We had a crafty and creative day yesterday. Check out our skills.....

First we tried these snacks from the Pioneer Woman. It is my kinda recipe with only three ingredients, which I always have in my pantry.

Goodness gracious, I love all three of those components and who would have thought, put together and broiled, they'd be so divine! I find joy in the fact the marshmallow was roasted, gooey, and melted, but did not taste one bit like a campfire!

Marguerites is the fancy, smancy name Ree uses for them, but since I made them with my boys, they preferred to call them Ritz crackers, Peanut Butter, and Marshmallow Stacks. They are creative little ones!

You're probably not aware that Pioneer Woman was the only blog I read regularly for a year. I wasn't aware there was a big, wide, blogsphere world out here. Man, have my eyes been opened over the last six months!

After eating a dozen Ritz, PB, and Marshmallow Stacks (or Marguerites) we moved onto craft time.

We made slew of these little gems! My kinda craft with only two items on the supply list! Both of which I picked up on a Publix run. Are you noticing my pattern of simplicity? I wouldn't have attempted either of these if I would have needed more than three supplies or ingredients!

Marie over at Makes and Takes inspired me to make these. Heck, we're halfway through the summer we need something new to entertain us during our frequent pool visits.

Marie is a former kindergarten teacher. Let me tell you, a good kindergarten teacher is a gift from God. My first teaching job right out of college as a newlywed was one week subbing in a kindergarten classroom. Goodness gracious, that was the cheapest and most effective birth control I've ever used!

Well, I've got half a summer left and I'm looking for some more activities to fill our days since I'm still feeling productive and all. Please send all your creative ideas my way!

Et maintenant j'ai prise la même photo que j'ai coloriser dans PSP, mais j'étais à mes débuts pour ce qui est de la colorisation, alors c'est pas si pire je trouve ;-)

I am so excited by this book as it has set my imagination whirling.... Let me explain. This book is covered with a linen bookcloth which can be used in an inkjet printer. It comes in sheets which are roughly A4 size or roughly A3 size. The print on this book is a photograph I took in the summer of marguerites in my garden. It took me a while to get the printer set up to take these sheets. They are paper backed and as they are not quite a standard A3 size (they measure 11" x 17") they have to be treated as a custom size but once it's set up, it's easy. Half the problems came from the fact I was having to get used to my new Canon PIXMA Pro 9500 A3+ printer. This was my test print. I was quite prepared to bin this as I thought I would have to make some adjustments but it came out beautifully. It actually looks sort of faded - like an antique fabric which I really like. I am now trawling through my photographs for ones which will make good book covers and my mind is racing with thoughts of future photographic projects.....landscapes, flowers - people! The ultimate personalization!

Well, here it is finally. The new hairdo! I have had about 6" cut off my hair and it is now a bob rather than droopy spaniel ears :) To distract you from me, I am sitting in front of my fish clock, a ceramic Gothic-surreal-call it what you will masterpiece which is so fragile, that after three or four house moves, half the pointy bits are held on with superglue but I still like it! And it tells the time perfectly. News Flash! I just went downstairs to see who made this clock and picked it up - and one of the spirals on the top fell off and broke in half. Marvellous. Anyway, it is made by J. Callaghan in 1997 and that's as much as I can tell you about it.

To continue my makeover I bought new glasses (or spectacles as my optician calls them) It's really difficult to buy glasses. I still have this hang up about 'Men don't make passes at girls who wear glasses' and I grew up watching those films where the hero, after unsuccessfully wooing the beautiful unattainable one, finally notices his secretary, the plain bespectacled heroine (usually played by a gorgeous actress wearing glasses with a frump hairdo) You've all seen the scene where he removes her glasses, lets her hair down and says wonderingly 'Why, Miss Smith! You are beautiful!' This is a trend I've also seen in present day teen flicks and soaps. Take one gorgeous actress, tie her hair up and make her wear horrid glasses. Ugly duckling becomes swan by styling her hair and wearing contacts. 'Now, Voyager', 'She's All That', Ugly Betty anyone?

