Sunday, May 14, 2017


Martin Luther King and I had a dream.

His were based on a just world.


Not so much.

Last night I dreamed in French, in itself not strange. If I watch a French program, read a book in French or spend the evening more in French than English before going to bed, I will most likely dream in French.

Yesterday was almost totally an Anglo day after a long café sit in the sun with Brit and American friends.

My French had been limited to a quick chat with one of the marché merchants. Then I spent a good part of the day in English working on my new project Coat Hangars and Knitting Needles and reading a American detective story for work breaks. I watched an episode of West Wing, season 1 with my husband.

In my dream three French-speaking males were seated around a table, much like in a police station. Two other men came speaking another language. I did not recognize the language. It did not have the music of Oriental languages, the gutturals of Germanic tongues, but seemed more Slavic.

I woke before figuring anything out.

Maybe subconsciously I speak that strange, unknown language.

Or not.

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