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hirondelles de printemps

There were cirrus clouds yesterday, beautiful mare’s tail cirrus above the Jardin des Tuileries. I took this photo on my way home. This week I hosted a Dutch traveler for a few nights who taught me how to juggle and had a picnic with a crowd of international couchsurfers on the Champs de mars, the park in front of the Eiffel Tower. With the help of a German friend, I also tasted my first Bitburger, my first Altbier, and my second Hefeweizen on the discovery of a German grocery store nearby. My next project: schwarzbrot.

great gig in the sky

Walking up the seven flights of stairs to my apartment is like swimming through a well-defined seven-layer cake: each floor emanates its own distinct aroma.  Today, someone on floor two was taking a determinately fruity shower, and the entire fifth floor landing reeked undeniably of sausage.  Apart from a trip to the market, I stayed at home today. I watched the wind bat around weightless raindrops from my open bathroom window and marveled at the thickening mat of stratocumulus clouds gathering over the city.  Contrary to what this activity might imply, I was highly engaged, studying the subtle and sudden twists of the sky.  The light is in perpetual flux, the clouds are never still, and this overhead dialogue is frequently overwhelming and always intriguing.

Aside from getting to know the clouds, I did manage to bake a couple loaves of bread, learn a handful of new songs to play (guitar) and sing, and write several pages.  Yesterday (my birthday!), I visited the Musée de l’Homme, a  division of the National Museum of Natural History (Muséum national d’Histoire naturelle).  A friend and I took this picture, below.

Breizh

Finistère

Finistère

île-de-bréhat

île-de-bréhat

menhir in Côtes-d\'Armor

menhir

moulin on île-de-bréhat

moulin on île-de-bréhat

moulin

moulin on île-de-bréhat

book-reading in germany

some thoughts from my voyage.

book-reading in germany. tea-drinking, peppermint.

read, read, remember what it feels like to breath heavily, walk up unnumbered stairs, meet a freiburg canadian, vern, november 27th 7:30pm, 1944, the bombing, a sandstone cathedral, learning german, you are you! and  there’s no one here to draw parameters around curiousity or cloud shifting eyes, shifted, shifters, I could say: I am a cloud, also, a cactus, or a kestrel, or cappuccino. I don’t even know how to spell my own name! But, and, Paul Muldoon, shrouded in horses and flax and linen, even made a chocolate gun, a chocolate gun, and I am a witness, I am just as much a part of his art as he is, for where would his art be without us, the drifters, the clouds pausing here and there, blown into this exhibition room, changing shape and floating out…where would he be without the clouds? for he is also a cloud himself, shapeshifting, freezing strewn pale, elongated fibers hung by the wind like sea oats in the sand…yes, I will return to these thoughts after pondering Camus and Noces and death and the solielventlumiere a little more, and running to think and pant and see things perhaps differently through eyes of a bluer sky than my today, a different shade of blue, I am a shapeshifter, too through a sea of blues.

bienfaisance?

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cirrus, Shwarzwald

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Freiburg, Germany

wisps of cirrus suspended above the southwest edge of Freiburg and the fringes of Shwarzwald, the Black Forest, encircling the town.

atop this tower we met a seventy-four year old man named Vern who told us stories about his childhood in Freiburg.