The Year of the Cats . . .

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The feline with those clear blue eyes posing by the deep blue shutters on her house (see post below this one) was photographed this past August one day which I spent strolling around the town of Morlaix, Brittany. From near the train station there is a flight of stairs which descends the steep valleyside toward the center of town. Going down those stairs, I stopped to photograph this aging stretch of wall (for the texture Loulou and Desi !), before going just a few steps further along where I was sizing up those blue shutters for photographic potential, when the owner of the house stepped out on the windowsill to see who the stranger was . . .
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And back by popular demand, as there were so many of you who said you liked the adorable blue eyed purring sweetheart from the photo in the post just below this one, here she is again, . . .
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And while celebrating the color blue, this boat was photographed just a few hours later the same day, in the tiny little port town of Dourduff, just downriver a ways from Morlaix, where the river turns into a bay . . .
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A very short distance down the stairs from the abode of the blue-eyed cat was this very black cat, proudly proclaiming ownership of the wall on which he holds court, looking askance through narrowed eyes at the interloper with a camera . . . "Who does he think he is, that horrid human, daring to take my picture without my permission and not even a single mouse in offering . . . ! ! !"
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Right across the descending alleyway was another alley cat, peering cautiously from behind his well protected wall fortress . . .
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Continuing down that same feline inhabited alleyway, I found this flight of ancient, well worn stone stairs going back up the hillside. I could not resist a side trip to see where they went . . .
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Going up those stairs a way took me to the level of the local rooftops, and I was surprised to find that they were inhabited ! This curious fellow seemed to be the chief, he came up close to check my credentials . . .
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In fact, there was a whole crowd of cats up on those rooftops, and these are just a few who deigned to sit still to be photographed . . .
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There were wilder sorts of cats in the neighborhood too . . .
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The only dog in town just didn't seem up to the task of keeping all those cats in line . . .
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And what better piece of music to go with all these alley and rooftop aristocats than this piece from one of my favorite musicians . . .
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An Invitation to the Blues . . .

The cat with pale blue eyes was peering out from some deep blue shutters in Morlaix, Brittany this past August.
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These next two are hot off the press, taken late this afternoon on a little ramble around the countryside near here. Something about the intense blue in the sky just after sunset reminded me of the blue shutters, and the two conspired to provide an invitation to the blues
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And what song could go better with shades of blue like those but . . .
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Texture . . . October Theme @ Blogger Friends Photo Club

Our sponsors would like to put in a word for a photo club happening over at Blogger Friends Photo Club, which is being taken care of by Desi in South Africa. Each month she announces a theme, and then over the month people can send her photos related to the theme, and at the end of the month she posts them all; and folks can then come back and see what everyone else did related to the theme for that month. The theme for October is "Texture" . . . so if you have any photos with great texture in them, don't wait to send them to Desi, there are still a few days left in October . . .
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To participate in Blogger Friends Photo Club, it's easy, just send Desi an e-mail with the photos you'd like to enter to : photoclubfriends@webmail.co.za and she'll do the rest. . . which is really wonderful of her, as this is purely for fun and she has devoted considerable time to it over the past couple of months to make it happen.
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She has two other blogs as well which are worth a visit or three, at Desi Van Zyl Photography, and at Being Desi.
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Although this is not one of the photos I sent for this month's texture theme, it might have been . . . The texture of a parched piece of earth . . . somewhere in France . . .
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Très Big Rant . . .

