Monday's Sheep

Monday's sheep is full of woe
Thinking how his life will go
Calling out to all who'll hear
"Am I far, or am I near"

Monday comes and then it leaves
With its 'woe'ness on its sleeve
Can the next day be more fun?
Lets look up to see the sun

What if I can't see it there?
What if I start to despair?
Will I have to stop and say
"Welcome, Monday, everyday"

Is Monsieur Mouton OK?

I'm sure my regular readers will be asking themselves if I'm OK or not, bearing in mind that my writing has been somewhat sporadic of late? Then there's the question: What is OK? Does it mean that I am living, that I am happy, that I am unhappy but not desperate? OK is such a vague term, don't you think?

I am able to reassure you that I am OK in that I am not unhappy; nor am I actually happy. I am just here, standing. I stand, so I'm here. I know it's Christmas and I know that I am here in France for Christmas. If that means that I am OK, then I'm OK.

Apart from that, life goes on (and the like) as they say, in my neck of the woods, so to speak.........if I could speak, that is.....................

From Dada to Baabaa

You will remember that I had a series of posts protesting that sheep are more intelligent than you all probably think? Well, I would like to present to you a colleague of mine who is making a bit of a name for herself in the art world. Welcome to the new movement of Baabaaism.

I really am stardust

We really are stardust, you know. Joni Mitchell might have been singing just a song back at Woodstock, but it's true.

I was thinking about this when I had another look at one of the cards that Lisbeth was given for her birthday with a sheep on it. The front of the card had this little sheep going up a hill under a starry sky. The next has the other side of the hill where he would come down. Inside, it showed the little sheep actually coming down covered in stars.

I like to think that, because he struggled up the hill, the stars came down to meet him and they stuck to him all over. Now he's covered in stars and become stardust.

While I'm talking - you might be interested to know that I am still in the little room at the back of the house. My place in the hall continues to be taken up with Mr Dancer's wine!!

Am I myself?

Am I myself, or am I not?
Or have I lost my way?
Am I now wondering what I've got
to do, to be OK?

If I found out that I was here
existing in the world,
would I then know some dreadful fear
to rise, and be unfurled?

Or can I trust that all is well
and everything will be
just like some calming tolling bell
as I come home to me?

Woglinde

Lisbeth is still in contact with her friend in IBM (USA) and so gets regular updates on the goose, Boswell. Well, apparently, he has a companion called Woglinde. (That's another goose, by the way.) Now I, personally, have no idea where the name Woglinde came from, so I've googled it. (As a poor facebook-neglected sheep must do!)

Well, it's lots of things. You might like the exciting video clip: The Woglinde Falls. Then there's someone who calls himself Woglinde and who crops up all over the place. Then there's Ace Combat Skies. (Probably related to The Woglinde Falls) And then there's good old Wagner.

It's all in a name, as they say.

Winter Winds

Winter winds are cold and sharp
Wrapping round the cold and dark
Blowing up the chimney
Trying now to get me
Branches blow in my tree
Oh this winter wind

Winter winds do blow and gust
Making it a certain must
That we are to wrap up
Taking drinks to warm up
Something that can keep up
With this winter wind

Light a fire for good defense
And it really does make sense
That the fire can hearten
Even those most spartan
To inspire their part in
Living with the wind

What would you tell your bank if.......................?

What would you tell your bank if your parrot ate some euro notes? Well, this happened to some friends of Lisbeth. They have a lovely parrot called Jeeves. Jeeves is actually a she, despite the name, because the current owners only discovered her gender when 'he' produced an egg!

Anyway, Jeeves, who has free run of the house, helped herself to some euro notes that were on the bedside table and chewed approx 150 euros worth of paper notes.

The owner gathered up the remains of the notes and the surrounding confetti and headed off to the bank. The bank were very good about it. Having examined the confetti and shredded notes, the person on the desk made a phone call to check out the procedure for chewed euros. Lisbeth was told that the person on the other end of the phone agreed to a full refund, credited to the account. He then added that, in France, parrots are usually fed on nuts, not notes!

The Statue

This is a life-size statue of Jesus. Lisbeth saw it in an antique shop in the south of France. Unfortunately, his hand has broken off. To avoid it getting lost, they have taped it around his neck for safe keeping.

Hello Maud and Paula

Thanks for your comments, Maud and Paula. I'm not as keen on Christmas as Lisbeth is but she hasn't put decorations up yet, if you were wondering? She doesn't believe in all this consumerism staring in November. It was me, passing the nice heart that hangs on the cupboard. It just reminded me of Xmas.

I don't think she's thought much about the festive season, because she's having a hard time of it in the apartment. The paint won't stay on the walls, the wood won't sand and Lisbeth lent on one of the panels in the kitchen units and it broke. So now she has to mend that, as well. Tomorrow she is doing a favour for a friend and then, in the afternoon, she is going to a funeral. So you see it isn't all sun and wine in France. Far from it at the moment. It is cold and grey and miserable.

That being said, I am in good spirits, for saying. The rooms are nice with fires in them and the grandfather clock ticks reassuringly throughout the day.

Red for Xmas?

Christmas. It will be on us before you can say 'mouton'. These hearts on one of Lisbeth's doors just made me think about it. It must be the red colour that set me off.

On taking a closer look I found that the big one, hanging quite low, smells of spices: orange and cinnamon, etc. All the traditional smells of Christmas. Hmmmmmmmmm

Are you sitting comfortably?

As I've been a bit down, lately, I've been browsing the web more than usual. I look for stuff on mouton - of course - and on sheep. That doesn't mean that I don't look at anything else, but these two tags are my favourites.

Well, last night, I came cross this sheep chair. Now I don't know what you think, but I think it looks weird. Lisbeth says she wouldn't like to sit in it and I wouldn't like to be it, so it's thumbs down from us. Would you fancy it in one of your rooms?

Thank you, Maud

Thank you, Maud for your concern. I have been a little down lately, as my lack of posts indicate. You sound a very nice person and I just might be looking for a new home! Thank you for the offer.

Facebook neglected sheep

Am the first Facebook neglected sheep? If Lisbeth isn't working, she's on Facebook. I know it's nice for her to be in touch with so many people that are far away, but she isn't really spending as much time with me as she used to. She's 'poking' them and 'sending gifts' and the like and updating her status!

