Quatorze Juillet

The 14th of July is the national holiday in France. Military parades, parachutists over Paris, landing just in front of the president and fireworks it is all part and parcel of the festivities. In the European "capital" Strasbourg the fireworks were quiet nice and drew a large international crowd, while people are sleeping rough to the beat of military bands... Heavy rainstorms and hail are expected tonight. The contrasts of life and how to reconcile and solve them.

She went walking

The old lady just upped and left. In a blink of an eye. She went home, or so she thought when she got away. Through the brush and brambles, her legs bleeding from the sticks and stubs she went looking for what she left: her home of 35 plus years. Her man, barely younger than she, always kept her in his sight and still she wandered off out of an enclosed elegiac garden. He looked in the thickets, checked the bushes and brush. Phoned the police. Got in his car, went looking for her. Nowhere is the lady in her dress and and slippers to be seen. Then the call came: She was found wandering towards the busy main road. They took her to the hospital, cleaned her wounds, found out his name. Her's, she had forgotten. She was glad to see him, has no memory of her escapade. He was glad to see her: love reigns supreme.

Fair

From my window , while I sit and work, I can see attractions of the fair: the Ferris wheel, the wildest shakes, shoots, catapults, glides and rides, all lit up and flickering pleasure, happy times. Yet, seeing it from here without the deafening dystopian din is happiness enough for me. Although a Belgian Waffle with whipped creme could be a tantalizing temptation to brazenly brave the crazy crowd.

Broken in

The blue Safire in white gold, the only memento from my grandmother
The white gold Omega Tony bought in a sale, his last present to me
A golden pound my grandparents gave me at my communion.

A Mexican golden chain with the Madonna de Guadeloupe, Tony and I wore both,
Taken off for a bath and waiting to be put on again
My wedding ring from my first marriage

Two Tony rings one gold with a diamond: he called it a Rosicrucian ring
A gold artist made ring with jade and chips of emerald, which Tony added

A little golden ring with a triangle with diamond chip that is mine thanks to you Jim

My privacy, walking through my bathroom, bedroom, taking little gold rings, in Black Hills gold a tiny heart
and the small golden M, I was going to give to my daughter
my privacy
you invaded, desecrated

I find little empty box upon empty box, also in the other room
You took

You left
my memories, my good pen, my turquoise…

Multilayered justice

A petit café with a view of the sumptuous, awe-inspiring and overpowering Palais de Justice. In the Appelate Court, there was a case involving two young men. First, the judge laid out the facts as they appear from the file, seemingly neutral. He also questioned the two youngsters. Then the lawyer for the victim (3 policemen) spoke, then the Public Prosecutor. Both painted a harsh picture of the facts. Then it was the turn of the two lawyers defending the handbagsnatcher and the cardriver. The layers of meaning, the nuance in facts, the illusive truth. It could be a judgement error, a one-off situation, an initiation, a mistake, an intentional act aiming to drive into the policemen, a non-violent theft and a botched get-away. The street it happened on is one of the grand Boulevards with greenery and with policemen guarding some embassies. I have been walking it twice a day for almost two weeks. I try to immagine it at night, alone, my bag being taken, would I peruse the thief like the lady did? The court retired. We'll never know wetther the non-violent handbag thief will have to go to jail for 24 month or will be liberated. We'll never know whether the driver was blinded by the roadblock and didn't see the policemen or wether he tried to flee and accidently hit one of them. What is the truth? How do we establish it? How then do we behave humanely towards all involved?

Death, God and Fun

Le Cimetière Père-Lachaise is a city for the death.

Two million people have been buried here for generations. What I learn and relearn is history matters. Roots seem to induce different thinking than the more nomadic among us do.



In this cemetery the lanes are as leafy as the boulevards in Paris proper. I saw some writers graves: Apollinaire, Proust. Missed Wilde, Piaff and Jim Morrisson...

I found however the Sacré Coeur on the Butte Montmartre. Seen it was the day of music averywhere in town small bands were performing and a good time was had by all.

Beauty and strength

Emile-Antone Bourdelle , architect and sculptor, was student of Rodin and teacher of Giacometti. His Atelier is to be found in the stables of Montparnasse when Montmartre got too expensive. He designed and decorated the 'Theatre des Champs Elysee", Place de l'Alma.


His pre-modern expressionist huge volumes made my hart tremble. The World War horror is well expressed in the screaming heads before Munch. Pain, strength and beauty overwhelming and uplifting.





Through a rainy Paris I ended up at the Trocadero where Anais Nin had an apartment. There international solidarity was
shown the indigenous peoples of Peru defending their land, the Amazon forest against greedy developers of palm groves destroying the forests and livelihood of the Indians. I added my voice: Un peuble unido jamas sara vencido.