I have been amusing myself today by pondering how Switzerland can name amongst its most treasured dishes - the wurst. I mean really how can anyone eat something called 'wurst' and possibly enjoy it. I even let this fact entertain me for a good hour today as I walked beside the Rhine watching people at various stages of wurst digestion. I have decided that bier definitely helps. Perhaps they should rename bier best to go with the wurst.
I don't seem to be able to write at all right now. The interesting thing ( or perhaps it is troubling) is that I don't seem to care either. Perhaps I am story harvesting. Like a squirrel in autumn getting her nuts for the winter. Or perhaps I'm just tired and wordless. Maybe I have spent my yearly vocabulary trying to explain the present perfect to the perpelxed and unwilling or perhaps my heart just isn't in it. Either way at least my dream life is rocking on. The other night I dreamt a giant unicorn had died in my parent's backyard. It was enormous. The size of a dinosaur. It looked beautiful lying in the grass. Like a sculpture made from snow, glistening in the sun. It wasn't sad either. The whole back yard was filled with small folk ( hobbitty-looking I suppose) who seemed to have built this amazing medieval village behind the unicorn.