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| No, folk, you got it wrong, God doesn't exist |
Showing posts with label French Riviera. Show all posts
Showing posts with label French Riviera. Show all posts
Mar 8, 2016
Feb 15, 2016
Dec 26, 2015
Feed the hungry Facebook beast
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| Christmas dinner. Left to right: Bill, Leo, Jenni, Stefan, Stefan's girl friend, Michael, Uwe's girl friend, Uwe (Chang is taking the picture) |
And your habitual "fragment," Michael, how about a "fragment" ? Right, Michael is working on a new, longer version of the Rilke-ghost story. Michael and Chang have met the ghost already in Duino---apparently provoking his appearance by means of a Google translation of one of his poems---and now they are summering in Bürchen, and Rilke is buried nearby. Fragment:
Years later. We’re now summering in Bürchen, Valais, Switzerland, in the chalet of a friend, our own house is rented to holiday makers, as usual. Bürchen is great, 1,600 meters up on the Alp, and so much cooler than the muggy summer-Riviera. There is only one minor problem: Rainer Maria is buried nearby, yes, Rilke, in Raron, a small, historical town right beneath Bürchen down in the valley, barely three klicks as the crow flies. We’ve avoided Raron so far, but Chang is playing the social networks and has to feed the hungry Facebook beast. His Korean followers can’t get enough pictures of snow-topped mountains and timber-studded Swiss chalets, and the 24 hour news-cycle dictates daily posting. We’ve ravaged the entire countryside already---natives of many cultures believe that you steal their picture when you take their photo---along those lines we’ve grabbed photons until nothing seems to be left of the Valais save Raron.
“Do you believe in ghosts?” Chang asks. Of course we don’t. And it’s a sunny, wonderful day, and Rilke is interred in a vault on the southern side of the Burgkirche, which itself is built on a rock hundred meters above the floor of the valley. The views would be fantastic, and a light breeze would play with the pages of the tourist guide that tells about the local Rilke-wine and the XII-century town hall next to the church. A Rilke Pfad leads up there. Half-way there’s a bench. “Remember the bench?” Michael asks. We sit down. And now Michael has a really bad idea. He googles for “Rilke translations,” and the first entry connects to a learned, well-written article by a certain Majorie Perloff.
“Wer, wenn ich schriee, hört mich denn aus der Engel Ordnungen”…wasn’t that the first line? “Here,” I say to Chang, “there you have it, various ways to do this, ‘Who, if I cried, would hear me among the angelic orders,’ or ‘Who, if I cried out, would heed me amid the host of Angels’...”. Chang, predictably, is not really interested, but you see it coming. “Oohh,” the wailing begins, “ohhoohoo.” Talking about hubris.
Dec 17, 2015
France still exists (2)
So we went on another excursion because Chang can no longer handle Michael's self-centered talk about yet another book project. Here's the result (Aix en Provence). The picture is a comment on Jean Cocteau's characterization of the city as un aveugle qui croit qu'il pleut (a blind person who thinks it rains), intended as a reminder of Aix's abundance of fountains.
And here's another fragment from "The Senator and I." Alice, the narrator, has been adopted by this bizarre household, and now she's meeting the natural children of the household for the first time:
There is something about forms, or conventions. I had been declared a “member” of the “household,” I had been fitted with “The Ring,”—and so I was seated at the lord-of-the-manor table, served French fare, and exposed to the physical proximity of complete strangers who were my family but not really good at small talk. Still, I was on a high after my first ocean experience, and the food was good, and I dared to tell unasked about the freak wave, and my seeing a real-life ocean for the first time, and even about my feelings, how elated I had been, and still was, how happy. Occasionally they frowned their brows, and when they did, Xato corrected my pronunciation. Of course, we weren’t from the same location (spoiler alert: we weren’t even from the same continent). I did speak English, it felt like my mother tongue, and I somehow knew theirs, their accent, but they didn’t know mine [Indian accent]. Eventually they stopped listening, and I fell silent. They munched on their fries. The Cointreau glass had been full, empty, full, empty. It was half-empty when Lydia raised her voice a bit and suggested that I should join Hollie and Era in their exploits after lunch. That wasn’t well-received, though, because the kids wouldn’t go back skiing, the snow sucked, and there wouldn’t be a spare pair of skis for the girl anyhow (Erasmus didn’t remember my name, apparently), not of the new XXX-skis that you would need for this mess up there.