So I eventually chose some groovy Prada specs which I hope send out the right message when I'm wearing them. I don't have a photograph of me in specs so you will just have to imagine those. I do rather like them them though, they are dark green and very smart but I don't want to have any 'Miss Smith' moments, I want to look fab all the time :-)

'Hello Melek. Beautiful isn't it? '
'Absolutely', I replied. ‘How did you know I was here?'
Veli, my mentor, smiled enigmatically. 'Just a hunch. I hear you've entered Cally's writing competition?
'Yes. I thought I'd have a go.'
‘Well good luck with it. There are quite a few entries I believe, so stiff competition. Let me know when you hear the results'.

He smiled again and vanished. I sat down near the edge of the cliff and contemplated my entry for the competition. It had been a spontaneous outpouring...

* * * * * * * * * * * *
The ‘angel dream’ occurred frequently throughout my childhood. Heralded by a wonderful sensation of floating, I wafted serenely down a staircase; a mere shadow against a backdrop of muted shades of pink and yellow - almost ethereal. I knew I was an angel, but apparently my wings didn't work very well because as the descent accelerated I lost control and crash-landed. The dream was accompanied by a strong foreboding, but no sounds. Waking up after impact I felt scared and uneasy.
Years later in therapy, I realised that hearing my mother tell of her regret about my birth, as I perched on the stairs one night, might have something to do with the dream! A loveless childhood led to a search for the impossible, and a string of wrecked relationships. The only person close to me was my twin sister, Mehtap.

During my late teens, the dreams occurred less often and for a while life was angel-free. I began a promising relationship and for three years I was happy. Maybe I took Cliff, my boyfriend, for granted. Something turned sour and Cliff began an affair with a work colleague. Initially I feigned ignorance, trying to maintain the status quo, but the angel dreams re-appeared with a vengeance.

Now the dreams were very frightening. The soft glow and ambience of the originals was replaced by streaks of red, orange and black, interjected by a bright light which mimicked sheet lightening. Isolation and silence pervaded the dream interwoven with a strong sense of foreboding. When awake I was plagued by flashbacks. Then one night the dream began as normal but quickly changed. I was in a palace that was richly decorated with gleaming marble and gilt. I was alone again, but became aware of a loud rumbling beneath my feet. The floor shook. In an instant I was an onlooker, watching as the palace was razed in an earthquake. A large fissure opened up from somewhere near the detritus, travelling with speed towards me... and then I woke up.

This dream terrified me. I searched news reports trying to ascertain if an earthquake was likely to occur somewhere with a beautiful palace. Of course I found nothing and gradually the disturbing visions faded, my thoughts being occupied elsewhere. My relationship with Cliff came to an abrupt end, and again I was alone. Mehtap proffered the proverbial shoulder and I was glad to accept.

I was on automatic pilot that next week. I felt numb mostly, but susceptible to brief periods of intense pain. And then I was visited by another dream. This was by far the worst and left me devastated. I saw my beloved sister disappear into a black void. I appeared to be paralysed and could do nothing to help her. I was forced to watch. I awoke crying, convinced that something had, or was about to happen to Mehtap. I dared not ring her. I tried to be rational, but it replayed over and over in my head the next day. I needed to tell Mehtap to be careful; but why? What was the black void I had seen? I couldn't make her anxious over a dream, so I struggled through the day, feeling that I was falling fast into the grips of some demon’s den of insanity.

I decided to go for a walk. I remember that it was a beautiful day. The colours were so bright and the birdsong so sweet; but something was wrong. I sensed it rather than felt it. My mood was very low, and the world around me lacked congruency. Of course, the weather was not under any obligation to match my mood. How could it be? But something was wrong.

* * * * * * * * * * * *
I am left with that feeling to this day, and I noticed it more sharply than usual when I looked at the scene before me this afternoon, but I have no idea why. My story ended there, strangely. Rising, I take a last look at the sea as it sends me a thousand sparkling winks. Unfolding my wings, I fly home, thoughtful and uneasy.

A couple of days later I meet up with Veli.
‘How did you do in the writing contest?’ he asks.
I give him a side-long glance.
‘You knew didn’t you?’
‘Of course! We all go through it. And survive’
He looks at me intently.
‘Tell me’.

I tell him how Cally had sought me out that morning, and then gently explained that I had not won the competition, because in reality it was not a competition, but an exercise; a necessary cathartic step, if my integration was to be successful.