Well my status is fed up. I'm not properly in my winter quarters and I don't like my surroundings.

That's all I've got to say, really.

Woolly Wisdom

In all the fiddle and faddle that's been going on here, I forgot to tell you that Lisbeth received this lovely book for her birthday from Maud (one of my readers). It's about time that our wisdom was recognised!

It's called Woolly Wisdom by Dan Donovan and is full of great quotes such as: "I think animal testing is a terrible idea; they get nervous and give the wrong answers"Joseph Blosephina.

Of course, Lisbeth knows all about woolly wisdom as I am here to keep her on track and on message. What I'm not able to do is to get her to take better photos. This is quite lamentable but it's all I could find. (And with all those cables!) As she was also given a pretty snappy camera for her birthday, which she absolutely loves by the way, I'm hoping that she will be uploading better ones than this; when she's worked out how to use it, of course!

I am stardust

I am stardust and walking with joy
And my stars I would like to employ
To make everything bright
Not just shining at night
But all day for you all to enjoy

Road names, names, names

Lisbeth has been visiting some friends down the road, this afternoon. Not unsurprisingly, one of the topics of conversation was........you've guessed: numbers and street names. They were discussing the formal letter telling the residents on this road that the name has changed from Route de Montmorillon to Rue des Artisans. Lisbeth said that in her letter, it said Route des Artisans, instead of Rue. They checked theirs again and found it said the same.

Out of interest, Lisbeth's friend looked them all up in the new telephone directory because - apparently - this has all the new addresses in it.

I'm sure you won't be surprised to find that it got more complicated, not less. While her friends are in under Rue des Atrisans, the people over the (same) road are in under Route de Montmorillon and Lisbeth isn't either. She is in the book as living in Le Bourg. The phrase for the centre of the village.

Road names

Our new road name is Rue des Artisanes. That's what the panel says at the end of the road. However, Lisbeth has just received a letter telling her, formally, that her new address is Route des Artisanes. We think that they were thinking of the previous name of the road: Route de Montmorillon and forgot that it is now 'Rue'. I'll see if I can get her to take a photo of the new sign with her fancy new camera.

Some have new and some have two!

You will remember the consternation and unrest in our village over the introduction of house numbers and new street names.

Lisbeth (I know I've gone back to calling her Lisbeth. It's just one of those things!) is finding the whole thing quite fascinating and charming as she listens to the various discussions of the pros and cons (more often cons) of the new arrangements.

Just the other day, she heard that the people who live in the new houses up past the salle des fete, already had numbers (unlike the rest of the houses in the village). With the new arrangements, they've not only been given a new street name, but all the houses have been given a new number. Now both the residents and the post people are finding it confusing.

Then there's the friends of Lisbeth who live down the road. They have two entrances onto their property and have been given two different numbers: one for each gate. Both gates open into the garden: one each side of the house. I wonder if you can write to a garden?

It's all very 'French', as they say

Eddie Izzard's Encore on Computers

A contribution to my 'French House Numbers' posts

My friend has sent in this photo of the number on the house where he used to live in Essonne: 65, Grande Rue, Dannemois. Although you can't see clearly, from this photo, it is the traditional white on blue colour. Thanks for that.

THE spooky image

The photo, as promised, from yesterday's post. Mr Occasional Stirring's recreation of the spooky image: My sister and a volcano.

Spooky Image

One of my regular readers, Mr Occasional Stirrings, has been in touch to tell me about a very weird thing that happened when he was closing one of my posts. The post in question carried a photo of Lisbeth's sister sitting in front of an open fire. (The photo wasn't very good - a bit blurry - but I had posted it anyway.)

Well, it seems that when Mr Occasional Stirrings closed the post "... it left an afterimage on my desktop pic (a volcano in Ecuador) which was quite spooky. Spookier than the attached attempt to recreate it, but you'll get the idea."

Check in tomorrow for his recreation

Boswell: all grown up

My regular readers will remember that I have written a number of posts about Boswell, the gosling (left). Boswell belongs to one of the programmers at IBM (T. J. Watson Research Centre in the USA) and Boswell has had several poems written for him, penned by yours truly.

The earliest was entitled The Goose Engine and was, I believe, one of my better odes. Later, when he was ill, there was one written before an operation, then another for his return home, afterwards.

I can't tell you how delighted I am, therefore, to say that Lisbeth has heard from his owner, again, along with this photo of Boswell all grown up. What a handsome goose he has become! And judging by this photo, he is doing really well.

Hi Boswell.

The camel is chewing with very big teeth

The camel is chewing with very big teeth
They're not from on top, just the ones underneath
They really are big and take up lots of space
As they can't help but dominate this lovely face

I choose to believe that he's smiling at me
And that if we could talk, we would surely agree
that this life thing is hard, and the world's in a mess
but that teeth are for chewing and there to impress

The camel is chewing

The camel is chewing. His head is held high
He chews very slowly and never thinks why
He's biding his time, in a world of his own
Is he thinking of life, of his chewing, or home?

The camel is chewing. He watches us pass
We all stand and watch him regurgitate grass
The landscape is bare, with no flower or tree
I'm not even sure that he isn't a 'she'!

The camel is chewing. I hope she's OK
She's looking quite calm and not eager to play
Whatever the gender, the regal shows through
So I wish this good camel a heartfelt adieu

Chewing camel

Lizzie sent me this picture. I'm now not even sure she's with her sister. You expect postcards of pretty villages, not chewing camels.

She's certainly gone a bit weird. First there was the obsession with house numbers (which I'm not sure is over), now a camel!

More French numbers

If you've been following my posts on the arrival of house numbers chez nous, then you won't be surprised that Lizzie has been paying attention to both the style, and colour of numbers in different regions.

The numbers in the village where she is staying, in the south, are maroon on cream. Unlike ours, the surrounding border-line is cut at the corners. Lizzie thinks this is nice but doesn't like the two screws. She thinks it would look better with four, as we can see in the one on the right. (They come ready drilled so you can't choose.)

Wondering about house No 3098? It is the number of meters the house is from a fixed point in the village.