Whether they had seen traces, Lydia asked. No, the boy said. Yes, Hollie corrected him, there had been traces, very clear ones, better than last time, in the snow, of the three giants. Footprints. “Giants?” I asked. Yes, the giants that live up there, well, perhaps you don’t know (poor foster-child), the snow giants, enormous prints, three toes per indentation, in the snow, but the snow sucked.
We were in the future and I didn’t even know the season. Hollywood---that would be California, wouldn’t it, where they have eternal spring. “It’s spring,” I said, half-asking. No reply. “Does anybody know which year it is?” I asked, but was misunderstood, except by Xato perhaps, who whispered: “Three-hundred twenty.” Three-hundred twenty didn’t ring a bell at all.
The Lady’s glass was still empty, the MAs stood to attention like matchstick men in a high-school play, the frightful horses were relieving themselves one more time, nothing made sense, why should I still make sense. So, I said: “No, I mean it, I must be in the future.”
“No, you are not,” somebody said. The Lady herself had spoken with her raspy voice, to me. It was a momentous event, judging by the body language of everybody else. Erasmus whistled.
“How do you know,” I asked.
“The Senator will explain,” she said and let her shoulders slump a bit further.
“The Senator will explain,” Xato echoed/whispered into my ear. The case was closed. We went silent. In the meantime we were having desert (I could have had a “crème de something” but ordered plum pie), and coffee (all this without the participation of The Lady or Lydia), and now we were waiting. The Cointreau glass was still empty. Nobody was working an iThing, or any other hand-held device. Hollie stole a studious regard at her mother. How would this end? Well, she slumped off her chair, is how it ended, or almost, since Xato, the nearest assistant, had saved Her Lady from dropping to the ground and was now holding her up with stretched-out arms, the strong man. And before we knew it, a wheel-chair had arrived on an S (the standing platform), a self-steering chair, this one, and the Lady had been cushioned into its seat whence the vehicle made back onto the platform, Lydia in tow, and they were swept away. The rest of the family rose.
Are you still there? Then you may like Michael's first novel, GREEN EYES. which is out now, available on Amazon under this link:
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| "click" |
Dec 11, 2015
France still exists
We went on an excursion, urgently, today, because Chang can no longer handle Michael's rambling talk about the new novel he's writing, working-titled "The Senator and I," a YA novel with a sixteen year old girl and a member of the Planetary Senate (the senator), and no sex. So we went on this excursion, and here's the result (this is in Moustier St. Marie, Alpes Haute-Provence, France):
And here's a fragment from "The Senator and I" (just a fragment). Alice, the narrator, meets her (new) foster mother (the senator's wife) for the first time. We're in polite society, and Xato is Alice's new PA:
I was led into the pool house, fawned over by an unknown assistant, left alone when I asked for it, and when I returned to the pool, the majordomo had disappeared. Instead, two woman were sitting at a table on the terrace under a huge patio umbrella that had not been there before. Xato touched me briefly at the small of my back (nice), whispered “The Lady Abercrombie,” and guided me towards the female couple. The Lady had indeed taken note, was perhaps even expecting me, since she raised her regard and made contact with lazy, tired eyes. In front of her, on the table, lunch had been laid: a large bottle of Cointreau and one long-drink-glass, filled almost to the rim with the honey-colored liqueur. She didn’t speak however, and there was nothing of a body language on her part, Xato introduced me to a silent and motionless person dressed conspicuously in an iridescent bathrobe like me, one elbow on the table, the other on an armrest, a cigarette---a real, smoking cigarette, not an electric one---between two forefingers (signet ring on the pinkie). Xato explained about my morning adventure in a burlesque language I had not heard him using before, while the smoke from her fag curled, billowed, and headed for my nose. I sneezed and turned away for a sec, and when I turned back the Cointreau glass was half-empty. The Lady managed a gesture that seemed like an invitation to have a seat, at least that’s what Xato took it for since he hastened to shove a chair into place and made me sit down. I stole a glimpse at my imitation-ring that had survived the freak wave, then began to wonder how a person like her would harness the energy to “panic,” or do other things that might require body language. My new mother. One is never too old to learn.
