Dejeuner du matin

Il a mis le café
Dans la tasse
Il a mis le lait
Dans la tasse de café
Il a mis le sucre
Dans le café au lait
Avec la petite cuiller
Il a tourné
Il a bu le café au lait
Et il a reposé la tasse
Sans me parler

Il a allumé
Une cigarette
Il a fait des ronds
Avec la fumée
Il a mis les cendres
Dans le cendrier
Sans me parler
Sans me regarder

Il s'est levé
Il a mis
Son chapeau sur sa tête
Il a mis son manteau de pluie
Parce qu'il pleuvait
Et il est parti
Sous la pluie
Sans une parole
Sans me regarder

Et moi j'ai pris
Ma tête dans ma main
Et j'ai pleuré

Possibly the best inspiration for making you want to live and love every moment of the day is having Prevert's poetry read to you whilst you hang out a bedroom window over the late night Parisian skyline

I feel it in my fingers, I feel it in my toes...

If two witches would watch two watches

Which witch would watch which watch?

Sorely missing my stitch and bitch group I found a fun book in the library and bought some new materials and started knitting again whooo and because it also makes me happy sharing creativity with those around me I've extended the whooo-ness to a readily willing Anna whose fingers were itching for something along the lines of a piano to release their artistic cabin fever frustration, but have found two needles a suitable substitute for the time being.
I feel pretty, oh so pretty, I feel pretty and witty and gay... I need to get out more, you say? Naah, I'm no crazy old cat lady, although that does remind me: I've got a little cat who wears a knitted scarf. Isn't he adorable, yep he's as cute as a button, here puss puss pusssss
Not that I'm always on the hunt out for ideas or inspiration because I find too much of it without looking and then I have hundreds of things I want to do and never enough hours in the day BAH but I think Annie Larson from ALL knitting is great, the label shows sceptics how much fun wool can be beyond aran sweaters and tea cosies. www.allknitwear.com

monument

She wore it like the girthless branches sprout their blossom in the lengthening afternoons of the park time day light. A smooth white cream white, pale light, pink white, blushing, veins spreading life, giving light, warming faces, swirling round, raspberry ripple in the heart, in the arms, in the fingers, melting life, dripping soft warm cream white in the park light.

Night comes. A stream of convection, darkness tripping down, wrapping cold arms round her ample bosom, the cherry petals and the cold cold cold, old light fading to star light and the chill of the cold creeping in, seeping in, stealing love, taking, keeping, stowing away the harmony of one and the world in the void of dusk.

Downward the folds gather, the accordian pleats, weight shifing starboard, the mound growing earthward, her crowning glory pointing rivets to the map of the sky, skirting over masses, the loads pushing the souls of the forefathers holding presence in the present, forcing out the past of a destination unknown.

. . . . . . . . . .

Lenten preparations

The first recipe for pancakes as we know them comes form an English cookery book - the Good Huswifes Handmaide for the Kitchen of 1594: a pint of 'thicke Creame', five egg yolks, 'a good handful of flower' and two or three tablespoons of ale, plus sugar, cinnamon and ginger. It's impossible to flip.

julia margaret cameron

Is the calendar lying to me?

and why is it that in trying to spell the word calendar I can think only of colanders?

