The Second Day of Christmas . . .

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After all the butterflies for Christmas the other day, the breezes that be are blowing a few more your way, as the spirit of Christmas shouldn't be limited to a single day. Going back thousands of years, long before anyone had ever heard of a fellow named Christ, there were pagan feasts in the days after the 21st of December to celebrate the fact that the days were getting longer again. And that, imho, is an excellent reason to put on a big party. The feasting and partying at the start of winter got hijacked along the course of history by European culture for certain religious purposes, but I think it is good to remember that these post winter solstice celebrations go much farther back. So in that spirit, here are a couple more butterflies to bring you tidings of joy : The days are getting longer again !
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A Small Show In Paris . . .

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It is a great pleasure to share with you here that a small showing of four photos that I took this past summer in the south of France has just begun in the Canon Photo Prony store at 55 rue de Prony, 75017 Paris, and will be up for the next few months. I would like to give a big "Thank You" to Gilles and his team there. We got to talking last summer one day, and I mentioned that some of the photos from the trip in July to Florac and the Causse Méjean could be seen here on the blog. It was a very great and positive surprise when a couple of weeks later he asked me if I could do some large prints in order to hang them in the store in Paris. So shortly thereafter I delivered four big prints, measuring 45 by 60 cms, or roughly 18 inches by 24 inches. And as of yesterday they are hanging in the store. The first public showing ever of any of my work, in printed form of course. This blog is where it started, in virtual format. But there is no comparison between a print done on fine quality photographic paper, and what can be seen on a computer screen. In any case, should you happen to be in Paris in the near future, please do drop by to say hello to Gilles and the team at Photo Prony, and take a look at the prints of these photos. These are the four photos thus exposed.
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C'est un grand plaisir de partager l'info ici avec vous qu'une petite exposition de quatre photos faites cet été dans le sud de la France vient de commencer dans la boutique Canon Photo Prony, au 55 rue de Prony, Paris 17ème, et sera visible pendant quelques mois. J'aimerais dire un très grand Merci à Gilles et son équipe au magasin. Nous avons commencé à parler cet été à propos du sejour que j'avais fait dans le sud, et du fait que quelques photos de ce voyage étaient visibles sur le blog. Imaginez ma surprise quand quelques semaines plus tard il m'a demandé si je pourrais fournir quelques tirages en grand format pour exposer au magasin. Peu de temps après j'ai livré quatres grands tirages, format 45cm x 60 cms, et depuis hier ils sont joliment présentés dans la boutique. C'est la première fois que mes photos en format papier sont exposées quelque part, il n'y pas de comparaison entre la qualité d'un tirage sur papier de bonne qualité et une image sur écran d'ordinateur. Bref, si vous êtes dans Paris dans un avenir proche, n'hésitez pas à passer par le rue de Prony pour dire bonjour à l'équipe Photo Prony, et voir ces photos de plus près. Voici les quatre photos.
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The rue de Prony begins just opposite the main entrance to the Parc Monceau in the 17th arrondissement, shown here. The round columned building here primarily houses public toilets. (just in case !)
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And just a few short blocks up the rue de Prony from the Parc Monceau you will find the Canon Photo Prony shop.
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Merci BEAUCOUP Gilles !
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Doors to Other Worlds . . .

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Life is often composed as much by things that might have been, but were not, as by things that were. As each day slips into the irretrievable past, memories take on dream like qualities. Was I really there ? Do these photographs tell the truth, these stolen moments in time ?
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I often see doors I want to open, doors beyond which lie worlds to discover, the vast, infinite worlds of the other, he or she who we will never know. So many of those doors are locked, and no one is home. No key can be found. Rare is the door that opens into the warm kitchen of another, where a bowl of soup stands steaming on a rough hewn table. Where a story awaits the traveller.
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These virtual doors we call blogs, sometimes they open into the rich new universe of a perfect stranger. Sometimes doors that seemed to open swing shut again without warning. Some blogs just disappear, leaving no forwarding address. A light goes out. A voice goes silent. A door is shut and locked. A key is lost. I guess that's life, and trying to make sense of it may not always bring any satisfaction. My warmest wishes to the open doors out there, may your candles burn brightly in the night.
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I cannot help but wonder though sometimes, what treasures lie beyond these closed doors.
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A Most Beautiful Place . . .

