Cotton feet

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Today I fell.
I was crossing a road, head pointing to the grey sky, and half a second later, I was sprawled flat on my back, like a discarded garrish puppet. It felt so strange. It happened so swiftly. Maybe I slipped on something, maybe it was because my head was sleepy and was going "Comandante Che Guevara" round and round.
I wasn't much hurt, but I felt shaky and well understood why little kids who fall cry when they aren't obviously hurt. Falling is scary. And I'm just a kid who goes "Comandante Che Guevara" in her muzzy head, a-buzz with unfinished dreams.

Aqui se queda la clara,

la entrañable transparencia,

de tu querida presencia

World of the cotton feet !

Fiskar-hus

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Fishy posts strike back and wiggle their tongue at Salman Rushdie.


The new tank is now a proper home for my gold-rascals...save for the damnable algae. The water turned green. I managed to get it back to normal. And now it has turned green again. Yay for floating algae. The fishes don't seem to mind. They spend their days eating the brown algae that stick on plants. Goldfishes are ready to swallow anything.

They have been joined by three corydoras paleatus : two girls and one little boy that my Mum decided to call Fitzy. The name suits him. Those fish are so cute, with their little barbels and little eyes. They are way too fast for the goldfish to catch them. At first, there were cat and mouse chases all over the tank, but now, they seem to be friends - save when it comes to Food.

Feeding species who dwell on the bottom of a tank can be tricky when you happen to have goldies. So you have to find a trick ! So I made a cottage for the corys where I can slip them some food and where no goldfish can thrust its mouth.


I slip in the food through the opening between the pot and the root. The stones at the threshold are there to make it more difficult for the goldies to dig their way into the cottage. If you look closely, you can catch a glimpse of a napping cory inside. I haven't managed to take good pics of them. A few attempts (see how cute tinyFitzy is with his gorgeous (blurry...) long dorsal fin ?) :





















As for the goldies, they feel at home in their new tank. They're so funny : they follow you, they stare at you, they dance for you, they'd do anything for a bit of food. Well, you tell them it's rude to stare too long into the faces of people who are reading blogs. You tell them.

Salman Rushdie

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He is an Indian writer, and I bet you can find every piece of information you want about him on the Internet. I have 'discovered' him this year, when we studied the beginning of Midnight's Children - one of my favorite novels.
Salman Rushdie is a voice. A powerful voice, like that of the storyteller coupled with the genius of a writer. The words under his pen are alive. They juggle and jeer and weep and dance on the white page. This is not ink, it cannot be. His books are so rich : as if he wanted to capture the whole of the world within a novel.

I've read MC of course, The Moor's last Sigh, and I'm currently reading Shalimar the Clown. But MC is the best. Maybe because it was my first Salman Rushdie, but I'm not sure that's it. There is something special in that novel - a something that cannot be pinned like a poor butterfly on a wall, because it is everywhere and nowhere. Like Life.
Here is how it begins :

I was born in the city of Bombay...once upon a time. No, that won't do, there's no getting away from the date: I was born in Doctor Narlikar's Nursing Home on August 15th, 1947. And the time ? The time matters, too. Well then: at night. No, it's important to be more...On the stroke of midnight, as a matter of fact. Clockhands joined palms in respectful greeting as I came. Oh, spell it ou, spell it out: at the precise instant of India's arrival at independence, I tumbled forth into the world.

She-Yawns

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