And here's a fragment from "The Senator and I" (just a fragment). Alice, the narrator, meets her (new) foster mother (the senator's wife) for the first time. We're in polite society, and Xato is Alice's new PA:
I was led into the pool house, fawned over by an unknown assistant, left alone when I asked for it, and when I returned to the pool, the majordomo had disappeared. Instead, two woman were sitting at a table on the terrace under a huge patio umbrella that had not been there before. Xato touched me briefly at the small of my back (nice), whispered “The Lady Abercrombie,” and guided me towards the female couple. The Lady had indeed taken note, was perhaps even expecting me, since she raised her regard and made contact with lazy, tired eyes. In front of her, on the table, lunch had been laid: a large bottle of Cointreau and one long-drink-glass, filled almost to the rim with the honey-colored liqueur. She didn’t speak however, and there was nothing of a body language on her part, Xato introduced me to a silent and motionless person dressed conspicuously in an iridescent bathrobe like me, one elbow on the table, the other on an armrest, a cigarette---a real, smoking cigarette, not an electric one---between two forefingers (signet ring on the pinkie). Xato explained about my morning adventure in a burlesque language I had not heard him using before, while the smoke from her fag curled, billowed, and headed for my nose. I sneezed and turned away for a sec, and when I turned back the Cointreau glass was half-empty. The Lady managed a gesture that seemed like an invitation to have a seat, at least that’s what Xato took it for since he hastened to shove a chair into place and made me sit down. I stole a glimpse at my imitation-ring that had survived the freak wave, then began to wonder how a person like her would harness the energy to “panic,” or do other things that might require body language. My new mother. One is never too old to learn.
Nov 27, 2015
Oct 22, 2015
Oct 18, 2015
May 23, 2015
May 19, 2015
Tuesday matinée --- checking out at the local supermarket
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| And he had a wide smile for us! |
(We're off to Switzerland on Thursday, when blogging will resume (hopefully); we had a very rough time the last couple of months)
Mar 12, 2015
The view for a few days
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| We are renting the house for a few days, staying with friends in the meantime. This is the view (we're on the other side of the Esterel park). |
Jan 4, 2015
Dec 15, 2014
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 1, 2014
Nov 24, 2014
Palais de Justice
We're in litigation with our wayward bank and today we'll finally have our day in court, in Grasse, Alpes-Maritimes, way station on Napoleon's Route Napoleon during the "100 days" that ended in Waterloo. Grasse is the world capital of fragrances and the locale of Patrick Süskind's The Perfume, the story of a hypersensitive nose attached to Ben Whishaw who needs the bodily fluids of 12 virgins to complete his mission as the greatest perfume-maker of all time. Grasse is also the seat of The Tribunal de Grande Instance, our court.