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I'm not sure that I will be able to find any words to express what I felt when I stumbled on this magical place. I had sought it out, it is true, having seen symbols on a map which suggested there might be something worth seeing there. Symbols of the slightest, vaguest sort, which simply indicated a handful of ruins. But oh, the distance between maps and reality can be infinite. No map could have prepared me for the sight of these ruins as we came over a crest of ground and beheld them there, where they stand in majestic silence, near the edge of a high cliff, overlooking a deep valley beyond.
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Hundreds of years ago men from the valley below climbed those cliffs, found a path to the plateau above, and built these rudimentary, rustic shelters where they could pass the summers peacefully alone with their small herds of sheep and goats, in an idyllic, remote, thoroughly secret place. Their women from the village in the valley would have made the hike up there as well to keep the men company, bringing food and other supplies. Who could imagine the summer nights under star filled skies there, a fire burning, the smell of sheep, their wool, milk for cheese-making. Who were these people ? Of what did they die, where are they buried ? And how did they live ? No electricity, no computers, no phones, just survival at hand. Work or starve.
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And yet they built with beauty and grace; arches that still stand when all the stones around have fallen, conquered by gravity. The sense of wonder I felt there, almost overwhelming, is unlike anything I've ever felt, anywhere. This was real. This was alive. Though no one lives there today, the place never died. It will haunt me for a long time to come, maybe forever. Already I want to go back there. To just sit quietly among those stones.
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An ancient iron hinge piece to hold up a shutter, long ago disintegrated.
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A butterfly on an acanthus bloom, looking as though he'd flown through a storm.
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Wings . . .

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After the last rather long, and perhaps a bit exhausting, installment in this ongoing menagerie of a blog, I thought I'd spare you and keep it simple this time. These two butterflies, or flutterbyes, have been waiting patiently since July to walk on stage here. You could say they've been waiting... in the wings.
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Chic Chick . . .

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The Italian politician Berlusconi has been in the press a lot lately because it is alleged that various people provided young women to serve the role of escorts for him at his lavish parties. They chased up chicks for him, apparently. I hope I won't be accused of anything similar for having offered up this sexy and fashionable most chic chick for the rightly revered Mr Springman's perusal at his World Bird Wednesday party, going on right now. May have to get myself a red leather jacket and some big necklace type jewelry. As for this chick, I had to go all the way to the south of France to find her. And though she may not be a spring chicken, she could now be considered a Springman chicken. Enjoy ! Just imagine how good she'd taste after a spell in your oven and laid out all saucy like on your lap ? Errrr, on your plate, I meant. (sorry, guess I'll just pluck off now...)(please don't henpeck me too much for this momentary lapse of reason)(and don't call me a turkey either !)
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Ruins From the Past . . .

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September is upon us, I hardly saw it coming
This month then marks three years spent at this table blogging
Seems like yesterday the first tentative steps were taken
Upon this path, this trail, this road, this highway, this byway
I had no great expectations of causing any sensation
It was simply a way to break a bond of silence
To throw open a door and unleash a minor flood
Of photographs, thoughts, and poems penned in blood
That were languishing forgotten in drawers and books
Hiding in dark corners where no one ever looked
Who can say if this time is worth the trouble
A few kindred souls have found their way to this place
Since the doors to mr. toad's trove were thrown open
That alone is good, but then where to from here
Shall we continue this late night typing yet another year ?
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What does it take to unlock the potential for transmission
From one mouth to another's ear and so on and so forth
Until the chain of mouth to ear has spanned the earth ?
Where is the key to open a rusted lock ?
Are some locks better left unopened ?
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If we could open the locks and open the doors
Could we ever get back to places we remember from long before
Where children played in the street under grandpa's watchful eye
Narrow streets with cobbled stones lined by stone houses
Where magic lanterns hang to light the evening shadows
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Could we ever return to our ancient farms of piled stones ?
Where a cow waiting to be milked softly lowed
And a fire in the hearth quietly burned
Life had other rhythms then, music from another age
I'm not certain we could even hear it any more
For we have turned a page.

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Would we even know how to build a stone house like this today ?
Or would it be but a pale imitation ?
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Is it too late to resurrect the ruins from our past ?
Is there anyone alive who would want to ?
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Little Red Rooster !

