Viola

The viola students from year one onwards were on stage with their teacher playing for parents and friends what they had so harshly learnt in this austere place of knowledge: the "conservatoire".

Tiny beginners clutch tiny violas from which they carefully extract screeching sounds. Their serious expressions and sweet looks generate deep sympathy.

Slightly older two year students extract a greater variety of screeching notes, which almost sound right when they all play together.

A pure note stands out now and then drawing proud smiles in the audience.

Awkward tall young teenagers perform, expressions ranging from fear to surprise, from sulkiness to utmost seriousness, as they tackle with more complicated gamut, which somehow escape their control.

While admiring their perseverance, my ears cry for pity. Oh, untameable viola, how much love and hate you must inspire to those who dare try to tame you.

And then the finale. Together they play and the notes seem to blend into music, guided by the gentle and inspired sounds of one who has mastered viola and overcome so many rugged reefs.

see "pieces" for full text

...

Behind the window on the other side of the track, I watch the energy and movements of a silent mouth, stretching into sounds unheard. Wrinkles appear on forehead. Cheeks move upward. Eyes widen, look away. Eyelids tighten. Chin hugs throat creating folds. Head shakes. Neck stretches forward. Frown takes over, and mouth dances away uttering an avalanche of words. 

Again the metro

Strange as it may seem - besides the strident sound signaling the closing doors, the screeching of brakes, the announcements on the loud loudspeaker which intrude at times on the way- inside the crowded wagon it can be eerily silent.

So many human beings, packed in such a small place, yet silent, avoiding eye contact, suffering unavoidable physical contact, doing their best to seem indifferent.

And then a phone rings - some crazy ring tone breaks through the silence - a loud voice engages in an animate conversation in a foreign tongue.

Or a beggar walks up and down the aisle and recites some sad well rehearsed story in a whine.

Or a lousy accordion player steps in and offends a well know tune.

Or two women start to gossip at the top of their lungs, one keeping her eyes closed when she speaks.

Or a little girl chats away, taking no time to breathe and her mother doesn't listen.

Or an African family talks, talks, talks, in a mysterious dialect, as if seated around a village campfire. One speaks looking ahead, the other listens looking away.

Or a baby beings to cry.

Or a witless boy begins to howl.

Or an angry man begins to shout.

And then back to eery silence and indifference.

The living room

Les Halles, some describe it as a hole in the heart of Paris. Today it has become an underground mall topped with park like open space on the surface. At each side of the Halles, escalators drag people up and down, from the subway to the shops, from the shops to the surface. Exit Porte Lescaut, the rolling stairs lead up to the bustling streets, shops, and houses. In the opposite direction a glass bay window looks out at Les Halles' surface: a cityscape spreads out to the eye. On the left an old fashioned merry go round turns, in the center the park ends with a view of the stately dome of the Bourse du Commerce. On the right a modern fountain spurts no water and maybe you can see the tip of old Saint Eustache. In a corner, half hidden behind a pillar, a woman with a crutch, belongings piled on an airport cart, sits on a broken down office chair. In this improvised living  room she sits all day,  looking out at the view from the window.

La Boudeuse

From above the passerelle I see the boat basking in the setting sun, resting on the still waters of the Seine. It is the Boudeuse. She has sailed around the world.

From the dock, I look at the cityscape, through masts and ropes

Rats in a tunnel

Public transportation, third day of strike. People walk, ride bikes cars, roller skates, or try to jump on whatever trains work.

Tonight the tunnel was crowded with people waiting to climb the stairs leading to the line number 4 platform. Others tried to squeeze through to line number 14.

A steady incoming flow packed the crowd to immobility: trapped rats in a tunnel.

Silence on the verge of panic.

Truth and lies

To lie is not easy. I never - almost - do. I believe in truth. To say the truth is not easy either. It is probably easier to say nothing. But in a way I admire those who lie as much as I do those who say the truth. Both are difficult to do. Maybe to lie is even more difficult. You have to be smart. I'm probably not very smart.

