On Friday, yet another day which greeted us at morn with scouring winds and drenching rain, the last load of seaweed was thoroughly distributed across my garden beds. Since we had been unloading the superfluous masses at the garden gate, which I had recently cleared and lined in stone to create a more welcoming entrance, and then removing the required amounts from the top, the rotting pile of nutrients remaining was most fragrant and colored. Rains and unnamable grubs know no rest… however with two valiant assistants, Cassandra and Tomas (her boyfriend, here on Christmas holidays from the Netherlands) I had it removed and laid upon the pumpkin and flower beds in one afternoon! Thank you!!! The scent was worse than my visit at the horrified age of 13 to Northfield’s Wastewater Treatment Plant, where a gleeful Mr. Croone (the Middle School teacher who refused to cut his wavy locks until World Peace arrived) exposed us to the mess that humans make of water. I must say, I absolutely adore and respect water, and nothing can change this fact. I have the utmost admiration for those in the wastewater cleaning industry… of course, in my opinion it should not be necessary to create an industry of such, as each human is perfectly capable of using and reusing water locally, for example with a reed-bed system. In any case, the rain drenched us, the sun pierced it, and lo and behold another full rainbow, the third day in a row this has occurred. The quality of the light which filters through the clouds is simply indescibable, as though the densest slate grey vapour had invisibly minute hollows in it specifically designed to catch, harbour, and reflect slanting fragments of autumn… I forget momentarily my physics, perhaps it does! In any case it created an atmosphere of translucent palpable light, which illuminated the cow field beyond my garden walls. It was revealed to me that the endless rains have not been running directly into the sea but conducting elaborate tea parties in places where they are most certainly uninvited, such as the visitor’s center and the hiking trail up to Dun Aengus (the fort upon the cliffs). Its perpetual presence (at least in the winter season) contributes greatly to the distinct and breathtaking quality of light which pervades this season.

 I also bid a final fare-thee-well to the retired Sunflower stalks, which were old, brittle, grey, and crippled, whacking Cassandra and Thomas with them as they shoveled seaweed in the process of throwing them across the wall. My beds are now completely covered in seaweed and black plastic, except for the four beds of leeks and the two beds of spring onions and the prolific herbs which sing ceaselessly. Herbs, on Aran, are irrepressible. Which contributes greatly to my cooking. Yesterday I acheived the most perfectly delicate and puffing layered pastry dough you could imagine, with pinches of Basil peeping from between buttery, nearly imperceptible flaking layers. The recipe is from the Moosewood Cookbook, but I added the herb, and in addition it is very important not to cut the butter in too thoroughly, and to only add as much milk as one needs, perhaps not even the full 4 tablespoons. With fresh eggs, leeks, and spinach, this made a perfect tart. Un, precedented!!!

Last night I dreamed of two horses. One, an utterly wild stallion doused in grey and silver that allowed him to shift abruptly through patches of mist, was strong and elusive, but my desired companion. The other, a beautiful, white mare delicate and intelligent, approached upon the utterance of her name, which I do not recall. She did her work willingly but would not share her private time with me with the same wild abandon that the stallion would when compelled- although this was not reliable. The mare reserved a sort of holy space around her, which you did not dare to tresspass. Both were necessary for the task I had been assigned, which also involved climbing my levels of an isolated used clothing and accessories warehouse while speaking many languages, and collecting the objects needed for a quest. One of these were pajamas, and another was a hardy toboggan. I was accompanied by a girl who was uncommonly like Valerie, a French volunteer who lived here last year. At the store, on the third level, was an overabundance of plastic sleds of dubious strength, and we continued our search. The pajamas, as well, were the sort which come apart after three years of use. However after exiting the store in all of its faded consumer glory to a deserted beach, I was able to summon the stallion to me and run my fingers through his masses of curly, tangled hairs. I remember telling Valerie that it is vital that I learn to communicate with this stallion because it is only by helping him to focus his wild bursts of energy that the mare and I will be able to break through the strongest barriers. As I spoke I was not aware of what barriers these are- I am still not aware of them. From my acutely oversensitive perspective, I have overcome incredible obstactles in this life, although I have a mere 23 years to the name Sarah Ann Mellstrom. Sarah is in reality much older, and must wait until she is over 100 to give birth, and suffer from doubt as to her existence in this realm beyond the border of beauty. For life is, a liminal space, and beauty is in the eye of the beholder sometimes… and death is constantly speaking.

 And speaking of beauty I must be off to finish sewing my Thumbelina costume- or, Little Tiny, as she is also called in the original version. There is an absolutely perfect film version of Thumbelina by Fairy Tale Classics on Public Television, but I have been unable to locate it thusfar… perhaps my mother will be of assistance in this realm?