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Well, I admit, yesterday's post was a tiny wee bet of a rant, there's no denying it. Sometimes it just seems to do a world of good to blow off some steam, and let things hang out a little in the wind, without necessarily getting to be four sheets to the wind in the process.
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But there is alot to rant about these days. And far better to rant a little with a few words on a blog than to rant with explosives and bullets, as a few too many people for my liking are doing these days in many places around the world. Where are all these explosives and bullets and guns and sick people coming from, anyway ??? Now that could be the subject of a long rant ! In fact, there are many subjects that keep coming unfortunately to our collective attention that are well worthy of some major ranting and raving about, and they just don't seem to want to let themselves be flushed away, as I suggested we should do in the post just below this one with things that need and ought to be forgotten.
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Violent gangs with literally thousands of members stretching from Central America to the good old USA, bearing drugs and guns and tons of dirty dollars, covered with tatoos about their latest murders. A french film-maker was murdered in Central America recently after having just completed a major film about violent gangs. Some sort of twisted poetic justice there. Human rights advocates being murdered in Russia. Bombs going off in Iraq. Heroin pouring out of Afghanistan in greater quantities than ever before despite the multi-national military presence there, funding further mayhem. Piracy on the high seas. Failed or failing governments. Entire countries in total chaos. The human race multiplying like crazed rabbits with no end in sight and visions of riches when in fact misery is in store for most. Workplace angst due to economic woes of a magnitude never known, banks continue to fail, financial fascists turn corporate cultures to fear and loathing, driven by greed, greed, and more greed. Bernie Madoff made off with the big bucks, Dick Feld bought himself hundreds of millions of dollars of personal real estate while bankrupting his bank. While us little people pay interest on mortgages out the wazoo, strangling us, leaving next to nothing for the future. . . but as Leonard Cohen said, I can see the future brother, and it is murder . . .
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So yes, there is much to rant and rave about, and I could go on for hours like that once I get on a roll. But I don't want to bore you to tears either. You know about all those things, and more. We all have our own private little visions of hell. Like Rimbaud, in a Season in Hell. But it is up to us to shut those visions away, or flush them away, and build a vision of peace and joy and reason.
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One place that gives off great waves of peace and radiant light is a simply beautiful blog I stumbled on a while back . . . please do take a detour around to say "howdy" to Clo at Photos Sans Cible, her latest series of autumnal photos are stunning . . . looking at those beautiful images, I can almost forget what it was I was meaning to do a Très Big Rant about . . .
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Been There, Dunny That . . .

There are some things in life which we just want to forget about as quickly as possible. Certain things that we flush away and never want to hear from again. Not now. Not ever. Don't write and don't call. Just disappear thank you very much.
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This past week at work is one such thing. Think Tchernobyl. Think Bhopal. Things that never should have happened, but did. And they left a big stink in their wake. And alot of grief.
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But it is Sunday now where I am, and for all intents and purposes, this past week can be classified as "OVER". Over and out. History. To be flushed and forgotten.
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My blogging pal Nathalie at Avignon in Photos taught me a new word a while back which I'd never heard before for the subject of the photo here . . . it is known in Australia as a "Dunny". In other places it is also known as a john, a johnny, a latrine, the lavatory, a litter box, an outhouse, the pot, the potty, a privy, the restroom, a sandbox, the throne, the washroom, the water closet, a latrine, an outbuilding, the washroom, the jakes. The "jakes" ? For heavens sakes, I'd never heard that one before either.
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The more formal definition is : "a small outbuilding with a bench having holes through which a user can defecate". And then forget. Quickly.
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La Vie en Rose . . . Rose Colored Life . . .

A lady dressed in pink, hands clasped
Saying pink prayers these past hundred years
Pink prayers rusting on her lips
I could barely hear her
And could not make out the words
As hard as I tried . . . as hard as I tried . . .
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Dreaming of the Beast . . . or . . . A Beast Dreaming

This photo was shot in Paris a few years ago, a somewhat amusing sign of our times. I'm not overly superstitious or obsessed with conspiracy theories or religious dogmatisms of any stripe, in fact I'm getting rather fed up with reading about religion in the press so much of late, the subject seems to have become a fixation for many, I wish people could be a little more discreet with their personal visions of unfathomable mysteries.
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But I have always loved mathematics, as one small realm where a little order and logic reign, as opposed to chaos and ill-logic. So I was quite pleased to find this website about what is known in some circles as The Number of the Beast. It appears that the number 666 has quite a number of fascinating mathematical properties related to it that Mike Keith, the author of the web page linked to here has gone to great lengths to demonstrate. And just from a purely mathematical point of view, his work is quite beautiful in the simplicity of these numerical truths. Here is just one example of the long list of properties related to the number 666 that Mike Keith has assembled; but I encourage you to visit his site for more . . .
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There are exactly two ways to insert '+' signs into the sequence 123456789 to make the sum 666, and exactly one way for the sequence 987654321 :
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666 = 1 + 2 + 3 + 4 + 567 + 89
666 = 123 + 456 + 78 + 9
666 = 9 + 87 + 6 + 543 + 21
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But if you want to delve deeper into the biblical reference, just turn to the last section of the Bible, the Book of Revelations", and start with chapter 13, verse 18. . .
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Oh, and just one last example from Mike Keith's excellent website :
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Finally, we close with an observation that makes a commentary on the folly of attaching a too-specific meaning to the number 666. If the letter A is defined to be equal to 36 (=6·6), B=37, C=38, and so on, then:
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The sum of the letters in the word SUPERSTITIOUS is 666
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Return to the Paris Dog Cemetery . . .