Lizzie in Toulouse

Lizzie's in Toulouse and I'm left here all alone
I don't know what her plans are for wending her way home
Lizzie isn't talking so I don't know what to do
I'm just trying to be hopeful as I try to make it through

The house is getting colder and my heart is full of woe
I'd get myself together but I don't know where to go
I hope she's coming back soon with a lot of lovely things
Then the house will be a fun place and my heart will have it's wings

Left behind (and sulking)

Lizzie has taken her sister back to Toulouse and I am left behind! I don't usually sulk when she goes away on her own but this time I feel particularly aggrieved because she has taken Mr Kombucha. Mr Kombucha! I really don't know why he gets to go and I get to stay.

Thursday

Well, it's Thursday and I just don't know where the time has gone. It's been all go here. Lizzie and her sister have been either working in the apartment or eating out. (I detect a little thickening around the girth but haven't said anything!) The temperature has plummeted so there's been a bit of a panic on the heating front. The wood burner, that had been temporarily taken out and stored in the back room so that Lizzie could have an open fire (more 'romantique' ) has been returned (with some difficulty, as it's extremely heavy) to the fireplace.

Later, and without a by your leave, I was suddenly picked up and unceremoniously dumped in the small garden room as Lizzie is going to Toulouse and she thinks I might get cold. There has been no discussion, just more 'it's getting cold' panic.......................

It's all in the number 8: 2

Continuing my interest in Lizzie's new house number, I found that this painting by Jackson Pollock is called Number 8.

Why it's called Number 8 beats me as it looks like a muddy field after a lot of sheep have been hanging around in the same spot. . Anyway, number 8 it is.

Lizzie's sister

The temperature has plummeted and it's all systems go with the fire. Lizzie says there's nothing quite like an open fire.

I'm still on the veranda, of course, and am getting somewhat chilly. My winter spot under the stairs is still being taken up with Mr Dancer's wine from his summer visit, so I will be raising it as a point of order next week. I will also be commenting upon Lizzie's poor photographic technique as this picture of her sister really does leave something to be desired. (The fire looks good, though!)

It's all in the number 8: 1

This is our new house number.

Did you know that the number 8 is a Fibonacci number: 3+5?

The composer, Iannis Xenakis, wrote Metastasis for orchestra using the fibonacci series.

This piece of music then became the starting point for the Philips Pavilion constructed for the World Fair of 1958 in Brussels. This collaboration, with the architect Le Corbusier, was the first electronic/spacial performance to combine music, sound, images and architecture. The music for the pavilion was by Edgard Varèse. It, and the pavilion, was called Poème électronique.

I only know this because Lizzie wrote her dissertation on the Philips Pavilion for some degree or other and she says she has lots of photos and things in England. Apparently the actual experience inside the pavilion was found to be quite shocking at the time so, after the Fair had finished, the pavilion was pulled down.

Postman Pat earns his keep

This morning Postman Pat collected a load of oak planks from a wood yard in Lussac-les-Chateau and delivered them to Lizzie's friend's barn where they will become an oak floor.

In the afternoon, Postman Pat set off again, but this time he went to a stone quarry near Chauvigny to collect some stone lintels for another friend who is doing up a 14th century maison forte.

Well done Postman Pat!

Get your finger out

Get your finger out and start to do something worth while
Like turning off the standby thing and helping the earth smile
Think how you all can contribute and be eco aware
And change a small part of your life to help the earth repair.

Use eco bulbs and eco goods. Get eco on your brain
Turn some things down and some things off and travel less by plane
Think how you can economise with all your worldly goods
Recycle everything you can, we're not out of the woods

Start being eco friendly and make compost in a bin
Put it on the garden where your veggies can go in
Ride upon a bicycle instead of in your car
For if we work together, the earth won't be just a star

Sheep for the environment

I'm a sheep, and a sheep through and through
And I'm worried that it might be true
that the planet is sick
and there isn't a trick
that can conjure it all to renew

So just do something small, if you can
Dim a light, plant a tree, make a plan
to switch off that standby
and reduce the supply
Be an eco monsieur and woman

Bugatti at breakfast

Lizzie and her family were still slopping about in their night things at 11 am this morning when a very beautiful Bugatti pulled in to park opposite the house. It was two of Lizzie's friends, off on a rally for the day, who had decided to drop in for a cup of coffee on the way.

Imagine, no make up, hair all over the place, all of them looking like rejects from a gypsy encampment. The upper crust encounters the dregs! You've got to laugh............

More visitors

More visitors mean more talking practice.

More talking practice means I'm happy.

Today, Lizzie's sister and brother-in-law are on their way up to see her. Her brother-in-law will go home after a few days but her sister will stay for a couple of weeks at least, then Lizzie will take her back. The photo is of Lizzie and her sister when they were younger and Lizzie is on the right.

Ah.........bless!

Winter Quarters

I'm starting to think about moving into my winter quarters. Last year I went under the stairs in the hall so that I could keep au courant with the coming and goings of the house. However, as I write, my spot is filled up with Lizzie's wine rack and a whole pile of Mr Dancer's wine, packed ready for transportation to England for Xmas.

As the temperature is falling quite severely at night, now, I am really not sure what to do. I'm still on fig duty, but that will end soon, so leaving the veranda is something that we must discuss, sooner rather than later.

October Sunrise

Lizzie took this
from her front door
this morning.

Isn't Autumn
just brilliant!

Drowning by numbers

It has been decided that every house in the commune shall have a number and all the roads will have new names or, will have a name, if they didn't have one before. Now for you in the UK, this will not seem a strange thing to be happening, nor anything that would deserve a mention in my blog. However, in this area, houses in villages have tended not to have numbers. It all works out very well, though, because once the post person knows you, and where you live, they will bring your post to you; not to the house, to you.

Anyway, there have been rumblings about new street names and numbers for some time. This weekend, the numbers have started arriving, being delivered in person, by the mayor's assistant. Again, unlike England, you don't go out and buy your own number. Everyone in the commune is given an enameled numberplate, with two screws and plastic bits to go into the stone. The chosen colour for this commune is deep maroon (to match the shutters on the Mairie), with the number and a border in white. Lizzie's number is 8 and the road will be Rue des Artisanes.

So we're OK so far. However, they have opted to designate individual houses to whichever road their main front door opens on to. What's the problem there? Well, according to the post person, this morning, it has suddenly got more complicated. Take Lizzie's road: Route de Montmorillon. This is the main road that runs through the village and before the number thingy, all the houses along the roadside were on the Route de Montmorillon. Now, the same houses are spread over four roads, even though they are all in a line next to each other. Also, in the hamlet of Villesallem (still part of this commune), where there are just ten houses, there are now four different road names.