The umbilical cord

I remember the wave of horror and disbelief
	which overtook me one day while watching television.
It was not a horror movie.
	It was an interview of a  boy and a girl - children they were.
They had a child of their own and were thrilled by the hyper reality of their new parenting role game.
	The boy had been present at childbirth and was very proud to have cut the umbilical cord himself.
And while telling his story, he suddenly got stuck in his words and began to repeat
	I cut the umbilical cord myself,
I cut the umbilical cord myself
	I cut the umbilical cord myself

Mosaic

Words Words on the wall meaningless to all but the writer	W O R D G A M E S
Games Games on the wall meaningless to all but the player	G A M E W O R D S

On a boat

Click without a camera.

Hair

Her long blond hair tumbling down to her calves seemed to get always in her way. I'm sure that that she was a brunette died blond. When she sat down next to me at the restaurant, her hair almost swept the floor. It was strange how uncomfortable she seemed with her hair, so long and thick, that she had obviously always left it to grow. She would brush strands away, run her fingers through invisible knots and shake her head, as if she it was something foreign and alive that she had on top of her head like some fantastic hat. I then wondered whether it was a wig. No. It was her hair, or maybe it's just that she was possessed by her hair. It gave her an animal look and I couldn't help imagining her naked wrapped in her hair. I imagine that the man sitting with her thought the same.

Halloween

Is not a tradition in this country. But for once she gave a try at trick or treat. Strange characters gave strange foreign treats

Surface

Surface

The subway surfaces, click!
Nothing
I wanted to feed your eyes

But tech snag

So, just imagine
For now

Underground

Sunflower end

Walking home I suddenly thought of the sunflower, wondering whether it had wilted. Behind the bars little lost sunflower lay broken, uprooted, beheaded on the ground.

Sunflower continued

In spite of the mist
In spite of the fog
In spite of indifference
In spite of gloom
Little lost sunflower has bloomed

Sunflower

On a small
sunless
naked patch
of city
land,

an errant sunflower
behind bars
tries to bloom
before winter
comes

Fall

Subburbian crop

Fall

Strange maturity of a fruit rotting on its branch

Afternoon at Auvers sur Oise - goodbye cont'd

pour Thomas Baby

Good bye

Sad news.
An old friend
not yet old
dies.

Unreal.

We just can’t believe
that death does not exist.

Words sound blasphemous
Yet they may soothe.

Those very close tend
To practical matters and
Overcome for a moment
The stupor of loss.

I did’nt dare ask
When and where
The final good bye
Would be

But the world
is full of magic.

Fate told me when and where,
Allowed me to be there
Just in time,
In the essence of a flower.

Fate led my steps,
Changed my way home.
I met a song and a smile
And tears were allowed to flow freely

The Veil

A young girl
with a traditional black scarf,
fitted tightly around the oval of her face,
revealing her unsuspected beauty:

full lips, proud nose,
liquid dark eyes,
flawless velvelt skin.


No photo of course,
but a smile
through the veil.

OK so it's raining...

Summer

It rains. Summer has been Autumn. Waiting for Summer it rains. Life brings little poetry. Silence, wet and grey prevail. An image from Gabriel Garcia Marquez' One Hundred Years of Solitude pops into my mind: it rains and mold grows on the skin. No poetry: a scrap of d'Annunzio learnt long ago crosses my memory :

E piove su i nostri volti silvani,
piove sulle nostre mani ignude,
sui nostri vestimenti leggieri,
su i freschi pensieri
che l'anima schiude novella,
su la favola bella
che ieri m'illuse,
che oggi t'illude

Approximate translation:

And it rains on our forest self,
it rains on our naked hands,
on our summer clothes,
on our souls' newly born
refreshing thoughts,
on the pretty tale
once an illusion to me
an illusion today to you.

