Yesterday's sun

The Frog Whisperer

Basho's frog leaps - plop! -
In the pond like a thunderclap
Summer evening's rain


I composed this haiku in honour of Bashō, who incidentally came to my mind the other day, and his famous haiku on the frog. Here is Bashō's masterpiece.

水 蛙 古

の 飛 池

音 び や

     こ

     む

Furu ike ya
kawazu tobikomu
mizu no oto




Here's a link to a website hoarding 31 translations of the same haiku. I love Japanese just for this.


Matsuo Basho (1644-1694)

Requiem for a daydream

Emma Watson patted the log she was sitting on. That particular spot, where the big log of wood had drifted about a month ago and which acted as a bench, had become a tacit meeting point.

"Why the glum face, my friend? Didn't the doctor give you good news?"

I hadn't realised I was looking sullen. "He did. I am allowed to travel again. And this is good news indeed. Problem is, I am broke now. I cannot even buy a train ticket to see my friends in London."

She smiled. "You may have meagre financial means, yet you're rich in other matters and this should uplift your heavy heart. Do you want to see where all the seagulls go when the sun sets?"

I had never thought about it. I know where the ducks go when the ponds freeze. The absence of gulls at sunset did strike me one day, but my curiosity as to their whereabouts ended there and then. "You're right, they must go somewhere."

"Come on, I'll show you."

We stood up.

We walked to the furthest end of the beach, near the fishing cabins. A green and blue kite was lying on the sand. It didn't look so much as forgotten as left there on purpose. Emma picked it up and set it up on an imaginary shelf. The kite stayed levitating there. She hoisted herself onto it. She looked down at me.

"Give me your hand, I'll help you up." I had my camera in my left hand, so I held out the right one, but suddenly I hesitated. "What's the matter?" she asked.

"It's my bad hand. I can't give you my bad hand."

"Come again? Your bad hand?" She seemed genuinely surprised.

"My afflicted hand," I added.

"Will it hurt you?"

I shook my head. "No, but it's not very pleasant to the touch."

"Silly goose," she said and grabbed my hand. She hauled me up as if I were as light as a feather. We had to stay very close together as the space on the kite was quite tight. The kite flew away skywards at a slow, yet steady flight.

The sea from this viewpoint was picturesque. The waves were drawing riddles which mirrored the riddles on the dunes. Emma started singing a lullaby which I recognised to be one I had written years ago. "Do you know where all the birds go? So far, so far, so far."

The higher we flew the windier it became, until we reached the clouds. I had seen the blanket of cumuli, strolling to where Emma and I usually met, but now they struck me as particularly dense and fluffy. We went through them via a hole pierced by a beam of sunlight.

Once we were above the cloudline, the winds ceased. The pale grey surface of the clouds was almost even; it looked smooth and sleek, yet moving ever so subtly like an oily sea.

Emma put her finger across her lips. She mouthed "Look".

The spectacle was unbelievable. What I had mistaken for clouds was in fact thousands of seagulls nesting quietly. I looked down on lower cumuli. Swarms of birds were poised on the vaporous vessels: the trompe-l'oeil was perfect. Their robe was spotlessly white under the sun. They were all turned to the golden orb level with the horizon. It was eerily silent. No wind, no squawking, not a single wing flapping.

I was speechless. The bright light was flashing in every direction, bouncing on the back of the gulls, warming the still air. We stayed until the sun sank beneath the distant line of clouds.

When we came down, the entire sea was on fire. The shoreline was speckled with gold flecks. The more distant shore was streaked blue and grey. Planes had crisscrossed their white way on the scarlet skies. Everything the light touched was given life of a kind. Perhaps because it acquired or lost its shadow.

I alighted first and helped Emma down. She looked at me intently, took my hand, but didn't say a word.

I smiled at her and turned towards the purple cloudscape. "Now I know where the gulls go when the sun sets. Too bad I forgot to take pictures."

When I turned back again, Emma and the kite had vanished without a trace.

Fire

Buttons

Why buttons?

First, I love the word. Buttons, buttons, buttons. I could also say it forever.

Second, I like the button in itself. Until recently, I had looked at buttons in a purely functional way. A special someone made me look at them in a new light. They all come in different shape and size, its peculiar way of attaching itself on the garment.

Third, I love this special someone.

Fourth, I was allowed to browse through a wooden box full of them buttons (courtesy of my grandma) in order to find the more special ones. It was like rummaging in a chest full of treasures. Nay, it was like plunging your hands in a chest full of coins. For half an hour I was a pirate who had found the chest and was making the coins sing. I loved it.

Fifth, buttons.

Sixth, buttons.

