Chocolate.

The vast majority of my dreams are nightmares. Usually, I don't remember them; I just wake up feeling miserable and I can't quite put my finger on why. Sometimes, though, something indescribably horrible that's passed through my brain wakes me up and I lie there, shivering, wheezing, afraid to move.*

Am thankful for the nights when the dreams aren't panic-inducing. In the sleep world, I walk around and observe the differences between what my brain's processing and the real world. Sometimes I find myself referencing other dreams and wondering how they influenced what I'm dreaming now.

I know I dream in color. What's also interesting is that I experience other sensations: taste and touch are the most intense, memorable. Have also heard music and when I was a better transcriber of sound, would sometimes try to catch the melodies on paper. Scent happens, but not that often.

Another interesting note is that, with maybe one exception, these not-nightmares are incredibly prosaic. The last one I had a few nights ago was just me walking around during a work break looking for a snack.

***

East Cambridge, like Somerville and lots of other urban neighborhoods in the West is "in transition." Since I quit the job at the Human Services agency, I don't get out there as often as I used to. Every time I do return, I'm surprised at how different things look.

In my dream, I was wandering up Cambridge street marveling at the spruced-up facades of the bistros and artsy boutiques replacing the dusty old guard bodegas and bakeries. When I got to the courthouse, I turned down a side street to look at new paint jobs on old triples, signs of sand-blasting on the row houses. That afternoon in my dream, it was as unseasonably warm and humid as it had been in Real Life a little while ago. Feeling a bit hungry (really thirst; I mistake the two a lot. Am getting better at recognizing the difference.), I figured I'd head back up to the main drag to find a little bit** of something to eat before heading home. Two blocks before Cambridge Street, I was surprised to find a former common but now all-but-extinct fixture: a corner store on the first floor of an apartment building in a residential neighborhood***.

Had to take a look. Heard the jingle of small bells above the door that announced new customers; noted the brightness of the interior (thanks to both a new paint job on the walls and the clean to sparkling white octagonal tiles on the floor). Further back, a man at the register, waved to me. I waved back. The small group surrounding him, silent for a few seconds, resumed their conversation.

Though the fellow and his friends didn't look like the usual Portuguese shopkeepers (I think they were Indian, actually. Maybe North African. Wasn't really paying attention.), they certainly kept the full complement of Portuguese items in stock. Found the jarred fava beans, the hardtack, the sardines in oil and the dried cod. Noted as well the several different varieties of sausage and the fresh cheeses. All this, plus a wonderful candy rack - which was exactly what I was looking for. Oh dear! What to choose? I wasn't in the mood for any of the normal European stuff - too sugary. Weighed a Necco bar (the one with the four fillings) against something English and plain block of Hershey's. Decided on the Necco one. Grabbed a banana to complement it nutritionally. Noting that I still had $2 left, decided to get a soda to round things out. (Diet Coke goes best with junk chocolate, by the way).

On my trip back to the register, found myself in a small ice cream parlor, all varnished wood and marble ****. "Tiens," I thought to myself, "how'd this get here? These fellows must have bought up the entire ground floor. How nice, too, to keep the original soda fountain. Karen and Aimee have just got to see this." Picked up a menu to look at, wished the waitress a good day, then continued on to the next area, even bigger and more surprising than the last. The only way that my mind could make sense of the fifties-styled lunch counter, all shiny chrome and oxblood naugahyde, was that I was dreaming. There was no way that this alone could fit within the floor plan of the building, much less attached to a soda fountain and grocery. My dreaming brain flipped back through its card catalog and found the reference: one night a few months back, was descending an endless stairway in a brick building in the old Double-Vey neighborhood (Main and Winspear, in fact - right by Parkside). Didn't see her, but knew that my Grandma was with me again. We were communicating about the apple-cinnamon doughnuts we smelled being made on the first floor.

Happy to have this figured out, I hurried back to the register, paid for my snack and found myself outside again.

I don't remember much beyond that; must have been about then that I woke. Strange: on waking up, my mouth had that feeling that one gets when one's eaten a sort of stale, cheap chocolate bar on a hot day.

***

* It's been this way since I was about 10-11 years old. Lots of moderately bad dreams that I don't remember and, until recently, a truly horrible dream 3-4 times a year. I used to write these down in an attempt to come to grips with them, but just don't bother any more.

** $3.50 worth - I knew that that was exactly what I had in my wallet. Like I said: Prosaic. But Detailed.

*** The actual building is on Cambridge and Trowbridge; cleaned up nicely, went condo. The first floor occupants, though, are actually a hat shop and a beauty salon.

**** I had to have been thinking about Parkside Candy back in Buffalo. Though it's seen better days, is one of the few old school soda fountains out there with the original fixtures.

While I was away, the kitchen and bathroom were slated to be renovated. For whatever reasons, those two jobs didn't happen. (Bathroom may start in a month or so; Kitchen's been put until next Spring.) Instead, some more work on the top floor of the house was done and a new roof was put on. Though this all was pretty painful to live through, the results are spectacular.



This is the view to the north of us from the new balcony that replaced the poorly-designed, rotten and dangerous spare room that was out my bedroom door. Dreams of conservatories and pergolas gave way to a nice, un-roofed space suitable for container gardening and basking. I think we'll be putting up a couple more bird feeders and some flower baskets as well.



New roof, new shingles, a new door and window. Take a look at that roof: isn't it beautiful? It's aluminum. Don't think that there are many of those in my neighborhood. Some informal testing with an infrared thermometer has shown that, under the midday sun, the aluminum is around 40 degrees cooler than the neighbors' asphalt one...let's hear it for early adoption of neat technologies!