Miles from nowhere - nostalgia

Thinking of the photo "Destination unknown", this Cat Stevens song keeps coming back to me.

Miles from nowhere
I guess I'll take my time
Oh yeah, to reach there

Look up at the mountain
I have to climb
Oh yeah, to reach there.

Lord my body has been a good friend
But I won't need it when I reach the end

Miles from nowhere
Guess I'll take my time
Oh yeah, to reach there

I creep through the valleys
And I grope through the woods
'cause I know when I find it my honey
It's gonna make me feel good

I love everything
So don't it make you feel sad
'cause I'll drink to you, my baby
I'll think to that, I'll think to that.

Miles from nowhere
Not a soul in sight
Oh yeah, but it's alright

I have my freedom
I can make my own rules
Oh yeah, the ones that I choose

Lord my body has been a good friend
But I won't need it when I reach the end

Miles from nowhere
Guess I'll take my time
Oh yeah, to reach there.

Destination Unknown

Heidi land

No words,

just the




glorious
m
o
u
n
t
a
i
n
s


and running water

Sandwoman

Ooty train

Up and down the mountains,
through tunnels and green,
a wonderful ride to Ootacamund
on board of the old steam engine left by the Brits,
shouting joyfully along with the children as if on a merry go round.

MK2

Where over centuries

they once built churches,

elaborate movie houses

sprout from the ground overnight.

And the bus passes here

Chinagora

And the boat stops here.

Festival de l'Oh

Cruising
down the Seine
towards
the industrial
outskirts
of town,
the city
and subburbs

transformed
for a day
into water land.

Tourist
dinner cruise
boats
sur
rendered
to the city
dwellers,

an invitation
to discover
the city waterway.

No monuments,
no churches,
no venerable stones.

Kerala Tag

Back in time,
I rediscover this Kerala Tag.
Revolution and Bollywood
intertwined.

20 years have passed
and these walls
must have been scrubbed clean since.

Bollywood has spread
throughout the world

and - from what I hear -
the cyber revolution
has overthrown

the revolutionary heroes
of the past.

Inca Paris

People

If you travel by metro, I'm sure you have met her. Small and thin, greying hair and rotting teeth, her eyes sparkle with youth. She wears faded jeans and a worn out sweat shirt. She spends her time walking down the isles, but she is not there to beg. With extraordinary energy, she sings revolutionary songs and makes enflamed speeches which nobody understands. It sounds like some sort of esperanto. If you smile at her she will smile back at you with enthusiasm, sharing her joy of life.

An old grudge

Stepping off the metro, a short haired woman in her sixties waives to me and grabs me by the arm towards the bus map.

She and her husband, German tourists dressed in white tee shirts, are at loss: he staring at the city map in his hands; she pointing at the the pink and green criss cross of bus lines.

She speaks to me in English, asking her way. I answer with more questions to understand where they want to go.

And then he gets annoyed, barks away at her, showing his map which doesn't seem to indicate where they want to go. And then he starts barking at me.

"Sir," I say "I speak English, I don't speak German" I am annoyed and my tone is reflecting somehow his.

I turn to his wife and we exchange a few words ignoring him.

Now I know where they are going.

I lead the way with a crisp no non sense attitude.

In English, the man says: Sorry for that.

Reality Show

There's this American show going on one of those new digital TV channels a show called "Next". I don't know if this show is really on in the US and what could be its impact over there - well yes, I'm on the other side - Anyway, it horrifies me. I think that in fact it's called "The daters". Are American teenagers really that gross - dumb - superficial - vain? Or is it just that I am growing old?

juggling stilts

It's a pity you can't see the expressions on the children faces

Clown

There were clowns in the neighbourhood park today.

On the way home

On the way home, the sky suddenly became very dark. The metro stopped in the middle of the bridge (as usual) and the Seine waters looked terribly deep under the dreadful sky of lead. And then rain and thunder, as if it were the monsoon.

