Ancient Mariners Sleep Deep . . .

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Way back in October of 2009, barely a year into this blogging adventure, I did two posts (which you can see here if you click and then scroll down the page to October 13th) about a pair of fishing vessels, the Pen an Dour and the Etoile du Berger, which had been tied up at a quai in the Morlaix, Brittany harbor, and left there to sleep the deep sleep of the abandoned, the forgotten, the neglected, the unwanted, the past. They had been painted green and red, but by then their once splendid paint had begun to peel and flake, like the skin of a bad sunburn case. Some months later I learned, to my regret, that they had been removed from the Morlaix harbor, and sent to a destination unknown, where they would surely finish their days.
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This past Monday, while out in Brittany again for a few days, la Grenouille wanted to go for a seaside walk, so we set out for a hike up a remote stretch of coast we hadn't ever walked before. After two hours of fairly strenuous, but glorious, walking, in unseasonably warm sunshine, on the outskirts of one of the tiny villages that dot the coastline in those parts, we came across another pair of red and green abandoned fishing ships. For a moment I thought we had found the final resting place of the two that had been towed out of the Morlaix River, but I quickly realized these were larger vessels, not the same ones at all.
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There was no good reason I should have found these two ancient mariners, the Kalinka (red) and the Etreom (green). We were simply out for a walk on a lovely Spring afternoon. But as you can well imagine, I'm not one to let an opportunity like that pass, and as I just happened to have my camera in my rucksack, while la Grenouille soaked up some sunrays while sitting on a stone wall, I scrambled down the embankment into the mud of the low tide flats there, and went to take a closer look. A much closer look. How could I resist ? The beauty of peeling layers of paint and rusting marine metalwork held me mesmerized for quite a little while. The photos below are just the tip of the proverbial iceberg. I submit these for your consideration. More will follow, should you be so rash as to encourage me to further folly. Anchors aweigh !
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Immatriculations MX317516 and MX300088
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Taking a Deep Breath in Brittany

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Sometimes it does a world of good to step back (about 600 kms back) and just take a deep breath, change the ideas, replace the stagnant air of cities with the sea breeze of Brittany, just wake up and smell the coffee, and say, hey, life is good after all, especially when there are lots of coffees to choose from, and they're all tasty.
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And coffee is best when served in a café where there are mermaids on the walls. Heck, if you're lucky, a mermaid might just serve you the coffee ! It doesn't get much better than that.
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The colors of Brittany : colorful cookies, colorful beer... what more does one need ? Ah, coffee and mermaids of course.
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Well, how about red headed mermaids wearing nothing but blue pasties ?
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If coffee and mermaids and cookies and beer maybe aren't enough to produce pure happiness, then how about a trip to the creperie for crêpes or even for a big dish of moules frites ??? Mussels and fries ! Yum !
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Gotta love places where octupi and mermaids adorn the walls, just can't seem to get away from all the mermaids around here. There are worse fates in life.
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After dinner a few fresh watercolors can be perused while digesting the moule frites. Lobsters, crabs, sailboats, seaside homes. All is good in this world by the waterside.
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And the mermaids, one mustn't forget the mermaids !
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Nor the pipe smoking wild-haired beer models . . .
Greetings to all from the back of beyond in Brittany.
A bientôt !
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A New Element Discovered . . .

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While going through some papers at home the other day, I came across a typed piece of paper from back in the days before computers and the internet, when office humor had to be laboriously typed and copied on mimeograph machines, then passed around hand to hand among friends. Sometimes these primitive forms of communication were actually mailed in paper envelopes with odd bits of colored paper known as "stamps" stuck on them with a form of glue that had to be licked to moisten it. It took such pieces a bit longer to make the rounds, but they did circulate nevertheless. My father gave me this little gem years ago, so with no further ado, here it is (a Google search tells me the author was one William DeBuvitz) :
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................................... . . . . . . . . . ...............PRESS RELEASE

