What a Guy Could Do…

“Well, you know…what a guy could do…”

That’s my dad’s voice coming from some Sunday shaded chair on his front deck. The breeze blows the wind chimes and his voice lilts with tones of expansive potential. Creation: Stage One. The inspiration, the brainstorm, the imaginings. The spark of fire it takes to ignite anything that will have its becoming.

I love it when he talks like this. When anyone does, really. When any of us start to stretch our vision to new places. When an idea takes hold and begins to unfurl to scapes unknown and boundless.

I recently learned about a place in Southern France that started as one such vision for a postman named Ferninand Cheval. He was not an architect or a builder but he created a phenomenal structure that he would call “Le Palais idéal” (the “Ideal Palace”) in Hauterives.

courtesy of internationalpics

The story goes that the idea struck him when he tripped on a stone. After that toe-stubbing moment, it was 33 years and a wheelbarrow.

His creations are incredible. Some would categorize his work as “naive art architecture,” meaning, it was created without any formal training or refined technique.

Maybe for dreams as inspired as Cheval’s, one needs to be a bit naive. Forget the naysayers. He built a palace one stone at a time.

You know…what a guy (or gal) could do…

courtesy of Lisa Thatcher

The Substance of Pumpkins

by dim light
cast from
the stove top range
I wrestle with the brushes
from an eight year old’s
paint set
moving colored water
across paper
in 4am dark
quiet
I don’t want to wake anyone
just feel
the weight
of all things
pumpkin
still fresh
from the dream

armloads of thick-skinned
squashes
root vegetables
ten pound pumpkins
all set and sorted
to be plated in gold

a bracelet offered
that fit
half my forearm
rainbow moonstone
milky irridescence
squared
in rosy
copper banding

interpreters of dreams
suggest
the essence
holds the meaning

friends bestowing
substantial treasures

I’m the first one
in my house
this morning
awake
layering oranges and greens
in the corner of the kitchen
no reason

outlining
two dimensions
in gold

Post Script: Time Zone and Grass

Yesterday’s poem was a quick attempt to capture two things: a fleeting dream, rich with color and feeling, and the fact that I was racing time just to write about it.

(This morning, my challenge with time may be no different. I hear Jeb rustling in his room, now as I type. The current time is one minute to 5:00am. How early must a woman wake to write in peace?!)

Since the Archives serves as a record of daily chronicles and I love to discover threads of the profound in the mundane, I will report the following details.

Tuesday evening I had a vivid dream in which the Bohemian and I, along with some close friends, were living in a natural, outdoor dwelling near the sea. He and I were finding patches of land where the lawn was dry and we were seeding those spots for soft, green grass.

Inspired to write a poem about it and share it here, I found myself up against the clock in the process. This further lent material to the poem, as I pondered time and space and that fascinating land of dreams which seems to both bridge, transcend (and pleasantly suspend) linear time.

The poem was nothing spectacular (hence I won’t bother reposting it here, though you can review it on yesterday’s post if you’re curious) but I got it finished in time to take Jeb to his bus stop.

I mentioned the dream to the Bohemian while we made breakfast. Spent, probably, three sentences on the topic, then he went to work with our friends and I left for my work day.

At day’s end, the Bohemian arrives home with his traditional whistle as he opens the front door. I whistle back. He climbs the stairs and comes into view, his t-shirt and corduroys dusty and damp with sweat, his face smiling.

“Hi Jess. How are you?”

“I’m well,” I say, happily assessing his figure and searching his face for clues. “How are you doing?”

I’m always curious what the Bohemian’s work day has entailed, as he works on our friends’ farm near the ocean where tasks vary by the day. Sometimes planting, sometimes clearing brush. They may build a greenhouse or cut back trees. No one day is the same.

“I’m good! Guess what I did today?” he asks with a grin.

“What?”

“I planted grass.” He’s smiling bigger.

And just for the record, the friends we were with in my dream, are the very friends he works with. The ones with which he spent the day planting grass.

“No way! Really?”

He nods. “Yep. See? Dreams really do come true.”

courtesy of Muffet