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Over at World Bird Wednesday today the one and only Mr Springman has produced a simply awe-inspiring piece about the elusive Green Heron which he tracked and trailed through Michigan swamps and vales bringing home in his digital game bag a series of photos which cannot help but leave one subdued and moved by the pure grace of this ornithological wonder. Once again, bravo to the Pine River Review, where WBW is hosted.
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As some of you seemed to enjoy the rust colored hen I posted last week in order to participate in my own small way in WBW, I am returning again to the farm where the free range hen was running loose when we stopped by there in early July, on the high plateau of the Causse Méjean, in south central France. Where there is a hen, there is usually a rooster somewhere not far off; this farm was no exception. He was a bold, brazen bird, as most roosters are. He displayed his strutting cockiness of male dominant behavior as he chased off intruders who dared not cry fowl lest they risk the wrath of his sharp claws and beak. No wonder the cock (coq), otherwise known as the Gallic Rooster, or Gallus Gallus in Latin, is the French national bird. Here he is in all his crested glory.
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Not long after we met the rooster, I was poking around the farm a little to see what other feathered or furry creatures might be seen, when I saw that some hens had been locked up in a coop, they were peering out from their prison, no doubt wondering when their jailor with the red crested head would be back to harry and harrass them.
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I was tempted to set them free from their dingy dungeon, but with this sharp-eyed fellow lurking around, no doubt they would have been rounded up quickly and faced even more dire punishment once our backs were turned. As we wandered off a resounding "Co-co-ri-cooooo" rang out, no doubt audible for miles around, striking fear into the hearts of the hardiest of hens. 
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A spot of music to go with this, Little Red Rooster, the origins of which go back into the blues of the early 20th century, but whose more recent version was written by Willie Dixon and recorded by Howling Wolf in 1961, which since then has been performed by the likes of the Rolling Stones, the Doors, the Grateful Dead, and many other fine performers ; many versions can be found on YouTube... what can't be found there ? Enjoy ! 
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Reflecting Pool . . .

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A small contribution to Weekend Reflections, which has just moved to a new address... Am on vacation again for the next three weeks, so may be a little absent, but may also be hovering around the blogosphere from time to time, as I can't live without you all for very long.
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Chicken Little . . . Or . . . A Little Chicken . . .

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Seems like a lot of folks are saying these days, "The sky is falling, the sky is falling", and for flightless birds, that may be the case. But I'm not going to go into any of that here. And as much as I'd like to stay sitting on the fence rail in the previous post, the show must go on, as they say. Today the show will ask you to take a side trip to Pine River, Michigan, USA, where World Bird Wednesday is in progress still. Mr. Springman does some of the finest bird photography I've ever seen anywhere, it is as simple as that. And he hosts World Bird Wednesday, where anyone can post their own bird photos. So, this is my entry, though it be so humble as an ordinary free range chicken from southern France. I can't claim to be a fine wildlife photographer, but I wanted to participate in WBW this week simply to spread the word a little bit about the beautiful bird shots over there. Audubon is smiling down from wherever he is.
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Another Fence Post . . .

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Building a fence is hard work
Digging post holes for planting posts
Hammering in the posts
Nailing up rails stringing wire hanging slats
Bracing where needed
Hard hand-blistering callous forming thirsty work
Beer is the best beverage for slaking such thirsts
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Once done the reverse process begins soon after
Sun wind rain snow frost all conspire to unwire
To unravel to deconstruct to disconnect to devastate
Decades later the fence has no further defense against such onslaught
Wine is the drink required for watching things unwind
One small sip at a time, savouring the fine flavors of aging oak
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What say we gather round
Break off slats here and there to pile them on the ground
A big bonfire build where late into the night
We can dance to the beat of sheepskin drums
Dance and chant and drum and drink and feast
And roll in the firelit shadows
Under a full moon of course
Under a full moon howling our delight . . .
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Fence to Nowhere . . .

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In a high and lonely desolate windswept place
There is a fence falling down
A fence with no beginning no end
A fence to nowhere
In the middle of a wide open empty space
Wind whistles through rattling slats
One can only wonder
What needed to be divided
In such a vast and boundless realm
No here and no there can bear meaning
Such fences must fall before long
For no free and wild land
Can stand a fence to nowhere forever
Yet while it lives while it lasts
There is something beautiful
About such futile efforts
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A bit of music that could go with this . . .