Ha ha ♥ drainage ♥ what a ridiculous thought

Well now, I'm in Paris and it's fashion week and if I was worth my salt I'd know what was going on with all the collections BUT I'm not because I've been slowly losing interest in the high-fashion-world over the recent past and have instead developed a preoccupation with school, work, art, books, exploring, learning, smoking, talking, writing emails and other general stuff which lives little time for much else, especially trying to keep up with something that changes faster and more frequently than the weather... Nonetheless I went along to the secondary school in my neighbourhood the other evening because the Kenzo fashion show was on and we wanted to have a look-see. Standing outside were hoards of people; your regular onlookers, some somebody-or-others, photographers etcetera and despite my best efforts to be all nonchalant and French and whatnot I gave myself away by having a not-as-cool-or-subtle-as-I-really-should-have-been "OMFG" moment when I saw Ivan Rodic.
*swoon...
Then, when I had duly composed myself, we were standing back watching the crowds, Alice and myself having a laugh at the overly-dressed, I-spend-way-too-much-time-trying-to-look-like-I-just-threw-together-any-old-outfit-because-I-take-myself-way-too-seriously-and-I'm-really-just-here-in-the-hope-of-getting-noticed people getting their photo taken by various bloggers and peeps from the media, Mr Rodic came over and asked if he could take a photo of my shoes. HA. Haaaaaaa!!!! He talked to me *swoon... Ah he's only gorgeous... But alas the picture didn't make the cut to the website. BOO.

But he took one of Thomas that did (pfth, not half as cool as my feet) :

The following afternoon we went to les Jardins de Tuileries for the Chloe fashion show. A beautiful sunny afternoon, perfect for sitting in a beautiful park and looking at beautiful people. Because there were hundreds of extremely well dressed folk there, well I guess it was Chloe after all. So whilst playing a Where's Wally game of Spot the Celebrity, who did I spy with my little eye? Haaaaa Mr Rodic!!! Cue throwing of caution to the wind and scrambling across the gravel to sneak up behind him whilst he was photographing:
and then putting on my best and most polite accent I said "excusez-moi de vous deranger..." Cue my face turning into one immensely giant retarded grin the likes of which the Cheshire Cat would be envious of, him sweeping his fingers through his hair, wrapping his other arm around me, and smiling for the camera. I skipped away from the ensuing small talk like some sort of silly starstruck school girl and now all I have to do is wait to finish my film and wait for it to develop it and then oh then I'll have a photo worth keeping. So that was my first proper encounter with a famous person (serving coffee to Conan O'Brien doesn't count dut to my having no idea who he was) and it was closely followed by my thinking I saw Bill Cunningham, but I couldn't be sure, it could have just been an old man with a camera making the most of the occasion... Then Grace Coddington ran past in a flurry of huge red hair, sweeping black cloak, and hurrying minions, and I caught a sketch of her in flight

Yes... well... um... fashun... xoxo... time flies when you're having fun...

the first door on the first floor

if you think you'll lose, you're lost

tossing our heads in sprightly dance

I wander'd lonely as a cloud

That floats on high oe'r vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils

I've been wandering all around, roads and sidestreets, boulevards and laneways, up and down pavements with the pedestrian traffic, in and out of doorways against the crowd. A veritable explorer I've followed what's caught my eye and found some wonderful things and found myself wonderfully lost.

I've been lonely, but maybe not as much as the clouds. I was visited by the ghost of loneliness who bestowed a chill of homesickness on my nervous frame, making me miss the security of my family and the comfort that the sense of familiarity and the feeling of belonging this gives to a person. I missed the safety of the nest and the warmth of my mother hen's feathers, and preceeded a long-distance telephone call by hours of trying to hold back tears.

But then too I've floated for the ecstacy this distance imparts, because for too long I suffered the suffocation of stagnant small-townness and dreamed of romantic grasses further a french field. Et voila, I traversed the skies that now lie between us and landed myself in this Parisian paradise.

I've been overcome by an acute case of daffodilitis! This morning I got off the metro one stop further on the line in order to walk home via the market and instead of averting my eyeline and blankly ignoring the Romanian rose-sellers as I usually do, I practically skipped toward them, as today they didn't have their usual roses but instead a crowd, a host of golden daffodils! And the first bunch of daffodils of the year always come to my house in the first week of March because it's tradition I pick them for mum for her birthday and present them to her in her bed with a tray of special breakfast. And now that I'm away from home they're bringing me the same happiness and have brought me over the wee hill of temporary isolated depression I was struggling up. So with springtime in the air and sitting like a cat in the kitchen with the sun on my back and a cup of coffee in my hand, looking at my yellow flowers it's hard to imagine I could have let myself feel sad.