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........................................................NEW ELEMENT DISCOVERED
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The heaviest element known to science was recently discovered by investigators at a major U.S. research university. The element, tentatively named Administratium, has no protons or electrons. This unusual atomic arrangement would result in an atomic number of zero. However, it does have one neutron, 125 assistant neutrons, 75 vice neutrons and 111 assistant vice neutrons, which gives it an atomic mass of 312 a.m.u..
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These 312 nuclear particles in an Administratium atom appear to be held together by a force which involves a continuous exchange between meson-like particles called morons.
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Since it has no electrons, Administratium is inert. However, it can be detected chemically as it impedes all worthwhile reactions it comes in contact with. According to the discoverers, a minute amount of Administratium caused one reaction to take over four days to complete when it would have normally occurred in within milliseconds.
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Administratium has a normal half-life of approximately three years. At the end of this time it does not actually decay, but instead undergoes a reorganization in which assistant neutrons, vice neutrons and assistant vice neutrons exchange places. Some studies have shown that the atomic mass actually increases after each reorganization.
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Research at other laboratories indicates that administratium occurs naturally in the atmosphere but tends to concentrate at certain points such as government agencies, large corporations, and universities. It can usually be found in the newest, best appointed, and best maintained buildings.
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Scientists are careful to point out that Administratium is known to be toxic at any level of concentration. It will impede or easily destroy all productive reactions where it is allowed to accumulate or comes in contact with. Attempts are being made to determine how Administratium can be rendered harmless or at least be controlled to prevent irreversible damage, but results to date are not promising. Reports thus far have indicated that the likelihood of success along these lines is rather low.
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All I can say is that I think my existence at present has been invaded by a large cloud of noxious Administratium gas, which is preventing me from doing one of the things I have come to love best over these past few years, namely getting out to visit your blogs, or responding to your ever challenging, inspiring, and lovable comments that you have been leaving here. I am currently seeking large ventilation units to help dispel the clinging, lingering, poisonous Administratium gas, right now I can barely see for all the blistering mustard colored fog in the environs. I think it acts as a powerful neuro-toxin.
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A few more photos from the chemical mines visited in the previous post seem appropriate.
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The sorcerer's apprentices left their kitchen uncleaned . . .
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A veritable chamber of horrors . . .
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I think it is the "fate" component here that is the operative part of this name.
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Since when is water not for drinking ???
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Eye protection required !
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A surprising number of people are saying the end is near these days.
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This may be an actual sample of Administratium in its most toxic form. Rather fascinating, if you ask me, the same way one is fascinated by a rattlesnake.
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Weird Scenes From The Chemical Mines . . .

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Or should it be called weird seeings from a chemical mind ? Whatever. I had a dream. I dreamed I was in an abandoned factory. A factory where obviously many horrible things had happened. The traces were everywhere. Slowly corroding away in the padlocked and chained stillness of the nightmares no one wants to know of. The sins of our past. Passing into the future. The pasture. Chemicals seeping into groundwater, then into the river. Tell me it isn't so, please. Time to wake up now. Time to resume pretending that none of this was real.
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Who would have guessed an Ammonia Scrubber sign could have turned into a work of post chemical modern art ?
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Our days are numbered . . .
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Even the ghosts that haunt the place need something to read.
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The pits that lie below . . . honest, you don't want to know.
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Caution, there is even a drain for the press, which is open to dilute.
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Exit ? Did someone say Exit ? I fear there is no exit from certain nightmares.

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A Day In A Life . . .

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Out running an errand this past weekend, I took advantage of a few minutes free time to step into a graveyard in an unfamiliar town, to look around, to contemplate, to ponder. This is what happened.
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I suppose one could see such things
In almost any cemetery in France
On any given day
Or is it just I who sees them ?
And thinks
Perhaps naively
The prosaic poet in me
That we should remember them
That we should not forget
Those who went before
Lives from past centuries
Lives from long ago
Before we knew
All we know today
All we know today ?
But are we better for it ?
I often wish for older, simpler times
For I am not entirely convinced
That where we are going today
Is somewhere we really want to go
But like a runaway train
There is no going back
No going home
And what was the title
Of Mr Morrison's biography ?
"No One Here Get's Out Alive" ?
Wise words, wise words. . .
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(To our beloved son, Lucien Poiret, 404th Infanterie, Died for France, 25th March 1918, at the age of  25 years )
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Bug-Eyed in Bugland

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A while back I posted some photos from a VW bug and bus cemetery discovered by chance in the deep, dark jungles of central Pennsylvania (Penn's woods) way back long ago in September. I wasn't done with that site after that earlier posting, and am still not done with it after this one. It was a beautiful and bountiful booty of bugs fallen from grace. A place to lay one's bugbears to rest, to say peek-a-boo to one's bugaboos and leave them behind buried in the bucolic underbrush of the backwoods, until rust do them ravish. It is a place to dream about, to ponder over, to ruminate and reflect on, full of messages about the passing of an age, the ephemeral nature of man's creations, the nature which will reclaim all in the end. Ah, am I getting positively buggy in my advanced age ?
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The view looking out from the inside.
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Must have been a passing radioactive cloud from the not so distance Three Mile Island.
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Is there really a bug here, or did I just dream it ?
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Traces of the past.
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Has life ever left you feeling shattered ? All the king's horses and all the king's men . . .
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I've looked at broken windshields from both sides now
From outside in and inside out
It's windshield cracks that I recall
I really don't know the wind, at all . . .
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(Oh, and since this one, and the photo just above, both have some bits of reflections in them, perhaps they could count to be included in James' Weekend Reflections ?)
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