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Reply To: | The parapyschology listserv .... |
Date: | Sun, 13 Oct 2002 23:20:09 EDT |
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The following is from my stonemasons journal; when I went to back to France
after the Lime conference...best way to enjoy is to download /print and read
at your leisure
enjoy Pyrate
ps out of pocket for a few days
.To live in France like a God"....old German saying
French Post Card
Two French thorurough breds run pell mell thorough the rocky Mayenne of
Britanny.
Their raven haired mistress riders crop their eager backsides with smirking
satisfaction as they stirup and spur over hedgerow and ditch.......
This is deep France. The air is fresh and briny with the smell of apples .
There are apples on the breakfast tables; apples in the markets;and apples in
the cheeks of fresh faced lovers who openly covert their ripe passions in
youthfull display under the russet colored leaf and golden boughs of this
rough buccolic paradise.
My outdoor breakfast table baths in the morning sun as I spy the
riders in their compete for the last of the hill.
The massive foremuscles of the stocking beasts pump and furrow the fertile
soil into the steep of the climb.
Their hard hindquarters dig and lather wet the riders seat and saddle
allowing it glisten in the sun.
Clearly they are pleased with their skill as they disapear through the
alleys and golden groves of orchards.
My Breakfast is simple ; black coffee and apple crepes with a brush of
powdered sugar.nessled next to a small pitchet" (pitcher) of cool cider.
I greedily welcome the crepes sweet nourishment amid the color and
poetry of this primitive setting .
From where I sit, song birds celebrate the crisp morning air from atop the
stonewalls of a 15 cent farmhouse.; cut hay lays rolled in the fields; and
the sky is a crystal blue from the nearby sea.
The peace of my meditation is broken when the riders suddenly crest
the hill; and break for a turn nearby my table ..
With arched eye and mischievous grin. they pound past ; showering the air
with moist bits of warm turf..
Humbly I am caught sweeping turf from my pants leg while mesmerized in
the site of their smartly arched backsides promenading in brisk canter to
the paddock circle ..
"Bon Jour " ; "Bon Jour " They call in unison
I answered back "Bon Jour "smiling and abruptly stop ;
pretending no dirt landed on me . .
They ride towards me and dismount; their steaming champions ; stand ready
at bridle and paw the turf with well deserved pats..
They introduce themselves as Sophie and Yovonique ; Historic building
conservators for Britanny and the Mayenne region .
They are jovial; yet seem in command of the new situation.;
and me ;.I m afraid to admit..
I like them immediately.
.
Sophie has big round eyes ;they are soft almost doe like . She looks at you
with a bit of surprise and discovery; Like you are her unexpected gift.
Her French welcomes you in . It is songlike ; With little girl pouting of
the lip .
Her mouth blushes and pinks crimson as she kisses vowels and verbs.;
When she makes a point she softly scolds you....... to listen only to her
...
She is a professional architect and an expert on medievil structures
Yvonique on the other hand ,is more mischievous and high spirited in her
humor .
Her looks are pretty with flashes of natural raw passion ;
;She speaks her French in cooing cadence allowing a creative little tounge
to dart and dance sensuously; along wetted lips quick to smile.
Like Sophie she is a architect with a degree in historic preservation
Both play well off one another and both look smart in their Black riding
attire
Yvonique peers through you with unsettling attention ; its hard to read
between the lines; as both are having alot of fun..
.
Cradeling her crop , she straddles her long leg with black riding boot on
the fence, then shakes her red hair down in wild ringlets from underneath
her riding helmet.
She then takes a towel from Sophie and begins to dry her inner thigh
and boot free of the lather of horse sweat and the sweet smell of grass
that has collected there.
All of a sudden she tilts her head back ; and with a little smile
apologises for being "so wet".
.
My French is bad; but not that bad .
The double entendre of this culture defies reality;
before I can comprehend her silliness they are already laughing at me and
the earthy joke.
I laugh too ; responding that "Je ne pas parle bien Francais (I don't speak
very good French , to which she abruptly cuts me off by saying .
... "but you don't have to "...
We all laugh now .; Im beginning to enjoy my role as the straight man ; they
too are at ease as any pretensions that were there before are dissipated
into the fragrant morning air of this ancient place. .
.Our meeting has been pre -arranged by some stonemason friends who will
join us later. They change clothes and we begin our tour..
