Tasse demi-plein

At 6am on the Sunday before last, once Gemma had sorted herself out after falling down the front steps (fortunately and amazingly no debilitating damage done), she and my dad and I set off for Paris. First stop Newhaven, to catch the Ferry to Dieppe. I have made this crossing a number of times, always on the now discontinued 2 hour Hoverspeed boat. The only service now is a 4.5 hour Transmanche Ferry. I had assumed that as it was so slow it would be big and posh. Instead we endured uncomfortable seats in a restaurant which we shared with people who made equal facility of both fork and knife to deliver food to their mouths. The fare itself is of the swimming around in greese type that went out of fashion a couple of decades ago. Don't get excited when the boat seems to arrive a little early, there is a half hour of manoeuverings before you can clank out of the hold on to the French tarmac.

Lunch was light but pleasant and took place in a little restaurant in Forge les Eaux, this time we were accompanied by people demonstrating reassuringly French wackiness; curly moustaches, loud checked jackets and the like.

Then a further hour and a half of driving through beautiful countryside; the weather was moody which gave the landscape a dreaminess. Eventually we migrated on to more serious roads for the last few tens of kilometers arriving in the banlieux below ground via those fantastic subterranean motorways before popping up somewhere between La Defense and the Arch de Triumph, turning right on to the Periferique for the last spurt to Port de Sevres, location of my brother's temporary home.

Our hotel had an arrangement with a car park beneath the Parc Andre Citroen , site of a former Citroen factory. This is a carpark where they play classical music. I reckon if one were to draw a Venn diagram of the clients of that facility and of Transmanche ferries, the area of the intersection between to two circles would be very small. In the course of sorting things out with the manager there, my French ran our of steam and I sought the assistance of a nearby couple. Fortunately, although from Torquay, he had lived in Paris for 20 years and everything became clear. His wife was Venezualan. If you have ever heard me banging on about my (not fully developed) shared soul theory, he is an "archetype", someone you feel you know even though you don't, charismatic and enigmatic. We bumped into them a further twice on our way to the Eiffel Tower. Did you know that it was the tallest construction on the planet when it was completed before eventually being overtaken by the Chrysler Building in New York?

The next day we ambled the streets of Le Marais enjoying the many cool shops before hooking up with my dad at L'Hotel de Ville and heading for the Centre George Pompidou. Adjacent to that visceral development is to be found the Atelier Brancusi. I recognised the name of an artist whose work was being promoted there: James Turrell. I was introduced to him (not personally) when I first took an interest in things Arizonan, he works with the land and builds craters and things. We visited his installation at the atelier and as we filed out, there was a video running about some of the works he has done in the South West of the United States. I might attempt a post on this subject later but for the time being I can share with you that it featured the area of "mesas" occupied by those Hopi Indians. Indeed, for one of his most famous works at Roden Crater, he collaborated with a hopi chieftan. Mr Turrell describes the Hopis as "sky people" because they live on these extremely dramatic plateaux. I found this so fascinating that I watched the whole thing through, attempting to take notes. I imagined how stimulting it would be to own a a dvd of the film. We decanted from there into Richard Rogers' vast atrium and eventually to one of the shops where a copy of the "Passageways" DVD found its way into my hand without my having even looked for it.

Painted-on clouds

Dinner would take place at Brasserie Flo where I have been many times. Located down a tiny street in a not particularly salubrious part of town, it is almost a charicature of itself. The waiters look like horror film extras. My brother and I both had the steak tartare (medium spiciness); you don't need breakfast the next morning when you've had that.

It's a burger Jim......

On the way there, as we approached the Balard Metro station, a young tyke snatched the twenty euros I was clutching in my left hand (and had intended to use to buy our tickets) and sprinted off. I have to say that I was quite pleased with myself about this; in my younger days this would have generated a knee jerk reaction in me which would have resulted in a ruined evening, even if I had retrieved those notes. However, it was not a big deal, after all, he could have taken the 200 euros I had had in my hand a moment before or worse attempted to relieve my 82 year old dad of his cash or hurt someone; I could go on.

Le Pont de Bir-Hakeim

Before running the gauntlet of the Champs Elysees the following morning on our way out of town, we took a walk across the Bir-Hakeim Bridge ending up at Trocadero before boarding the Metro for the last time and enjoying the view from that elevated section of line number 6 that goes from Charles De Gaule Etoile to Nation (recrossing the viaduct). The Croque Monsieur I had in Rouen combined with the ferry home gave me a nasty tummy.

