Broken stained glass window, showing clouds, sky and reflections.
Cimetière du Montparnasse, Paris
Happy birthday, Ronni!
Dear Ronni, this time of year is back and I wish you a happy birthday, with many happy returns, with this sea of flowers
Happy birthday, Ronni Bennett
Do visit Ronni’s blog, Time goes by, to wish her a happy birthday
What the world needs?
When I start journaling (did I mention that I have been journaling for 204 consecutive days thanks to a little site called 750 words?), if I feel at a loss for words, I look for a prompt at Virginia de Boldt’s blog.
One morning, I came across one entitled “what the world needs”, in which she proceeded on writing about regurgitating cats, and stated that what the world needed was some thingie that would make cats’ puking predictable.
This left me almost speechless. As I do not have a cat at the moment, and have no desire to have one run around the house, clawing at everything and leaving hairs all over the place, I do not agree that this is what the world needs 
Not my world, anyway.
Sorry, cat-lovers! I am a cat-lover too, but prefer to hear them purr at other people’s places.
So what DOES the world need?
I always thought that if I won huge amounts of money gambling, I would love to hire a cook, one that would do the shopping, cook and serve my meals.
How would I like this if it happened? Well, not so much, I suppose. I imagine that I would have to put up with someone in my flat, be civil and talkative, socialise with the cook, give appreciation after each meal and then, having a cook might become a chore!
As I was reflecting on how much I hate to run errands, peel veggies and spend useless time cooking, baking and preparing food, it occurred to me that what the world really needed was something that had already germinated in the mind of science fiction writers, those who had written Star Trek and the Next Generation, a food replicator (or synthesizer if you prefer).
This is indeed what the world needs. A replicator, that would provide the foods you like, with just the right amount of vitamins, the appropriate textures, the delightful taste and lovely fragrance, and also the beauty of a dish offered by a great chef.
All I would have to do would be to spell it out: a slice of fruit cake, exclude the marschino cherries and no alcohol, not over-baked, a cup of Fortnum and Mason Royal Blend tea, with a cloud of milk. Replicate, please!
And there it would come out on an elegant tray. As the machine would have previously recorded my cholesterol count and other health hazards, I would be sure that nothing unhealthy could possibly be found in my five o’clock snack. What is more, I could get it in seconds, and go back to reading my current book on my kindle.
Do I appear like a misanthropist? Well, I am, or have become a loner and would not want to have someone interrupt my walks or my reading, eternally asking questions (or requiring money) and I like the idea of having my whims immediately satisfied.
One of the things I love about my kindle, incidentally.
Like this:
Getting old in cold Paris
Freezing cold, the beginning of February, even colder for the old. Piling up layers of clothing, never enough, as you get it all in your face. Parisians are not used to such temperatures, at least not for such a long period of time.
I am used to taking long walks across the city. I ride the métro to a place and walk back home. Last week, I was near Gare Saint-Lazare and started to walk home. Walked across Pont Alexandre III, Esplanade des Invalides, getting the freezing wind in my face, and suddenly, feeling my heart pounding heavily in my chest.
I kept walking, thinking, don’t be a sissy, this is no longer than the brisk walks you are used to. But it was different. Not really longer. But colder, yes. I got near a bus-stop and sat on that metallic bench that literally froze my butt. Two minutes later, I gratefully climbed into the bus and sat down in what was a semblance of warmth. I felt exhausted.
No doubt now. I am old. These are symptoms I have never had before. And the following days, I experienced the same. Fatigue, heart beating faster. I have been avoiding cardio exercise outside, sticking to my elliptical, in the warmth of my flat.
I used to eat a lot of red meat. Not any more. But by the second week of cold weather, I was craving for red meat and French fries. Our good old steak frites. And treated myself to some. Somehow, that day, my afternoon walk went better than the previous days.
One day, I went to Jardin du Palais-Royal, for the first time this winter. In summer, the chestnut trees form a canopy over the benches, and if you do not fear bird droppings, you can sit and read there in the shade.
There were very few people around, just tourists attracted to Colonnes de Buren and in the gardens, this old man, ears red with cold beneath his useless cap, leaning onto his crutch.
I wrote this a week or so ago, and totally forgot to push the publish button.
Like this:
Memory -a spoof
Thanks to my friends Barbara and Wayne
Goudemalion. Jean-Paul Goude, une rétrospective
at Musée des Arts Décoratifs. Goudemalion, a play on words, of course, Pygmalion and Goudemalion.
I had forgotten all those images, posters, montages and collages that were due to his… genius. Jean-Paul Goude certainly left his mark on the end of the 20th century.
The bicentenary of the French Revolution, Grace Jones, Jimmy Hendricks. They were all there and more.
The exhibit is on till March 26th and is really well worth visiting. I am even considering going back.
As I was watching the locomotive that occupies most of the main hall, there appeared this blond young lady clad in white with a crown of sorts on her head, an ice princess, floating on the floor, the way Russian folk ballet dancers walk. One little boy remarked that she looked as if she had had motors under her feet.
I went around the rooms with delight because they let you take photos everywhere. At one point, I noticed an armchair, showing its back to you. And all of a sudden, the Russian princess glided in and sat in the armchair. She monologued in Russian, with lovely sounding words, some of which I understood, and some of which I didn’t, and suddenly, a curtain was lifted and revealed an old-fashioned mirror, reflecting the blonde princess, flames burning in a fire-place, where her feet were resting, each hand holding more flames and flames again on top of her head-dress. And all the while, she kept on reciting.
As one little girl described it: “Daddy, it’s magic”
See a bit of the magic here
A slideshow of photos taken at Musée des Arts Décoratifs
Le Louvre, last night
I was quite a lazy blogger last year, and as I never make New Year’s resolutions that I know I won’t stick to, I can’t promise I’ll be better in 2012.
