Getting to know the freaky metro busking girls

A few nights ago I worked late, so was not exposed to my usual repertoire of Metro buskers on the way home.

Instead of my usual favourites (heroin addict pan flautist, lesbian pop duo or quebecios jacques brel, to name a few...) there were these two girls doing a bizarre, art-folk-fiddle-singing-step-dance thing.

I honestly couldn't tell if they were crazy art groundbreakers or just really, really bad.

I was confounded enough that they made their way into my dream:

J and I were hosting a party and this troupe of famous Slovakian folk artists showed up. Naturally, two of the eight or so musicians were these two girls. We were making idle conversation about where they were from, etc...

Then I noticed a newspaper article posted on the wall. It said that these very musicians had come to Canada on tour, and had suddenly gone missing. They had gone underground. Yet here they were standing in my living room.

They explained that it would be easier to live in Canada if they were anonymous.

I then took the two art-folk-fiddle-singing-step-dance girls aside and explained that they would be better off not busking in the metro if they wanted to stay anonymous. Now that they had been mentioned in the paper, someone was bound to recognize them.

Our friendly, neighbourhood Quebec celebrity

I dreamed that this down-and-out guy who I see around the neighbourhood was actually a famous Quebec movie star. I saw him in a movie, and he looked exactly the same as he does when I see him in the street... bloated and spaced out.

Doing time for short skirts and hijinks on the bus

My old friend Popi and I were on the bus, wearing short skirts and being really obnoxious. There were some old ladies nearby who were getting particularly crabby.

Later, it was clear that we had been very naughty on the bus and were going to get into trouble. I ended up at a trial where the old ladies described our transgressions.

I knew that what we did was not a big deal, and was hoping for a chance to defend myself. But when I started to speak, the judge said that we both had to go to jail.

I was astounded that girlish misbehaviour could have such a harsh punishment. I began to wonder just what it was like to be in jail and how I would handle it. In the next scene, I was in a jail cell, bored and confounded that my life had come to this...

Does more sleep = more dreams and a higher I.Q.?

After something like three years of less-than-perfect sleep, last week everyone in our house -- age one to 43 -- began to sleep all night.

It's beautiful... to wake up at 6 a.m., think it's the middle of the night and then realize: "OMG... I actually slept all night."

I'm waiting for the corresponding leap in my I.Q.... and the realization that maybe we've all been mentally retarded for the past three years.

Or... does lost sleep damage you forever? If that's the case, then add it to the list of irrevocable damages I've inflicted on myself. What's done is done.

Oh yeah, and all this to say, get ready for a fresh crop of dreams...

Visiting the heart of the festival

I was at some kind of giant festival, with lots of crazy things going on, when I got a glimpse into the inner circle. I climbed a fence and looked down on a vast, grassy farm.

High above the grass, young people in twos and threes were swinging on giant, wooden swings. There were little gardens, high in the trees. Each garden was rough hewn, but lovingly cultivated on little tree balconies.

I knew that I was witnessing something very special and I wanted to be a part of it. I also understood that these people earned all these pleasures: the garden, the swings... They worked hard.

I so badly wanted to know more that I scaled the fence and jumped down into the grass on the other side. The festival behind me seemed empty compared to what I was about to experience.

I followed a path to the farmhouse and went inside. There were animals and gardens inside the house. It was a kind of commune, with nice, wholesome kids tending animals and preparing vegetables.

An old woman greeted me, and I understood that this was the true heart of whatever good things the festival had to offer. And I knew that these kids worked hard, year round, to build their paradise.

And I knew that I didn't belong, but was welcome to earn my place there if I worked hard, not to be part of the festival but because I was part of something bigger.

The G spot: Giacondi Nero d'Avola 2007

Every time I try to post about this wine, this little guy dressed in green comes into the room and tries to climb on my lap. Really. I think he's trying to tell us something. Something about temperance, maybe.

Since J is on antibiotics, all responsibility for finishing this bottle of Giacondi Nero d'Avola 2007 has fallen on my shoulders. And naturally I'm taking this responsibilty pretty seriously.

Made from what they call "the black grape of Avola", Giacondi starts out with a blast of almost agressive goodness, then drifts away, like a wallflower at a party. But this little fade tempers the first bite with class... like it knows what it's doing.

Breaking cats legs...?

A couple of nights ago, I dreamed a strange dream. Swirling chaos dream. Nancy Neamtam was in it. I was involved in some kind of competition. I had to cross rivers and fight wild animals that wanted to kill me. I found myself fighting very savage very large house cats, that wouldn't stop trying to scratch me savagely and I had to break their legs and paws to keep them from ripping into my flesh. Walking in water. Struggling. Was this the Amazon, or Northern Quebec?