This past Spring I took a trip back to the Paris Dog Cemetery, actually just outside Paris, in the northern suburb of Asnières. I'd been there probably about 15 years ago, but wanted to go see it again, and with a better camera than the first time. (See previous posts on this place by clicking the Paris Dog Cemetery label in the sidebar) It is a touching place for animal lovers (like me). People have really poured all kinds of energy and love into creating monuments for their dear departed companions, often with affectionate twists of humor, sometimes even a little kitsch. Many of the graves have photographs on them to memorialize the sorely missed friend.
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When I saw this terrier sitting in some sort of satchel, I couldn't help wondering if the subject of the photo had perhaps lived a scandalous life of debauchery, deflowering a few too many virgin pooches along his travels, digging up too many flower beds, chewing up a few too many pairs of slippers, and was thus being remembered in this image as going to hell in a handbasket ? And then I said no, I must be mistaken, for he looks far too adorable and distinguished to have lived a degenerate life . . .
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I will try to translate part of the following sign which is posted near the entrance to the Pet Cemetery (exclamation points mine) :
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III : Animals :
Inside the cemetery, dogs must be kept on a short leash. Their masters must beware that the dogs commit no degrading act or pollution. (!)
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The "Free Cats" may circulate freely in the cemetery. The Association for the Defense of the Dog Cemetery assumes the responsibility for the behavior of the cats. (! as if anyone could be responsible for cats' behavior !) Their nourishment is controlled by Interior Regulations elaborated for this purpose and annexed to the present rules.
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It is prohibited to remove birds from their nests. ( ! presumably directed at the "Free Cats ? !)
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All infractions against the current regulations will be duly noted with a summons sent to the competent court. (signed) The Deputy Mayor (end of translation)
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Watch out for those Free Cats (don't you just love that ? sounds sort of like the French Resistance !), and remember, no pollution from your dog on it's leash . . .
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Tipsy's grave marker was colorful with a crescent moon, ladybugs, cupids, and hearts; hopefully Tipsy wasn't a dog dipsomaniac . . .
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And it is not just a canine cemetery, many felines are also interred there . . .
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I apologize for my sometimes irreverent mind, but for this little fellow, I was thinking, gosh, did the sculpteur try to capture the expression on his face just before he got hit by the car that killed him ?
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A tiny Father Christmas decorated one animal's grave. Looked almost as though he'd been lynched by some hateful mob . . . but who would want to lynch Santa Claus for Pete's sake ? No, more like he'd been lashed to the cross to prevent him from wandering off on a cold winter night . . .
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Evolution . . .

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Three photos from the previously mentioned trip to Haiti in 1997.
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In a small book I put together shortly after the trip, this photo was given the caption :
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Holding Pattern
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In Jacmel, on the southern coast

A boat was washed up into a street in a storm

No doubt in one of the hurricanes

That sometimes lash those shores

There was no reason to move it

So it stayed

People passing by

Pay it little notice . . .

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"Old man look at my life, I'm alot like you were . . .

I'm all alone at last . . ." (Neil Young)

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From a child, to a woman, to an old man

The stages of life, and all the world's a stage

Evolution in a series of photos

There are those who would deny

Who would deny evolution

Preferring to believe

In miracles

But I know

The clock is ticking . . .

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Rhymes of Ancient Mariners . . .

