No real surprise that

flights were all cancelled

cause of the wind in the night

that made us feel like the house

could be airborne any minute

Or was that the glorious wine

from Patrick’s private collection 

that he brought to the stormy dinner?

It was a long weekend

not for shortening

so we took a cab back into town

had breakfast in Joes Garage

then crossed the road to see

what Warhol had to say

pretending we had arrived

without a hitch.

Rain like in the movies

straight down

and bouncing off the concrete

like we were

at the thought of being together

in Manu’s restaurant

in record stores

sharing spells with witches

and vodka martinis at Morrisons

Late in the evening

home in the early morning

Everyone is someone

way or another

It’s a question of whether or not

you’re bothered about the others

or what someone else makes of it all

when they take a bad fall

and need someone else to blame

for what they never became

No one can get away from that

as we’re all famous for fifteen minutes

for good or bad

It’s all the same

This was the calm before the storm. Paris had been ground to a standstill by striking workers.

Stepping out of the beauty of the Musee d’Orsay, I got very different impressions at the site of “tooled up” Gendarmerie waiting for a riot. I took some shots of the peaceful demonstrators and the armed police with my iphone and posted them online.

They all mysteriously vanished but fortunately I had my Nikon with me.

It’s only temporary this block thing. I’ll think of something clever soon. Something good enough to post that will make people smile and hit the like button. Or even comment. That’ll be nice.

It’s a long winding drive and the rain is coming down heavy now, like my mood. I’m not sure why we bought the place. A lifestyle block with a couple of olive trees and some apricot ones that we chop down every couple of winters for fine smelling firewood. By the beach with a nice view of the city which is miles away. Another world.

Inspiration he cries and I reach into the back for my phone and some paper; rummaging amongst the dog eared books and running shoes and a nearly empty bottle of vodka. There it is. Now I just need a pen because they’ll like this. In the glove box. I turn up the radio and hear a loud bang and suddenly feel very cold.

Green lights. Red lights. Traffic blocked in both directions. Lots of yellow jackets with POLICE on the back. I watch myself being cut out of my car by firemen as the motor cyclist, still encased in a helmet, slides silently into the back of an ambulance. The truck driver wanders around in circles throwing his arms in the air; in shock.

I tap the pen in my hand, unable to remember what I was going to write down or whomever I was thinking of calling. Perhaps to say that life is temporary.