Seventh, buttons.

Here is a link to the arch-site if you want to know all about buttons and become a buttonist.

Beethoven: String Quartet #4 Op.18-4 1st movement

Random play stumbled across this piece in my Itunes library. Thought I'd share the exquisite pleasure of randomness with you.

The Real August Rush -- Jack Dawson

Spéciale dédicace! Deep Blue Something - Breakfast At Tiffany's

Désolé Chab, j'ai pas pu m'en empêcher ^_^

En vrac.

 S-Michel-Chef-Chef by night

 Pointe St-Gildas

 Cimetière de bateaux à Noirmoutier-en-l'île

 Vue de l'Herbaudière, Noirmoutier

Ci-dessous : détails de la statue de la Force Morale, tombeau de François II, Cathédrale St-Pierre et St-Paul

Église Sainte-Croix, Nantes

Saint Claude Vs Saint Valentin

Je ne sais pas vous, mais pour ma part je préfère fêter la saint Claude que la saint Valentin. Déjà parce que c'est mon deuxième prénom, ensuite parce que je boite (Claude vient du latin claudus, boiteux. On retrouve cette étymologie dans le verbe 'claudiquer') et pour finir parce que c'est un superbe pied-de-nez à tout le merchandising qui s'est développé autour de la fête de la saint Valentin. Je m'explique.

Qu'il ait été prêtre ou moine, qu'il ait vécu au IIIème siècle ou avant, qu'il ait été de Rome ou de Terni ou d'ailleurs, le Valentin que vous fêtez (j'assume le "vous" exclusif) fut martyrisé par un Empereur Romain nommé Claude. Claude le Gothique fit torturer et exécuter (peut-être décapiter) Valentin de Rome. Claude le Cruel (on n'a jamais mieux porté un surnom pareil) fit rouer de coups et décapiter (là on est déjà plus sûr) Valentin de Terni. Tout cela sur la via Flaminia à Rome. Histoire de montrer l'exemple.

Alors la plupart des gens souhaitent fêter l'amour que les deux saints professaient, honorer leur mémoire ou pour le symbole de résistance et d'amour du genre humain blablabla. C'est beau, vraiment. Mais que ce soit en célébrant des mariages que l'Empire Romain n'acceptait pas ou en redonnant la vue à de jolies damoiselles, ou simplement pour le fait qu'ils furent chrétiens, ils professaient et moururent pour l'amour de Dieu. L'amour de son prochain également, cela va de soi. Mais pas l'amour à grand coups de bouquet annuel car il faut bien se le souhaiter. Pas les chocolats pour se faire pardonner d'être invivable les 364 autres jours de l'année. Pas les flonflons roses et rouges (couleur de la passion, certes, mais passio en latin signifie "souffrance"... et pendant que j'y suis, l'assimilé de la Saint-Valentin était auparavant une coutume païenne datant de l'antiquité dont l'église a fini par s'emparer, et toujours auparavant elle célébrait l'amour physique, et pas l'amour romantique comme maintenant - et en ça c'est pas un mal. Un peu de romantisme, bordel !)

Je pense, mais je m'avance peut-être, que chacun des saints aurait préféré voir des fleurs honorer l'amour de l'être aimé une fois de temps en temps, plutôt qu'une fois par an, histoire de sauver les meubles ou de suivre ces braves moutons de Panurge (qui, au passage - mais vous connaissez mon amour de la digression - est un pote de Pantagruel, personnages créés par François Rabelais, et qui s'interroge sur la nécessité du mariage dans le Tiers Livre, et qui encore aida à créer cette si jolie expression "moutons de Panurge" dans le Quart Livre en balançant un encombrant mouton par-dessus bord - afin que les autres le suivent. Ce mec savait vraiment tout faire - d'où son nom qui en grec signifie "celui qui sait tout faire" (Πανοῦργος, un truc du genre "Panourgos"). Parenthèse refermée.)

En résumé, si vous voulez véritablement faire un geste qui ait du sens, offrez des chocolats à votre bien-aimé(e) ou allez lui cueillir des fleurs...demain.

J'assume aussi le fait d'être un grand rabat-joie sans vergogne, acariâtre et/ou atrabilaire. Briseur de rêves aussi. Et oui, je suis célibataire (et je ne m'en porte ni mieux ni moins bien), mais cela ne m'empêche pas d'offrir des fleurs quand j'en ai envie et à qui je le souhaite (ou de les cueillir pour les offrir) ! Pour finir, je tiens à dire que je ne suis sponsorisé par aucune des grandes marques de fleuristes, ni ne les sponsorise d'ailleurs.

Coup de gueule fini. Ça va mieux.