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Years ago from the Port of Morlaix
In the far western reaches of France
Two sisters set to sea together
Sailing out the estuary to the bay
Avoiding the rocks in the shallow waters
Heading for the deeper blue
Where longer nets could be cast and towed
And the bountiful silver clad denizens of the sea
Could be hauled aboard by fair or foul weather
Oft sailing off the coast of Ireland
Perhaps half the way to Iceland
Brave mariners manned the decks
Never doubting the graces of the sea
To carry them home again
Never doubting
The infinite supply of proteins
Destined for all of Europe's dinner plates
Never suspecting that one day
The nets would come up empty
Never imagining that one day
The government would pay them a pittance
To stay home
To set sail no more . . .
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Simple controls to motor forward or reverse
To set the rudder for graceful changes of direction . . .
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The Shepherd's Star, the Pen an Dour
Now destined to a watery grave
By the harbor side
While their very planks and ribs and keel
Dream of riding once more the breaking wave
Mounting the looming swell
Smelling the salt wind . . .
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Meals once prepared in this most rudimentary of kitchens
The pots braced to keep them from pitching
Their contents down the legs of the galley mate
Now rusting, rusting . . .
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I think the only lights still capable of shining a light
Are the "Feux Detresse" . . . the distress lights
The fuses all blown, blown away, man overboard . . .
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Who will climb down once more into the belly of the boat
A boat just barely able now to float
The heart of the ancient mariner now a whisper
A barely audible whisper
Of battened hatches and mackerel and cod
Of dire storms and prayers to some unseen god . . .
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Immatriculations MX 195135 & MX 430050
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Rhymes of Two Ancient Mariners . . . (cont.)

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Planks were peeling off
Colors once bright fading
Paint was stained by rust . . .
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An anchor slowly rusting with its chain
While flowers sprouting on the deck
Broke into bloom . . .
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Tired old ropes with half hearted hitches
Held the two together, barely . . .
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One could almost imagine standing spread legged on the deck
As the bow broke through, plowed through towering waves . . .
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This was no five star hotel
The comfort cabin for man's most basic needs
Was a simple affair
Now fallen into disrepair . . .
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And heaven help the curious soul
Who would look at the dark innards
Of the ancient mariner
Long rotting from years of hard drink
Assisted by a flash of light
Casting harsh rays into the belly of the machine . . .
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Immatriculations MX 195135 & MX 430050
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On the Beach . . .

If one should ever venture up to explore the area around the bay of the Somme, the wildlife preserve of the Parc Marquenterre is well worth a detour. Discreet footpaths and observation blinds take you past stretches of water and marshlands populated by a wide variety of birds, many of whom are just passing through while migrating far and wide . . .
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The beaches in the area are vast . . . this one is at Quend Plage, just south of Fort Mahon . . .
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This beachside walk seemed to stretch on forever; and perhaps it does . . .
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Of Gastropods and Spirituality . . .

Just a few pieces down, at the end of September, some photos were posted from the small town of Rue near the bay of the Somme River. From that excursion the other day, the church in Rue had some interesting details . . . This first one particularly caught my eye because thanks to Mrs Slug, who presents The Adventures of Mr Slug and Friends, my perspective on mollusks, and especially gastropods, has totally changed. I smile now when I see slugs and snails about, even if I know that in their wicked hearts they are dreaming of eating our lettuce. But they can't help that, it is in their nature. And if you read a few of Mrs Slug's back posts, you will see what lovable, adorable invertebrates they really can be. For some reason la Grenouille giggled when she saw this medieval carving of a snail . . . (hmm, I could go for some snails in hot butter and garlic sauce with toasted baguette to soak up the sauce with . . .)
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There were a number of visitors in the church that afternoon, but it would appear that they had all made the mistake of looking directly at Medusa . . .
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This stately woman was holding up a headless (or as the Saj would say : 'eadless), armless baby for all the world to see . . .
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I rather suspect that it was this guilty looking fellow who made off with the baby's head, he's got it in his hands . . .
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A passerby was appalled by all these awful deeds going on . . .

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While a quiet conversation was taking place in the soft filtered light coming in through stained glass . . .

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