It is the talk of the village. Lots are moaning about it and many are refusing to use the new numbers and addresses. People keep saying "C'est ridicule".

Wood for the winter

Today I've been supervising the arrival of the winter wood, or at least some of it. Lizzie will need about three times as much if she is going to be here for most of the winter. You buy it in metre cubes and this is part of it. Space has been cleared on the veranda for quite a lot of it so that Lizzie doesn't have to go out in the rain to bring it in. There is only room for so much, though, so the rest has to be stacked outside under cover.

These logs are 50 cms in length and will just fit in the Gaudin wood burner that was left in the house.

The Accompanist

Now before you say anything............ I know that this doesn't seem like a promising start to a singing career but you have to start where, and with whom, you can. He's keen, at least, although his arms don't exactly inspire confidence!

We're working on the song I wrote about yesterday: April is in My Mistress' face by Thomas Morley. I'm learning the tenor part so I will need to get in some other sheep to sing soprano, alto and bass. It's all very exciting, despite the weird words. This is what I'm aiming for.

I did find this somewhat bizarre version, as well!

A song about 'months' being in a woman.......or something!

Oh, Lizzie says it isn't a song. It's a madrigal. It's in one of Lizzie's music books. (Well, you've got to think positive and assume my singing will improve!) The one that I found, is called April is in my mistress' face. It's by Thomas Morley and he wrote it in 1594 so that means it's really, really old.

The first thing that I was told, when I remarked about it, was that you can't sing 'mistress's face' which I feel sure is better grammar. Lizzie says that's because there are just two notes for the word in the tune: pom pom. Hence mis-tress' (with an apostrophe) fits, but mis-tres-s's doesn't. Phew, it's complicated this singing stuff!

Anyway, the song goes on to say that ...July in her eyes hath place. (Why can't they say 'has'?) Then we move to this mistress's bosom. In there, apparently, is September. I'm not really following this, but I'm trying! The last bit of the madrigal says; But in her heart a cold December. What on earth is that about? It doesn't make any sense to me, at all. 'A cold December' does what, exactly?

I can't see how singing is going to be helping my talking practice in any way at all!

Singing with Leaves

I see my last post was on Monday. I can't believe that the time has gone that quickly.

First of all I'm on fig duty: keeping an eye on the figs that are ripening for Lizzie. Second, I've been helping her with Facebook as her web skills aren't as good as mine. Third, I've been busy with singing practice.

Now before you start wondering what a sheep is doing singing, let me tell you that it is all the rage here. It's early days, of course, so I have been practicing breathing. That's really important if you want to sing well. You have to get a lot of air into your lungs by depressing the diaphragm and getting good 'rib swing'.

Watching figs ripen and doing breathing practice is a good combination. I breathe in as one leaf falls, then make a round baa-ing sound for the duration of a further 2 leaf falls; then three, then four, and so on. Or, to exercise my diaphragm, I hold my breath for one leaf, two leaves, three leaves etc. Of course I give myself permission to breathe if there is a lull in leaf fall, or I might die. Well you've got to be practical about these things.

The title of this post: Singing with Leaves, is a bit like Dancing with Wolves. It's a funny old world!

Recycle the babies

While we're on the subject of fruit/food, the smell of chutney making was wafting, unappetizingly, out onto the veranda, today. Lizzie has been making her annual batch of Green Baby Chutney. It's not a nice smell as it's cooking, because all you can smell is the vinegar and that smells horrible.

Anyway, although it takes ages to make and stinks the place out, I am reliably informed that it tastes pretty brilliant. It's called green baby chutney because it is made from marrows that are the size of a baby and vaguely baby-shaped (except they don't have legs) or arms, of course! I like the name because of the recycling tinge to it and that is very a la mode at the moment. And we like to be a la mode ici en France.

Figs

The figs above my head are starting to ripen. At last! It's a nice word "Fig". It could have a big impact on language and meaning if it was used more often.

The cook, the fig, his wife and her lover. A fig, a fig, my kingdom for a fig. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Fig. Figless in Seattle. The four figs of the Acropolis. Seeking Figs. Lord of the Figs. Much ado about Figs. Four Figs and a Funeral. The Fig Patient. Captain Correlli's Fig. Figs of the Caribbean. A Fig in Paris. Apocalypse Fig. Easy Fig. The Figs of Wrath..........................

Facebook?

What's all this with the 'mini feeds' and 'stories' on Facebook? "John is jointing a chicken", "Jane is eating a marmalade sandwich"? This person has updated their photos; this person has joined/left this or that network, changed their interests or left their wife! OK, I don't know if people say that they've left their wife, but I suppose they could.

I can see why it might be seductive to chronicle your life on the web. Hey, I blog, so I know something of what that's about. But the question is: are you spending a good portion of your life commenting on it?

I know I said, in a previous post, that there should be a 'sheepbook'. However, I'm not sure about that, now. I think the ovine thing in relation to sheep is really important. We are both singular and plural. I'm sure that affects how we think. And we flock. That's probably important, too.

Let's take the word face. I've selected the following from an exceedingly long list of definitions in Rhymezone for your delight and delectation:

• noun: the act of confronting bravely
• noun: the side upon which the use of a thing depends (usually the most prominent surface of an object)
• noun: the general outward appearance of something
• noun: status in the eyes of others
• noun: the front of the human head from the forehead to the chin and ear to ear
• noun: a part of a person that is used to refer to a person
• noun: a surface forming part of the outside of an object
• noun: the expression on a person's face
• verb: turn so as to expose the face
• verb: be opposite
• verb: cover the front or surface of
  
• verb: turn so as to face; turn the face in a certain direction
  
• verb: be oriented in a certain direction, often with respect to another reference point; be opposite to
  

Then there's book
I have chosen the following from another quite long list of definitions:

noun: a compilation of the known facts regarding something or someone

If I select one from the first list and add it to the one I've already selected from the second list, then we could have a definition that reads as follows: Facebook = A part of a person used to refer to a person [together with] A compilation of the known facts regarding ... someone.