‘Cally went on to explain that she set writing tasks everyday as a way of helping people remember and come to terms with their past, or as in my case, make sense of it. She said all the answers to my questions were in my story. Then she told me that Mehtap is alive. I am so relieved. It took me a while to grasp what she was really saying though’.

‘Which was?’ Veli prompts.

‘Well, after she told me this, I thought about my story and retraced my steps, unknowingly, as I was so preoccupied, to the spot on the cliffs. As I was bending down to pick a poppy, my foot slipped on some stones, albeit very slightly. It was enough though. In a flash I realised what had happened and understood why I recognised the place.’

Veli smiles and takes my hand, patting it gently.

‘You will survive, now that you know, and can see the pattern of your former life’.
‘You mean the pattern of falling, in all it’s glorious forms?’
‘Yes. But you have had your last fall. Now you can only rise. Are you ready?

He has to ask?

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Voilà, c’est le début d’une histoire, d’une histoire reprise. Une petite école abandonnée entre Beaucaire et Fourques, à Saujean. Ou bien une brasserie de bière devenue une usine de mobil home au fond d’un vallon. Ou encore une tombe avec trois noms à Marguerites. Chaque fois, il y a une étrange impression de temps arrêté, d’abandon. A la brasserie, les nouveaux propriétaires expliquent qu’ils ont trouvé l’usine avec des affaires encore déposées sur les tables, des tasses de café, des dossiers ouverts, comme si tout le monde était parti d’un coup et qu’ils pensaient revenir.Comme l’école fermée où on se demande où sont les enfants, dans cet étrange bâtiment scolaire accolé à une église avec son petit cimetière. Un monde en soi, isolé avec les mas à quelques centaines de mètres autour.Imaginer donc l’institutrice Blanche Adélaïde Armand, sa mère Marie, son père Augustin, plus en retrait et puis un enfant nommé Bruno. Bouille ronde, cheveux bouclés, le petit roi de l’école comme en témoignent la cantinière et d’autres élèves qui ont joué avec lui. A moins qu’il soit resté sous le préau à revers, en imaginant des fusées et des ciels d’étoiles. « Il était plus intelligent que les autres, il était brillant. Moi je savais qu’il réussirait dans les études. Il a du devenir au moins instituteur. »Dole de ménage à trois –le père de l’institutrice, contrairement à la légende familiale, est mort assez vite, en 1962. Bruno avait 9 ans. L’enfant unique, sa mère et sa grand-mère –« une forte femme qui regardait toujours les élèves de sa fenêtre » - au premier étage de cette petite école, dans l’appartement de fonction.Que venait faire mon père dans cet univers bien clos, un peu hors normes pour l’époque mais qui n’avait sans doute guère besoin de lui ?Le mariage avec Blanche en 1951, la naissance de Bruno sans lui le 16 février 1953, le divorce en août 1954. Trois ans dont il ne reste guère de traces. Le travail à la brasserie devenue fantôme, le long trajet sans doute à vélo pour rejoindre l’école, l’appartement collé à l’église, le clan Armand. A Beaucaire, on se souvient de Mme Armand, du petit Bruno mais pas du père.Sans doute ne trouvait-il pas sa place dans cette vie-là. Différence de classe, de parole, de vie. Il a voulu mettre un fleuve, le Rhône, entre les Armand et lui. Emmener Blanche à Tarascon, dans la ville jumelle. Mais elle est restée à Saujean, dans l’école-église, devenue centre de loisirs municipal puis rien du tout, racheté par les voisins, qui attendent d’avoir fait les travaux dans leur maison pour peut-être y faire des chambres d’hôtes.Alors, comme pour l’instant personne n’a la mémoire de mon père sur place, chercher un peu de lui dans le regard de Bruno, 52 ans, ingénieur au Cnes près de Toulouse. Dans ses manières, ses hésitations, sa timidité et son désir d’ailleurs. Dans cette famille qu’il a bâti lui aussi, avec un fils unique et une femme psychologue scolaire. Avec de la lavande et du lavandin devant sa maison comme devant la tombe de sa mère et de ses grands-parents.