Grasse is set on the flanks of the Alpes and built around hair needle turns devoid of any spacial logic, so you're sure to lose your way, especially when you're told by your lawyer that the directions are "bien indiquées," meaning that you're directed off the main road long before you reach the town, arrows pointing this way and that way until they stop pointing and you're on your own in the middle of a Mediterranean jungle of gas stations, low-grow brush ("marais"), utilities, perfume makers, quarries, and the urgent need to pass watersince (you got up too early and drank coffee too much).[1]
Grasse is set on the flanks of the Alpes and built around hair needle turns devoid of any spacial logic, so you're sure to lose your way, especially when you're told by your lawyer that the directions are "bien indiquées," meaning that you're directed off the main road long before you reach the town, arrows pointing this way and that way until they stop pointing and you're on your own in the middle of a Mediterranean jungle of gas stations, low-grow brush ("marais"), utilities, perfume makers, quarries, and the urgent need to pass water
Nov 22, 2014
Sep 30, 2014
Yesterday ---- Part II: Sex on the Eames chair (really)
Finally, folks, the second part of our true-true short story about the visit of our friends from Australia. A third (and last part) will follow. (For the first part go here)
Josh and Jason slept well. They brought good winter weather, a light mistral with dry clear air and steely blue sky. We’ll go visit Saint Tropez. It would be me, today, who would have to make the move, but it’s easier to talk about the corniche or the Forêt Domanial de l’Esterel, the natural park of marais and pine trees that surrounds Le Trayas and protects us from over-development, we’ve recently met a fox up there. I point to a villa on the cliff which supposedly belonged to Greta Garbo (everything is a rumor here, and they are always false). We’ve reached St. Maxime when I finally muster the chutzpah to say: “Chang tells me you’ve sucked his dick last night.”
“Yes,” they say.
“It’s unfair,” I say. They laugh.
We arrive in St. Tropez and walk along the quay where Brigitte Bardot lived in Dieu créa la femme (the next house accomodated La cage aux folles, Birdcage was the remake). We take turns taking pictures of us and the sea. I ask Jason to zoom in on the northern horizon with his Canon EOS 70D and point to the tip of Miramar, a stone throw away from our house in Le Trayas. “It’s unfair,” I say, “they can see us, but we can’t see them.” We laugh.
Josh and Jason slept well. They brought good winter weather, a light mistral with dry clear air and steely blue sky. We’ll go visit Saint Tropez. It would be me, today, who would have to make the move, but it’s easier to talk about the corniche or the Forêt Domanial de l’Esterel, the natural park of marais and pine trees that surrounds Le Trayas and protects us from over-development, we’ve recently met a fox up there. I point to a villa on the cliff which supposedly belonged to Greta Garbo (everything is a rumor here, and they are always false). We’ve reached St. Maxime when I finally muster the chutzpah to say: “Chang tells me you’ve sucked his dick last night.”
“Yes,” they say.
“It’s unfair,” I say. They laugh.
We arrive in St. Tropez and walk along the quay where Brigitte Bardot lived in Dieu créa la femme (the next house accomodated La cage aux folles, Birdcage was the remake). We take turns taking pictures of us and the sea. I ask Jason to zoom in on the northern horizon with his Canon EOS 70D and point to the tip of Miramar, a stone throw away from our house in Le Trayas. “It’s unfair,” I say, “they can see us, but we can’t see them.” We laugh.
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| Jason takes this picture, Josh (or I) hold him in place |
Sep 19, 2014
Jan 11, 2014
Yesterday ---- Part I: We must buy condoms today
Not the Green Eyes, folks. Instead a visit of friends from Australia in early November 2013. This is Part I of a short story of three parts. Enjoy:
No, it wasn’t yesterday, it was three days ago that Josh and Jason arrived in Cannes. We had to pick them up at the train station---a semi-lit location with password-protected toilets tucked away under an ugly overpass that divides the town into two. The announcement screen goes dit-dit-duuh-dit (d#--g--g#--d#), the TGV noses into the station, I wonder briefly what would happen if I lose my balance and hit the tracks, but Josh and Jason pour out of the sliding train doors in front of us just in time.
Josh hasn’t changed at all since his last visit. Jason I never met before, but he gets chatty immediately, it feels like a conversation left dangling an hour ago.
No, it wasn’t yesterday, it was three days ago that Josh and Jason arrived in Cannes. We had to pick them up at the train station---a semi-lit location with password-protected toilets tucked away under an ugly overpass that divides the town into two. The announcement screen goes dit-dit-duuh-dit (d#--g--g#--d#), the TGV noses into the station, I wonder briefly what would happen if I lose my balance and hit the tracks, but Josh and Jason pour out of the sliding train doors in front of us just in time.
Josh hasn’t changed at all since his last visit. Jason I never met before, but he gets chatty immediately, it feels like a conversation left dangling an hour ago.
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