And there you have it. Let's face the book and live a mediated life.

Magic

When you are tired of 'when' and 'should'
and long internal strife
There's just a chance that 'magic' could
begin to change your life.

This metaphysics might begin
to offer up a route
By showing you that what's within
will bear external fruit

So ask yourself "What do I need,
to bring good things to me?"
And plant a happy asking seed
to grow a happy tree

What you believe, the world will bring
Please don't expect the worst
Think how your life can be like spring:
So full, you want to burst

Facebook

The lady of the house has been setting up her Facebook page, today. However, I don't think she found it as easy as she had expected. She thinks because I blog every day that she will be as good as I am on the web. I don't think so!

Funny name, that: Facebook. I think there should be a Sheepbook. We could have wool networks, field networks, flock networks, mouton networks for those of us in France, etc.

You put the first coat on..........

You put the first coat on
The first coat off
On-Off, On-Off
Wipe it all about
You do the painty painty and you want to shout
That's what it's all about ...................................when you have painted an expensive matt colour over some French vinyl. It doesn't stick and scratches off. Therefore, you have to scrape the whole lot off. It's taken Lizzie all day. (She's covered from head to toe with white dust.) Then you have to wash the walls down with soap and water. Then you have to rinse them. Then, you have a stiff gin and tonic!

Wait not, want not?

If life is like huge play, then I don't feel as if I figure much on the stage of life. I experience myself as more of a 'bit part' in the life of the lovely Lizzie. I feel as if my place on the veranda is like the wings, so to speak, watching and waiting.

Hmm.......I understand the watching bit but I'm not too sure, now I come to write this, what I'm waiting for: waiting for visitors; waiting for talking practice; waiting for the figs to ripen; waiting to move into my winter quarters?

A definition of waiting is:

· noun: the act of waiting (remaining inactive in one place while expecting something)

· adjective: being and remaining ready and available for use
Waiting doesn't sound much fun, does it? If one is waiting, it sounds as if one isn't actually doing anything or enjoying being in the present moment because all the focus is on some future event, which may or may not happen. That can't be good.

I can see that I need to reconsider my role in my life.

Let's suppose I change my role from a bit-part to the main character. (If I'm not the main character in my life, then I don't know who is!) In this scenario, I could stop seeing myself as waiting in the wings, but moving onto the stage and becoming a full participant in the mise en scene. Then I can play out my role in any way that I consider appropriate. Things will still happen around me, but they will be tangential to my sense of being where I am at this present moment. And, I can write myself content, if I choose. Can't I?

Hmmm.......................Wait not. Want not?

Not at the party

She's not at the party
She's out here in France
It's clear that she won't be
invited to dance

She's chosen to make it
a day to reflect
To potter and sit
Her thoughts to collect

The burning fire gives her
a sense of okay
Though I know she'd prefer
to be far, far away.

Peach time

I know I'm always going on about the figs that are on the tree just above where I stand on the veranda but, because of the weather this year, they aren't ripening very well.

It is peach time, however. This photo is of peaches in the garden last year. Don't they look good?

There were three varieties: yellow, white and red. I say were, because the red one fell over last year. It was cut off at ground level and although a new one has sprung from the stump, it is too soon for it to be having fruit. Then this year, the white peach tree died and had to be cut down. Only the yellow peach tree (the oldest) is left. It was so laden with fruit that Lisbeth had to prop some branches up because they were so heavy they were touching the ground.

It is truly the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!

All in a name

I have become aware that several of Lisbeth's newer friends call her Lizzie. I have no idea why, nor does she. She didn't ask them to, or anything, they just started using it. She told me that a couple of people, quite independently, said they wanted to use 'Lizzie' because they liked it and felt that it really suited her.

I am finding it a bit confusing because some people call her Elizabeth, some French people call her Lisbeth (pronounced Liz-bet). Old friends and family call her Liz and now there's Lizzie. And none of these are her first, birth name, anyway!

P.S. If you want to pass a few useless moments, you can get your very own Chinese name based on your birth name (in proper Chinese writing) from this web page.

Towers don't think

One of the towers from Chateau Touffou

It doesn't think.

It doesn't know it's a tower.

It just is.

I think, therefore.........

I think, therefore I am
I think, therefore I am a sheep
I think, therefore I am a sheep sculpture
I think, therefore I can
I think, therefore I can think
I think, therefore I can think anything
I think, therefore I can think I am a sheep
I think, therefore I can think I am a sheep sculpture
I think, therefore I am

Of course, if I didn't spend my entire time thinking, then I would have more time to just be. If I was just being, then notions of 'I', 'am' and 'can' would be irrelevant. Entity is. End of story.

I think, therefore I am a sheep sculpture

Well now. It's been a bit of a special day for me and for that, I am indebted to Andy B: Mr Occasional Stirrings. Special because? Because he has taken the time to write a lengthy and in-depth comment to my Thursday post. In that post, I was pondering the idea that I might be a boltzmann brain. In his comment, Andy B explains very succinctly (and amusingly) why, and how, I can "rest easy" in the knowledge that I really am a sheep sculpture and that I really do blog. Isn't that nice of him to take the time?

So if I really am a sheep sculpture and I really do blog, then this is the real world and I am in it: thinking and being (and blogging). Exciting stuff for an ovine mind (and very comforting). Thanks, Andy B.

That being said, I would like to hold on to the essence of my being some sort of cosmic entity. (I am stardust, after all.) Also, it is a little disappointing to discover that you're not an entity (like a boltzmann brain) that came into being as the result of some chance fluctuations in the universe, because that sort of thing sounds so romantic and mysterious. So........... I was wondering if my cosmic roots could be traced through the word 'ovine'?

Let us suppose, for the sake of argument, that the word 'ovine' is the result of some sort of verbal corruption over the years. Suppose before 'ovine' the word had been 'dovine'. Then, even earlier, the word had been 'divine'? If that sounds anything like a reasonable posit, then one could argue, that this definition captures what it's like to be me:

"of such surpassing excellence as to suggest divine inspiration."

I write, therefore I am diverting myself

If I am a Boltzmann Brain, then I suppose this blog could be viewed as a bit of a brain dump? Not that I think I have a great deal of useful information to discharge. Maybe it's more of a divertissement.

