Shame you were busy
I went to a masquerade
Plied my trade
As a medieval whore
Behind the doors
Of a gloomy castle
Received a rose
From a lovable rascal
Lived, breathed, loved
Not a minute was lost
I only wish your lunchtime
Had been as exciting as mine
You were keeping the books
While I dived straight into one
No need to ask
Which one of us missed out
So, since apparently the selfies are not p*****g people off too much…and I am still celebrating my birthday…and I am hesitating between outfits (though narrowed it down to two) for today’s shenanigans…I am shamelessly leaving these here…and anybody who might feel compelled to help me decide…thanks for your help! 😉
Away from home I may be, but I remain distinctly and unashamedly French. Today is Bastille Day in France which is celebrated on July 14th each year. It is a national holiday and commemorates the storming of the Bastille on July 14th 1789.
Bastille Day is the anniversary of “our Revolution”, when we rejected monarchy and the principle of inherited privileges.
Today, I am wearing the only thing in my wardrobe that carries the 3 colours of the French flag – I was told I looked like a 1950’s housewife but hey, who cares? – the wind did its best to whip my dress all over the place but we managed a few pics. Now I have an evening of (French) food and wine ahead to celebrate a day that’s incredibly important to the French people.
“No dictator, no invader, can hold an imprisoned population by force of arms forever. There is no greater power in the universe than the need for freedom. Against that power, governments and tyrants and armies cannot stand.”
– J. Michael Straczynski
One may travel around the world and see many beautiful sights
Yet there is nothing more enchanting, nothing drawing more sighs
Than coming back to your homeland and taking in that particular light
Eyes devouring, heart fluttering as a delicate and fragile butterfly
Every fibre of your being responding – the immediate bonding
That fierce and devastating love – the unique feeling of belonging
I was born and bred in Burgundy but I have a deep love for the South of France.
Villefranche-sur-Mer adjoins the city of Nice – it’s a breathtakingly beautiful little jewel nestling on the French Riviera – the photographs don’t do it justice.
It was a simple choice: carrying on with the known path that would take us back to civilisation, noise and pollution – or deciding to follow the trail leading on to the unknown.
A small adventure seemed like a good idea at the time, so we entered the woods.
Progress was slow, there were countless obstacles in our way. Trees that had been left alone for heaven knows how long and grown unrestrained almost seemed to bar the way.
“You shall not pass” they appeared to say – not as fiercely as Gandalf on the bridge, it was more of a determined whisper. Still, we were not to be deterred that easily and carried on, walking deeper and deeper into the shadowy thicket.
We encountered some highwaymen who were more lost than we were – hardly surprising since they were obviously from another time and place.
How long had they been meandering through the woods? It’s hard to say, but they told us tales of lecherous satyrs and enchanting nymphs with golden wings. They spoke in hushed whispers and with wide, bewildered eyes – they might have been menacing once, but their long stay in the woods had taken all the fight out of them.
We left them next to an ancient-looking tree, all black trunk and gnarled roots coming out of the ground. We didn’t offer to help them, and they didn’t ask for it either – there was obviously a lack of trust on both sides, and is it any surprise?
We were hoping to meet some of the creatures they had talked about, but we were severely disappointed: not a single nymph to be found, gold-winged or otherwise.
After a few hours of us battling branches and sinking into the heavy blanket of leaves on the ground, the woods came to an abrupt end. We emerged, blinking in the daylight, and wondered if we had dreamed the whole highwaymen encounter.
Making our way home, we decided it might indeed have been a dream. After all, all our lives we’d been scolded for having too fertile an imagination. Still, it had been a good afternoon, and definitely an adventure. Real or otherwise, it didn’t matter either way.
She is sitting calmly in room 28. The means to her end are on the old-fashioned and worn bedside table.
She doesn’t feel any guilt or doubt about her decision. Why should she? She wants out and it’s nobody’s business but her own.
She feels nothing, although if probed, she would admit to a small sense of relief drifting through the vast nothingness that inhabits her.
Going under, leaving it all behind while the squawks of the seagulls echo outside her window feels – just – right. Exactly as it should be.
She specifically asked for room 28 – her whole purposeless existence and a smidgen of irony has led her to this very room.
In room 28, she is going to put an end to her 28 years on this earth – shuffle off this mortal coil – cut all ties to a world she cares nothing for.
In room 28, she is going to lay down and peacefully wait for the nothing to engulf her.
In room 28, time slows down and eventually stops as the outside world fades away.
Author’s note (how pretentious of me): as I was coming up to the top of a very steep street a couple of weeks ago, I was faced with this building I’ve seen hundreds of times before, and this idea suddenly came to me; what could be going on inside I wondered? And this tragic story popped into my head right there and then, standing in the sunshine surrounded by pedestrians and traffic. Why so morbid? I have no idea. But my ideas usually come out of nowhere like that (which makes me a total freak in the eyes of some, and an ‘artist’ in the eyes of others) and either fade away to nothing once I mull over them – or persist and keep nagging somewhere at the back of my mind which means they need to be told. This short tale was one of the latter.
Plenty of time to raise a flush
Take it easy…
Savour the taste of Anticipation – the
almost, but not quite, frustration
No hands on my clock
This ain’t a cheap value meal
Use your fingers by all means
Just don’t forget the cutlery
All too aware you’re greedy, and needy
Still, control your breathing,
prove to me you’re worthy
Of a feast fit – not for a fool – but for a king