An irregular, irreverent, post-modern account of the surreal, the ordinary, and the bizarre happenings on and around the Felia lavender farm in Crete

Saturday, May 27, 2006

Let sleeping dogs lie

Gilbert was on his second Fix of the next day. He was leaning back from the iMac and "writing" in
his online notebook. His head was awash with questions. Solving one problem - the typewriter - just gave rise to more: like cutting off a head of the hydra. His notebook kept filling with questions. Besides which he had been up until 6 this morning rooting around at the Laz's place and he had got up at 8:15 to give Abby a lie-in. He wasn't sleeping well these days irrespective of nocturnal visitations. At least he didn't have too much truck with Dick these nights. Laz was making Dick yet more moronic than he had himself: and tht was saying something - nosey and moronic - yowza yowza (where did that come from?). He wondered what this writer had in store for him - personally. Did he actually harbour evil intent? Dick had intimated as much but then Dick was no Einstein nor even an Eisenstein. He hadn't ever made a film let alone a theory.

Abby was out in the garden - not the farm, the garden - cutting back wild flowers that had died and withered - pulling browned burr clover into piles with her trusty mattock. Radio 4 was playing in the background. Bouboura's, the big black bees that inhabited the farm at this time of year, buzzed in and out of the open windows. The dogs were sleeping in the shade of the palm leaves that Gilbert had arranged on the roof of their run to keep out the rain in winter: in summer they kept out the worst heat of the day. They knew now how to seek out and savour the shade on these hot days now that they were approaching maturity and most days now they simply relaxed and followed the shade.

Gilbert shuffled over to the fridge and found no more Fix. He determined to go back that night and to investigate those chinese boxes - see if he could decipher those worn inscriptions. To see if he could open one. No matter that he was short of sleep. For the rest of the evening he would see if he couldn't work out the relevance of Dave, and Trellis: he knew that the answers were close but ... being on the tip of the tongue does not make it possible to articulate. It suddenly struck him that he needed consolidation time - maybe he should rest tonight.

(to be continued ... )


  1. Evidence of Gilbert's tiredness would appear to be his transliteration in his chosen title. Surely it should be "Let sleeping logs die"?

    As for Dick, was one of his forebears not Isaac Stein, the author of that seminal work "Stimulating Creativity"? An edifying read, if ever there was one though not, in my humble opinion, as vivid and meaningful as Nicholas Roukes' "Design Synetics: Stimulating Creativity in Design" which makes my paltry efforts shrink into insignificance.

    Just thought I'd share these idle ramblings with you all.

  2. So - you think we should just kill the sleeping logs off?

  3. You're the fellow in charge of the Husqvarna, not me.

    Besides, I rather enjoy exploring the coruscations and contours of these mental maps you are drawing for us all.

    As always, the questions "What's he on about now" and "Where's this going next" spring to mind, but at my age I am in constat need for mental stimulation to remind me that I haven't yet passed away...or am I a butterfly dreaming etc?