I write, therefore I divert myself. From what, you might be asking? Well, from life! From being too serious about it, I suppose. That's the problem with being an entity and having a brain: you think. If you think, then it's hard to keep present. It's as if you have two parallel lives: the one where you do stuff in the real world and the one that exists in your mind. The mind seems less easy to organize and control because it has a proclivity for depressing thoughts about the past or the future; both of which are irrelevant to the present moment.

One of the definitions of divertissement (Websters 1913 Dictionary) says it is some form of "entertainment between the acts of a play". Well that is what writing this blog is for me: a diverting pause between the various acts of my life.

I think, therefore I am a Bolzmann Brain

I think I am a boltzmann brain
I think, therefore I am
I'm here from quite another plane
So wasn't once a lamb

I'm here, by chance, in this strange land
I'm self aware and smart
An entity that wasn't planned
A cosmic work of art

I am a brain, I know it's true
From fluctuations rare
And random things that could construe
a sheep, out of thin air

The thinking sheep's brain

There seems to be a lot of chit chat on the web at the moment about Boltzmann Brains. And I was wondering (as you do, on a quiet September day in France) if I might actually be one? The thought came to me after I read Mr Occasional Stirrings' post, a while back, in which he talks about these brain thingys.

So what is a Boltzmann Brain? Well, you need to think universe, then imagine an entity (kind of cosmic) which is supposedly self aware (so it sort of lives) suddenly creating itself (just like that) in a hypothetical future. This happens entirely by chance, (that's very important) as a result of fluctuations that occur randomly; which themselves arise out of some sort of future cosmic, chaotic state. (Phew!)

Now then, if we suppose that what I've described above was hypothesized many light years ago, then I, being self aware, could be a Boltzmann Brain believing itself to be a sheep sculpture. I could be here, now, because of some past prediction of a future random chaotic fluctuation that has already occurred in the universe and, quite by chance, up I popped in France! Well, it's a thought!

And why not! Another Boltzmann Brain is blogging under his BB name!

Acrylic nightmare

Water-based chalky paint doesn't go over acrylic paint. How do I know? Because Lisbeth has painted the bedroom in the flat and, on two of the walls, the paint scratches off. She hadn't realised that they were already painted with a white acrylic paint until after she had finished. It's a bit of a disaster as she doesn't know what to do. After trying to get some of it off - unsuccessfully, as it won't all come off - she has contacted Craig and Rose and asked them what to do. As I write, she is waiting for a reply. The customer services have forwarded her email to their laboratories.

The paint she is using is called Hemp Beige. It sounds pretty drab but she says it is very nice and restful. The other colours she wants to use are Mortlake Cream and Deep Sung Cream. However, she has had a good look at the other walls in other rooms and is pretty sure that all of them have had acrylic paint on them, so she won't be able to use any of the paint she's bought!

She's not a happy bunny!

Being still with the dog

Here is my friend the 'Master's Voice' dog. He is propping open the door. He knows how to be still. He is very good at it: being still and keeping the door propped.

He is still
He is still a dog
He is a dog being still
Still, being a dog
Still a dog
Being still

Being still

Being still. Is it important to do some 'being still'?

I overheard Lisbeth talking about this with a friend the other day and it struck me that you humans spend a lot of time rushing about with this and that: working, shopping, watching TV, spending time on the computer, working on various projects etc. They were talking about how hard it is to fit everything in, as if life is a constant struggle to manage time rather than live through it.

Arbitrarily divided into smaller sections, it would appear that time sits waiting to be filled with the stuff of living. How often, I asked Lisbeth, do you just experience the passing of time; time as a presence in itself and not as something waiting to be filled?

For me (a sheep of sculptural proportions) I spend a lot of time being still: just standing and being there. It's like Canadian writer Frank Baron says in his blog (Random Musings) "Try it. You'll learn stuff." Pohangina Pete talks about being still, as well (with some great photos).

So that is what I will be encouraging Lisbeth to do: have 'sheep time', be still and, more importantly, be there.

Facing the point

Keep your pyramid on the ground
Make sure it's the right way round
Look towards the pointy end
See the project as your friend

Never look from point to base
Think of it as a visual space
As a metaphor for things
Projects don't have apron strings

Don't be tied to negative views
Teach yourself how to enthuse
Turn your head from base to point
Then your life won't disappoint

Legumes?

To have a break from working in the flat, today, Lisbeth has been restocking patches of her vegetable garden with things for the winter. She planted another big patch of leeks and then moved on to plant these sprouty things shown at the bottom of the bed. I can't tell you what they are because Lisbeth doesn't know.

She bought them from one of the producteurs in the market, when buying the leeks. The man said that they were a winter vegetable and, although she couldn't work out exactly what they were, she decided to give them a go.

They look a bit cabbagey to me but we shall just have to wait and see. Whatever they are, it will make a change from leeks. It is pretty much 'leek city' down there!

Pyramid Live

While we're on the subject of pyramids, I thought you might be interested in this site. It's the first live web cam on the pyramids at Giza. How cool is that!

For something a little less cool, you could acquire plans showing how to build your very own "Deluxe Giza Meditation Pyramid"

I suppose it might be interesting to meditate inside a pyramid, instead of under the fig tree. Perhaps this mini pyramid would do?

Pyramids do seem to have some amazing powers, if this article is to be believed. It seems that bunnies grow quicker, and into better bunnies, if kept in a Giza replica pyramid hutch.

Keep y'r pyramid up

While Mr Dancer was here on holiday, he talked about seeing projects in terms of a pyramid. That is, do you see what needs to be done from the point or from the base.

It seems that if you see projects in your life from the point looking to the base, what's in front of your seems huge and overwhelming because it just gets bigger. If, on the other hand, you see it from the base, then the task in front of you diminishes, as you head pointwards.

Now, I know I'm a sheep of somewhat challenged brain capacity, but even I can see that this analogy isn't a world beater. However, you get the drift....................

Lisbeth can get overwhelmed by what there is to do on her projects here, in France, and things left to do in England. Mr Dancer says that when this happens, she sees it from the point position: everything just stretching away, getting bigger. So he was encouraging her to see things from the base. This way, the work diminishes as things get done and, bit by bit, she can know that projects will be achieved and life will get easier to manage.