The older, the lazier, I guess.
But I wish you all a happy New Year!
See this photo on a black background
A politically correct Merry Christmas
with thanks to my cousin Léo
On a bench
It was a warm summer day and they had decided to go and visit Beningbrough Hall. Now that both of them were in their sixties and both retired, they enjoyed visiting those lovely old homes and gardens and had joined the National Trust as a couple.
They had bought a guidebook, quite a thick and heavy one about Yorkshire, and visited a place of interest a day.
He liked to joke about that and often said: “one place of interest a day keeps the doctor away.”
It was trite humour, he knew it and she knew it, but they had been married for so long and had laughed at the same things for all those years. She shared a pleasant feeling of companionship.
Basically, they enjoyed pretty much the same things and that gave them a warm feeling. That morning, they had looked at the weather forecast and decided on comfortable cool clothing.
They had visited the Hall, a very interesting place, and had been fascinated by the kitchens and the servants’ hall.
It was all very well to learn about the life of baronets and such, but what happened downstairs was something they were always keen on.
The laundry room especially kept their attention. They noticed starch in a surprisingly old carton box, and all the necessary instruments to get the linen dry, a large basin, a wooden mangle, old-time clothes pegs and lines.
The place reminded them of the series Upstairs, Downstairs, and when they visited the downstairs part of the Hall, they exchanged a few remarks and , imagined the kitchen maid, for instance, working in these surroundings.
Then, after their picnic lunch eaten at the cafeteria, with a pot of tea, they had headed towards the beautiful gardens. Both of them were keen on gardening and had enjoyed the herbaceous borders, the flower garden and the kitchen garden. There was also a beautiful orchard, with a lot of apple-trees.
Around three p.m., they felt they needed a rest so they found a bench in the shade and sat there for a while.
He took the book out of his bag, and they reviewed what they had seen.
They both wore glasses but he was always the one who got his reading glasses out. She liked listening to his reading. In fact, even at home, he would sometimes find something of interest in the newspaper and read it aloud to her.
He had quite a deep and beautiful voice, she thought. When they had first met, she had remarked his hands and his deep voice. Those had always been the things she noticed first when she met a young man. And he had been no exception.
She was a very good listener, but also made witty remarks that he enjoyed.
Then, they noticed that they had missed part of the garden, spotted it on the map and decided to explore it, after which they would have tea in a place they had noticed on the way over.
Then, they would drive back to their B&B, maybe take a nap and get some reading done.
They were both quite fond of reading, although their tastes were quite different. He mostly read history books, essays and The Times. She found novels, murder mysteries, and occasionally, a biography or an autobiography more entertaining.
They hardly ever shared the reading of the book, but they did talk about what they read a lot.
So many men kept themselves to themselves, not to say that they hardly knew how to communicate. Not her husband. She felt she was quite a lucky woman.
Like this:
Cemetery story
For years, ever since her son had died, she had come to the cemetery at least once a week. Then, when she retired, she began to come every day.
Now, sadly, she was visiting two dearly departed, her son and her husband.
She liked puttering around the grave, doing this and that. On most days, she would bring her tools: a sponge, a large bottle of water, a little trowel. She sometimes used the water cans that were there for the use of visitors but found them heavier and heavier. She weeded the potted plants on her grave but also looked around, and straightened out flowerpots that had fallen or picked up flowers that had been scattered away by the wind.
There were few visitors in that area of the cemetery. Just a couple of cats, who stretched out on the graves when it was sunny, and quite a few crows the rest of the time.
A few years ago, there had been a newcomer. A woman had been buried nearby, and she had seen all the flowers and wreaths on the grave. At the beginning, one could not see the name of the dead person as it was hidden under the flowers.
Then he started coming. He would clean up his wife’s grave and as there was a bench right there, he would sit, looking bereaved and thoughtful.
Occasionally, he would bring a book.
She looked at him furtively at the beginning. She did not want to look inquisitive, so if he looked in her direction, she would look away.
But after a while, they started nodding hello to each other and little by little, took to talking.
They walked around the cemetery, evoking those days when his wife was alive. She had died of what in the old days, they used to call a long and painful disease, to avoid the use of the word cancer.
She told him how her son had been run over by a car as he was coming back from school and how angry she had been at the time. Now she just felt sad and nostalgic. He had been such a nice child. And she had been so lucky to have her husband to support and understand her.
When he died, she really felt that her life was over, but then, her job kept her going. She was a school teacher then and had always enjoyed teaching young children.
He had never told her about his job. Sometimes she wondered. She tried to imagine him behind a counter, selling… what would he be selling? Well, no, he did not look like a salesman. Or maybe he was a writer. He was such a good story-teller.
She tried to picture him typing away at an old-fashioned typewriter, the sort that goes click click with a bell ringing at each carriage return. Or maybe a computer? No, definitely not a computer. Or more simply, she saw him sitting at his desk and filling long pages with his elegant handwriting, using a fountain pen. Yes, that was definitely more his style, she thought.
On that particular day, they had sat on the bench that was close to both “their” graves and were talking in the cold. She liked the fur hat that he was wearing and it made her realize how cold it was. She did not like wearing hats but often thought that she ought to.
Funnily, that was exactly what he was saying!
“You know you should not go bareheaded like this, you’ll catch your death!” They both laughed out loud at the idea of catching one’s death in a cemetery.
I took this photo at cimetière Vaugirard in Paris. Sometimes I like to catch a candid shot like this.
I really don’t know these people at all and it’s an old photo that dates back to 2006.
I am and have been a visitor of cemeteries for at least seven years now and always find interesting stuff to photograph, whether it is people, animals or flowers.