The sites we are at are old ; 15 cent at least ; with parts perhaps
medieval..
The walls of the farmhouses/ fortress drip with history.
Oak beams wishbone throughout the exterior stonework.
Chimneys climb high over ancient heavy slate roofs that are tied with
decorative iron bars to peak and gable..
Bullet holes and pocket blasts tell of war and revolution..
Ivy turrets harbor master bedrooms and napoleonic sleigh beds that we pat
for comfort and fun .
Sophie and Yvonique coo like song birds over honeysuckle as they walk
through the history and of the methods and materials of the construction ..
From the bedroom they have me look down past the bare of their arm into the
courtyards below.
The yards are worn cobble set in puddled clays mixed with lime.
Draft horses clump by arched stone doorways... inside the ivy covered walls
there are interior rooms similar to the one we are standing in that boast
of long 18" sguare oak beams gnarled and buried in walls of stone that are
stucco with natural plasters of mustard yellow and off white.
I am intoxicated by the scent of their hair and person as I am lead into
ancient kitchens that have walk in Norman hearths of hand hewn stone.
We investigate cooking pots of savory stew and admire the ancient wood oak
beams that line the ceiling decorated with hooks for hanging game and off
set by wicker pockets of wild flowers fresh picked and fragrant.
From up high The sun streams through a blue window set into the stone.
Its rays silhouettes the beauty and shape of their soft feminine form;
naked through the thin white of their muslin dress. .
I am captured in a sun drenched dream and It takes all my effort to hold my
concentration and not to make a complete fool of myself.
They giggle and smile at my awkwardness then carry on to expertly explain
how the floors are set in large putty buff tile; or as in some rooms;
they are poured in a mixture of lime with aggregate and now worn smooth
from centuries of use.
.
Sophie and Yvonique pour through the history of the house like skilled
dancers in a ballet. I struggle with their French but Im just having too much
fun to worry about it
Taking my hand we cram down tiny stairways and giggle up against one another
in
cellars of chalk; that house ciders and wines in proliferate stock
Brushing back her hair Sophie pops a cork of apple licquer; as Yvonique
rinces three glasses then spread out for the top of the keg.
Its harvest time for the apples they explain; as she makes the pour
"Millions of these tart little apples we see outside are pressed by wood to
become the frothy cool ciders that grace the tables of the nation ".The
cool nectar is brown and goes down smooth after we touch glasses.
My eyes meet theirs;
Yvonique then pats a keg as if it were a babys bottom
and expalins ;
"Then with time; the nectar sleeps in vats of oak; until under certain
moons of the zociac
it awakens as if in a fairy tale to become the firery Calvados of legend; "
She rubs the wet of her mouth with the back of her hand ; and crudely kisses
it for the sweetness and sweat ..We touch glasses again and
She contiues
"This then; she holds her glass up ; is song of the ancient monks ; and
the chronicle of the mystic Druids; a marvelous alchemy that "appreciates"
like children who have done well ;
Another toast ;
"Talented children ,who sleep, and transform into the deep dark of the
lime chalk cellers fermenting and complex until they are golden and brown
with age ;
then called for festive and celebrated like family heirlooms; or prodigal
sons who return home restoring harmony and memory of times long past.. .
We touch glasses agian as . Sophie prepares a plate of cheese and bagette
Tart and robust the apple nectar is served in little glass tumblers that
when accompanied by the aged viscous cheeses from the Norman coast it
melts into the mouth and lets go dancing the tastebuds amid the wash of
buttery cheese and crusts of fresh bread; creating a harmony of rich
complexity and aromatic after taste.
Only the night before in the care of the stonemasons; one old yeomen
farmer with tears in his eyes poured a glass for me by candle light in his
celler and recounted that I was the first American in his house since
American GI.'s brought his starving family food rations in the bleak winter
of 1945..
I revertly took the glass with him ; and then another Thus completing a
debt of honor ;for him and for me .
Is time to go ; the masons will be here any minuet; our next stop is an old
14 cent stone mill that one of the masons lives in . I suggest we leave
notes and meet them there ; this stroke of genius gets everyone laughing like
crazy which in turn calls for another round from the keg ;.
To be continued Michael
French post card /to be continues MDD/allrts
.
--
To terminate puerile preservation prattling among pals and the
uncoffee-ed, or to change your settings, go to:
<http://maelstrom.stjohns.edu/archives/bullamanka-pinheads.html>
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