I am pleased to report, Mr Dancer, that despite the traumas of her legal problems, she is managing to keep herself grounded and is, I feel, envisioning her projects from the base of the pyramid, more often than from the point.

Cape Crusader

Well done, Maud, for guessing that Saturday's picture was on it's side and thanks Andy B for your 'cell-by' comment. I must confess to, not only turning it on it's side, but to chopping off my house mate's feet.

As you can see, she's under a sort of camouflage cape. The location is Futuroscope and she's in one of the interactive buildings that has animal stuff in it.

How to ride a sheep

Now I'm not suggesting that sheep like to be ridden, nor is it something that I would advocate. However, as this little chap seems to be having such a good time, and the sheep in question appears not unwilling to oblige, everyone seems happy.

And while you're viewing, you can be thinking up a caption for Saturday's post!

See Yesterday's post

Distracting myself

Lisbeth's time is taken up with this avocat stuff

I'm bored with the bad weather

I need a distraction

Any suggestions for a caption?

Go on...... You know you want to!

Losing a day

I seem to have lost a small day
By not posting, it's just slipped away
It was Thursday, I think
It was gone in a wink
I'm so glad I don't wear a toupee

The one that I saw wasn't nice
And my days of the week aren't precise
Is this losing thing real?
Is this poem surreal?
Do you think posting late will suffice?

Well, it's Friday today, that is clear
It's not lost cos it's already here
So I'll get on my way
and forget that toupee
So this ode can be posted right here

Blowing in the wind

Oh dear...............Lisbeth is really down this evening. She had a good start to the day having worked really hard on stuff for the flat, clearing stuff with the builder, as well as taking a great load of horrible building rubbish to the tip in the rain.

However, late this afternoon, she went to collect her four-inch thick dossier from her avocat. (Progress on her legal battle with a neighbour is nonexistent, so she has decided to find yet another, new avocat!) She had geared herself up to protest at the bill, but found that she wasn't asked to pay any more. (This avocat knows that Lisbeth isn't happy and that nothing much has been achieved.) However, the four-inch thick pile of documents had somehow decreased to about one inch. Lisbeth was horrified. Where are the rest of the documents? What makes it worse, is that after 5 years of wrangling, Lisbeth isn't entirely sure what might be missing.

To make matters worse, her avocat told her that, after their last meeting, she had been involved in a car accident, on her way home. Lisbeth's dossier was on the front seat and, in the impact, went flying out into a field, scattering all her important legal documents in the wind! Apparently the fire brigade were dispatched to gather them up. Her avocat claims that none were, lost although some 'might be a bit muddy!'

Whatever the reason for the missing documents, Lisbeth now has the arduous job of trying to work out what might be missing and then trying to recover them. After that.................?

This whole thing is just a nightmare!

Kombucha baby

I don't know why Lisbeth has called this creature 'Mr' Kombucha. It is a living creature but, as some sort of fungusy, mushroomy thing, it is surely genderless? However, it was called Mr Kombucha back in March last year, just before Lisbeth wrote a poem about him, and the name has stuck.

Kombucha's do have babies. They are created under the parent and are usually found when the the liquid that they live in is changed for a fresh brew. I hate to say this, but Lisbeth has been somewhat remiss in changing the brew, recently. Ideally, it is done every 6-10 days. Unfortunately, while she's had visitors, she has left him for more than the 10 days. (Quite a lot more, actually!)

A couple of days ago, she finally got round to renewing the brew and was surprised to find how heavy her Kombucha had become; quite a lot heavier, in fact. On further inspection, it became evident that the increase in weight was not only due to the fact that it had produced a baby, but that the baby had grown to the same size as the parent: some 7 inches across!

Feeling bad about this, she has advertised the baby on one of the 'English in France' sites, on the web. In the meantime, this giant Kombucha baby is being kept in the fridge, where they can be kept dormant for a while. I think! I hope!

Ironing paper

I know my house-mate can be a bit strange, but today I found her ironing paper.

It seems that a friend in the next village had asked her to inquire at the mayor's office, if it would be possible to put up a small A4 poster advertising a vintage and classic car rally.

Lisbeth set off with the poster in the direction of the office, stopping off at her next door (but one) neighbour to give them some leeks. On being offered a cup of tea, she left the poster in the hall (so as not to forget it when she left) and stayed for tea and a chat.

Crossing the hall on her way out, Lisbeth found that the poster had gone. When asked about it, her neighbour said that she had thought it was rubbish left over from the post so had crumpled it up and thrown it away.

Hence, Lisbeth has been ironing it in the hope of making it presentable.

Droppings? It seems not

Apparently, it's some sort of fungus. Lisbeth's friend, who has a house in the Charente, says that he has the same thing. Like Lisbeth, it comes after it has rained. He says that the spores are in the ground and when it rains, they are triggered to produce these greenish, sea weedy blobs of stuff. Not entirely exciting, and somewhat disappointing, me thinks!

Droppings?

I'm trying to help Lisbeth identify these. She thinks that they are probably droppings of some kind.

They are on the path by the bamboo and on the path next to a Pavillon de la Musique. Just those two places and nowhere else.

They are sloppy and look like regurgitated fruit, so she doesn't think it's owls. She wondered about bats but each dropping is as big as a bat's body in itself, so it can't be bats. Any suggestions?

Joining the Dots

If our lives were like joining the dots
I suppose there would be lots and lots
We'd have choice where to go
To go fast or go slow
Trying not to get ourselves in knots

Would a picture begin to appear
as the joining went outwards from here?
Is it already mapped
so we always feel trapped
and unable to find a new sphere?

If we found we could make something new
by joining the dots two by two
Then the lines could create
an entirely new state
full of joy that we'd want to renew

So let all the new dots be your guide
Losing any that won't subdivide
Then with courage and heart
take your life pen and start
joining up, with a new sense of pride

An August fire

Nothing interesting

Just so you know: the church clock is back working and Tuesday night is still wind-up night for the grandfather clock chez nous.

The weather remains wet and wintry. Lisbeth has even considered lighting the fire, in August! Unheard of here in France. The garden continues to grow, when normally the heat of the sun would have slowed it right down. All in all, we could be in the UK.

There's not much else to say, really. I am even thinking of moving inside fairly soon as the veranda is not very exciting without Lisbeth or visitors to talk to. Hey ho!