Since the wall was going to be exposed again, it was going to need new shingles. I love the cedar and wish they weren't so expensive/labor intensive to pose. A whole house covered in these would be pretty impressive. As it stands, Pavel wants to paint the house blue. (Personally, I think Falu Red would be really nice with the white roof.)

The door and window got switched around in all this. Take a look at the window. It's important. (Here's a better view:)



When I first saw a new window go in, it was clear and fixed. This kind of made me sad, as I was hoping for another opportunity for a cross breeze. Little did I know that, hiding under a pile of old shingles and masonite, was this new take on the old stained glass that you find in lots of these late-Victorian era houses.



(View from inside - I put my bed right under it.)

Pavel likes stained glass a lot, and often, we'll take evening walks around the neighborhood just to admire the backlit windows often seen here. He particularly liked this window because it reminded him both of a rose and sunrise, both equally important as this is an east window.

Bit by bit, the house is starting to take on the personality of its owner. I'm hoping that he's starting to appreciate it; it's got a lot of potential just waiting to be released.

This week's Weekly Standard just arrived and I see that the cover story is about the notorious Barnes Affair. This is something I'd been looking at for some time because the Barnes Foundation (much like its Brahmin Sister, the Gardnner Museum) was one of my favorite art collections (heck, or even places in the world).

The precedent that this case (followed by a similar challenge by Princeton against an endowment specifically to its Wilson school) set regarding charitable giving is a pretty frightening one, even to a non-lawyer type like me.

In Memoriam.



Here's that shawl that I was talking about earlier. Was so pleased at how it turned out that trudged out in the rain on Saturday morning to photograph it.

The fence was getting to be a bit long in the tooth. Was kind of funny, though, to see a pile of broken wooden slats in its place this morning. Lost most of the fence along the back and the side opposite to this bit of wood as well.

Was mentioning to Pavel that I thought it might be cheaper and prettier to replace the wood with shrubs: lilacs in the space pictured, as there're already two trees there; mountain laurels on the opposite side; across the back, due to drainage issues, pussy willows and/or forsythia. Of course, all's contingent on what we can find at the local Home Depot. (Wish us luck.)

Pattern Recognition II

On the last trip to France, got to visit both the ocean and castle country. To keep my hands busy evenings when I didn't feel like reading and in the car, I brought along some yarn for doodling. Since the Frenchie had asked for a new pair of socks, I started messing with a tube in a machine washable medium:



Was going to give up and frog this until I realized that I'd actually incorporated two major elements of our road trip into the pattern: the undulating blue of both the Channel and the Loire and a particularly impressive architectural detail found in the majority of the chateaux we'd visited:



Blois.



Chambord.

The floor guys sure work fast. They got here at around 8:00 and had the new boards nailed down by 11-ish. Have been staggering lunch breaks so that someone'd constantly be working. Right now, they're just about finishing up the sanding; expect that the initial coats of polyurethane will be applied very soon.

Have to admit, have heard of (and have had personal experience with) bad contractors in all areas*. Chuck is a dream, though - prompt, efficient, excellent manager, honest in terms of pricing. Oh yes, and someone with a knowledge of history and a sense of aesthetics we agree with. (Important, that.)

***

* Last house, the back stairs had to be ripped out and put back in several times because the guy kept getting things wrong. Also was missing an exposed wall for nearly a month and was w/out a bathroom for a couple weeks. Very typically hear from friends of people starting work, dismantling stuff completely, then disappearing for weeks at a time.

Home From School.

I'm not usually too keen on my walks into school. Am normally running late, so will end up taking the quickest route through some rather pedestrian-hostile and not-very-picturesque territory.

The walk home is usually more leisurely. Often, I'll take the train from Bunker Hill to Sullivan, then make my way over to Union Square. This isn't as interesting as the old walks through the junkyards, but it's still pretty okay.

Where things get really nice is between Union and home. Prospect to Spring Hill is so much less crowded? Expansive? than Winter Hill is. Sometimes I even forget that I'm in one of the most densely-packed urban areas in the country when I'm wandering through here:



Sugar maple canopy near the nursing home.

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Rectory for St. Catherine of Genoa Church. From this angle, looks more like a manor house.

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Squirrel's nest.

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Last bloom of the season. Have no idea what this is - thought it was bachelor's buttons, only it's growing on a shrub.

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A barn! Someone actually lives here, too! I thought it was just a garage; certainly is not like the normal Somerville Victorian. Love the crabapple tree, too. (Okay, I admit. It's a dream house.)

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The very last leaf on the neighbor's Japanese maple.

Was helping Paul with paint as, next week, I'm going to paint the room where I'll be staying over the next few months. It's the least I can do, as he went through so much to turn a formerly unfinished, uninsulated and uninhabitable attic into a gorgeous, light-filled studio.

Also got some chrysanthemums to line his sidewalk with. It's a beautiful house; just needs a lot of love. Am glad to see that he's finally putting some effort in in that area.

Speaking of ill-thought-through federally backed projects:

I don't know much about the Parisian Towers, but from what I've gathered, the Frenchie isn't too thrilled by them. If you can read French, take a look. If not - as soon as I am able to, I'll put a translation up. It's interesting.

(In case you're wondering, les vardiaux are riverbanks, or, more precisely, the marshy area between the water and land. The Frenchie grew up next to a river, just like I did. Yet another thing we have in common.)

For years, I've been walking past the Somerville Library main branch and have been wondering what the skull devices around the building just below the roof were.



Now I know.