Burnt Pans

Internet has been down for the past few days. No blogging. Trying to get back on line, I wasted a lot of time. I put some rice to cook and burned the pan.

Looking at people

There was this man in the subway yesterday. A man in a blue suit. A man in his late fifties, with thin metal rimmed glasses and a soft leather attaché case. He wore on his wrist three ladies' watches. One red with strass, one pearl, and the other.... I don't know what the last one looked like. It was rather odd. Everyone tries to be as odd and original as he can these days.

More distractions

Daytime Night Club atmosphere at the Mouffetard Bowling. Many kids. Softdrinks, music and blue lights. Amateurs playing pool on a Saturday afternoon.

Distractions

One thing
city dwellers have
is a variety of
distractions
at their doorstep.




Oya reminds me
of rainy days at
grandma's place,
pulling out boardgames
from the attic.


Oya's walls
are cluttered
with games
and people
of all ages
and style
play.


No
video
games
here.

Clouds

Respect

Enough, enough, let's get back to words. This erratic patchworking of sounds and visual stuff is fun though...

I spotted this man in the metro the other day. Middle aged, fat pouting lips and greasy curly hair, dressed in jeans with a sloppy tee shirt. He held a pile of papers on his lap and was scribbling on them deftly with a red pen. He did this as without thought, in a hurry, without emotion and he looked terribly bored.

Peering at the papers he held, I realized that he was correcting university exam papers. In two minutes he had browsed through one, cluttered it with red, decided on a grade and proceeded to the next one.

I went on staring at him, thinking of how little respect he showed for all the energy, stress and work spent on writing those papers. Looking around me, I saw similar disapproving stares around me.

A young girl boarded and sat down in front of him, she too stared at the papers he held on his lap. He looked up at her, appraised her as if he were evaluating some specimen of a woman, and did the same when another girl stepped in.

I saw him again yesterday. This time he was trying to solve a sudoku with his red pen, slowly, carefully, his plump hanging lip giving him a puzzled expression. I looked at him and this time he looked at me. He seemed frightened, surprised to see me staring at him with an amused smile.

Election Day

Tunnel

Shadow walk

May Day

May day. A crowd gathers on the place holding a forest of red flags, striking against the blue sky. Amateur and professional vendors sell lily of the valleys at every street corner, either cultivated intensively for the occasion or plucked in private gardens or neighbouring woods.

Morbilhan ballad

Parenthesis

The video was just a trial test to see what can be done. No pretense... I'll probably remove it.

Black and White

Black and white are not opposites. Both are beautiful. Both are same seen from different sides. But the world is definitely not black and white. Black and white are in our minds.

Nilonilaz how different we are yet so similar.

OK, that was a joke, just to show what you can do with the blog. These elections are getting on my nerves. It looks hopeless. And in the meantimes earth is dying. But, earth is beautiful.

Friends again

A beautiful Sunday afternoon. Today is voting day and we laugh even though we're all rather nervous about it all. Who will win the first round?

Fresh Air

Back from breathing the wind
and scents of spring flowers,







sea gulls screetching,
mocking,
whining
while gliding
in the bright blue sky
above the tranquil waters.

Sun shining
on the age old rocks
showing the way




.

Parenthesis

After such profound words - ha ha - I fall into silence and have nothing left to say. I shall go off then to gather new bits and pieces. Routine at times takes over, rubbing off the magic, closing a little more those half open eyes which more and more stare at blank walls.

Off then to where the magic lies.

Words

I find myself mute, not knowing what to write on this blank page. Images take over and speak for themselves, words becoming a burden.

Immersed in this world of images and of truncated words, I remember a book read long ago, describing a world where the knowledge of words was deliberately reduced to the minimum required for day to day communication.

For more words mastered, the more the ability to think and to share those thoughts with others.

Transformed by light

Spring

Just before dawn, the city birds sing loudly in the dark.

The tower, the top