Accusative Case

Am I an accusative case?
A noun that does not know its place?
An object of being
or just of your seeing
in stories, that never took place?

My sense of belonging is thin
In a script that I'm not sure I'm in
Perhaps I'm a verb
with a half written blurb
to explain where I hope to begin?

So I'll live, without time to reflect,
in a space where there's no disconnect
Just the sense of a verb
With a noun, quite superb,
which enables a future perfect

The picnic

This is France in August. This is the picnic site. It rained. Lisbeth got wet as did everyone else. They ate a lot and laughed a lot but got cold in the wet atmosphere. I stayed nice and dry on the veranda.

Things happen?

You never know how things are going to work out, do you: life, and stuff? I'm not absolutely sure that being in France is the right thing for me, but hey, who would know, if I don't? I suppose there isn't a right answer because each day is each day. Some say that what happens tomorrow, next week, or next year, is very much dependent upon what happens today: either in practice or in the thoughts that we will have today.

So, if I did know what I wanted to happen, how would I make it happen? It seems that "For anything to happen there has to be a transfer or change or conversion of Energy. A transfer from one type of energy to another type - like from chemical to mechanical, or potential to kinetic."

That means that if I find that life here in France isn't for me, and want to be a sheep-star, then I will need to turn potential energy into kinetic energy and get myself along to these auditions.

Grammar it home

I don't know whether you have noticed but, from time to time, I make a spelling mistake or, even worse, a grammatical error. Luckily, I have a monitor (Mr Writer) who very kindly mails me, if he spots anything not quite right. I hate making mistakes, especially as my blog is called talking practice. Although talking isn't the same as writing. Lisbeth gets by in French in talking mode, but her writing isn't anything like as good. What I do in this blog is write what I say. So although it's written, it's me talking and so it is still my talking practice - if you see what I mean? Most of the errors are just typos because I've altered the sentence and not changed the grammar, but a mistake is a mistake is a mistake!

I know I don't make that many and they're usually not terrible ones. However, I don't like to make any, so thank you, Mr Writer, for your attention to detail and your kindly reminders. Here are some visual mistakes for your delight and delectation.

The sound of silence

So where are we and what's what?

Lisbeth's visitors have gone and we are back to being just tous les deux. The house is quiet and the weather is not much to write home (or a blog) about. In fact, things are particularly quiet as the church clock has stopped and time is standing still. It is really odd, not having it mark the passing of time. Despite visitors' fears, you don't hear it chime as often as you might think. There is something about its reassuring regularity that seems to render it unnoticeable (unless you pay attention, or need to know what the time is). However, when it stops working, you can hear the silence brought about by its absence of presence. It is most unsettling.

Those of you who have been reading me for some time will know that I like phrases like 'absence of presence' and that I will have been doing some surfing. Well, you're not wrong!

For the philosophically minded, this article Hearing Silence: The perception and introspection of absences makes fascinating reading. Also, did you know that if a composer creates a few seconds of silence during a piece of music, it will trigger a response in the brain that will enable listeners to break the piece of music into digestible chunks; to pay attention and anticipate what comes next? So say researchers at Stanford University School of Medicine.

Then there's that John Cage person who created a 'silent' piece: 4'33" In this, the listeners are enabled to 'listen' to all the sounds that would be masked by the playing of music. (So none is played - obviously - for 4 minutes and 33 seconds - exactly)

Or, you could think of it in terms of absence as presence

Whichever! The clock isn't working and we miss it!

The puzzle is finished

The puzzle is finished
The last piece goes in
A sense of achievement
It feels like a win
The painting shines out
Yes, Monet, that's him
All's well that ends well
So let's have a gin

Under the tree

I think I should write a new rhyme
It seems it's been quite a long time
since I put hoof to keys
and said "If you please,
be my guests, as we just pass the time".

So what shall we talk of today?
Shall we choose to be sad or make hay?
If you stood in a queue
would you know what to do
with your life, before you went grey?

But maybe there's nothing to do
And nothing to make you feel blue
So just sit and have tea
under that lovely tree
And enjoy who you are, being you.

Vitruvian Mouton

How cool is this picture! At last, we have found our place in the art world. Eat your heart out Leonardo.

Identity

OK, enough of all this clock stuff and Lisbeth's trips. "How are you doing, personally?" I hear my readers asking.

Well, not too badly, actually. Thanks for taking an interest. It is getting a bit cool on the veranda at night and early in the morning; nothing at all like August, but other than that, I'm fine.

Anyway............ As it's Sunday, I've been thinking about 'Identity'. This is partly because I've had a couple of comments from someone who is having a bit of an identity crisis: identity in terms of gender, as opposed to personality (although the two are clearly linked). This has caused me to reflect upon how I knew I was 'Monsieur' Mouton as opposed to 'Madame' Mouton. I'm sorry to say that I don't really have any logical explanation. I suppose it just felt right. (Although being a sheep sculpture I suppose I can be whoever I want to be.)

So does this make a difference as to how I think about myself: my being able to choose? The self-development gurus would have us believe that we can be whoever we want to be although they don't always mean that in relation to gender. Do they?

In terms of identity, then, are we to look to psychology or philosophy for help? Also, can we really change at an identity level? From what to what? Is there anything that is stable, or a given? Are we the same every day? Will I be the same next week or next year? I choose to be 'Monsieur' Mouton. I have a self concept of myself as Monsieur Mouton (with capitals). I believe I am a happy sheep, who is reasonably intelligent and contributing to life, by commenting on it. But perhaps I can be something different if I want to be? (Although I don't think I would want to be Madame Mouton.)

I think I like Hume's Bundle Theory where he suggests that we are "... a bundle or collection of different perceptions...", and that these perceptions are "... in perpetual flux and movement". Hence, "The question of personal identity then becomes a matter of characterizing the loose cohesion of one's personal experience."

My personal experience is mapped out on my webpage and in this blog. I am a big bundle of woolly mouton perceptions and enjoying my loose cohesions!

How about you?

Les Nuits Romanes

Lisbeth has been out and about attending some of 'Les Nuits Romanes' series of Spectacles around her part of France

They have involved guided tours of historic buildings, music, actors, lots of candles (because they are at night) and free food from the area.

The one on the left was in her commune and she helped out with the preparation of the food. The one on the right was about 30 minutes away and she was just a spectator.