pas systématique, mais quand un rêve commence à prendre une mauvaise tournure, quand il tend vers le cauchemar ou bien que l'issue me déplaît, je décide de me réveiller et parfois je réussis même à me rendormir en choisissant la fin de mon rêve." Yeux écarquillés. La réaction de mon amie pique ma curiosité. Je ne me suis à vrai dire jamais posé la question. Je pensais que tout le monde était dans mon cas. Visiblement non.

A suivre....

My cellphone suddenly yells out 'I'm still standing' by Elton John. I'm brutally brought back to my time and answers the umpteenth call of my daughter who recalls me that we have to do some errands, which as you can imagine is a real chore ! Nonetheless she's right to pull me away from my reveries because I have invited my friend, Marina, to take tea ; I admit that it is a habit I pinched from my English friends. And as someone I don't remember would say - probably me - when you feel empty, take a mug of tea !' Yes, I drink my pint of tea in a mug not a cup : I'm a real tea addict !

I am fond of having tea with Marina because she has a passion for spirits, paranormal activities, transcendance, all that is not Cartesian. This time our discussion deals with dreams. I must say that this is a captivating topic because it is wrapped in mystery. When she tells me – very much impressed – that some people have the skill – or the gift?- to control their dreams I don't really understand how it is unusual. I tell her 'But that's what I do.' Astonished, she stops talking. I pursue. ' It is not systematic but when a dream turns bad, when it tinges on a nightmare or when I dislike the end I decide it is time to wake up and sometimes I even succeed in going back to sleep choosing what the end of my dream will be.' Her eyes are wide opened. My friend's reaction arouses my curiosity. To be honest, I have never thought about that. I imagined that everybody was like me. From what I can see, it is not the case.

To be continued...