It all worked out nicely considering Gemma might have hurt herself badly when she fell, the 20 euro incident could have escalated badly and I might have started to have diahorrea in the car instead of on my front steps.

Good Bye and Good Night ****

A view of Senator McCarthy's communist witch hunt in the fifties which, despite being axactly that, I really enjoyed. Focusing on the CBS newsroom and in particular a news man called Ed Morrow played very effectively by David Strathairn (you might remember him from LA Confidential and a few episodes of the Sopranos), it does a good job of showing how tense everyone got about the whole situation and is very stylish; lots of well turned out people in nice suits, smoking a lot.

Munich ****

This film is based on the aftermath of the terrorist attack at the 1972 Olympics, is quite intense and designed to make you think a little as well as get your heart rate up. I enjoyed it more than I had expected because the characters were protrayed as flawed and the plot (which only has the Munich episode as a background) went somewhere unusual for movie of this genre. Daniel Craig's performance demonstrates to some extent why he has been given the 007 job.

Shopgirl ***

Not a comedy per se, more of a romcom, beautifully shot and quite intersting, it is about a wealthy guy and a shop assistant. I read the book and it is as good as or better. Rightly or wrongly I assume it is to some extent autobiographical.

Have you or.......

........one of your family members eaten a nut that wasn't your fault in the last three months?

The Truman Show

Today the sea is light grey and flat and appears to stretch out to infinity as it blends seemlessly with the sky. There is a complimentary eerie quietness about, occasionally a straining speedboat engine or some arguing seagulls reveal how little noise there is. The interesting idea on which that disappointing film was based comes to mind.

Forget it.

Last night a documentary aired on More 4 entitled "Unidentified White Male". Three years ago a 35 year old man found himself on the subway in New York. He knew nothing about himself, his name, where he lived, his job. He presented himself at the Coney Island Police Station from where he was taken to Mount Sinai Hospital and checked into the psychiatric department. He was told he would stay there until someone he knew came to collect him. He had no identification on him at all but in a Spanish book he had in his ruck sack there was a post-it note with a woman's name and phone number. When the hospital staff called the number the nice lady at the other end was unable to help. She did subsequently suggest to her daughter however, that she might call the hospital on the off-chance that she might know the man. She did; she had dated him a few times and so she collected him and took him home to his apartment. We learnt that he had been brought up in various European countries before becoming a stock broker in New York. Aged thirty he had made enough money to retire and chose to change vocation and become a photographer.

The cause of his "accident" was unknown but he had suffered a complete erasure of his "episodic" memory; the part that contains records of all the events of our lives. His "procedural" (the "how to" bit) and semantic (meaning bit of his) memories were intact. The effect of this was to render him without any context for his life, no knowledge of his friends or family, of world history, any history, art, food, politics. He was however still, eloquant and intelligent.

Initially he is very frightened due to his isolation. Perhaps surprisingly, very quickly (a few months later) he reaches a point where he is not just ambivalent at the prospect of his memory returning but he would prefer it didn't. This is because he is a man with no baggage. He does not feel responsible for the person he was before his accident and is unencumbered by the memories we all have that make us who we are.

When he is introduced to his old school mates they mourn the departure of their friend. He is very polite to them but they no longer share a past. Everyone observes how he is no longer the outgoing go-getter he was. He is now an intropsective, philosophical, aesthete. He sees everything as new, for the first time. When he goes to the beach and paddles in the water he is moved to tears by the "extraordinary energy" of the water. He does not recognise his family but identifies a "chemical" connection to his sisters. There are no stereo-types for him, only originality.

His friends feel they are twenty years older than him, not because he is childish but he has a lightness. Indeed although not referred to specifically in the film, he comes across as very cool, he does not seem to have any of the ego problems other have. A friend mentions in an email that he looks forward to reaquainting him with the delights of West Indian cricket when they next meet. "Is that a drink or an insect?" he inquires. His photography tutors believe his work has improved dramatically.

Is he the same person? If it were discovered for example that he had committed a crime in his former life; would he be punished now? Is he blessed?

Your art is at risk.......

.....if you do not know where to draw the line.

It surprises me every morning.....

....how heavy my alarm clock is.

The ghost in you

Today has been coloured with a kind of contented melancholy which lingers from a dream I had last night. It is also tinged with something similar from the Psychedelic Furs album I have been playing over and over, since I bought it in the week. It is a reassuring sensation; in the dream I was in Glasgow at night. As far as the music is concerned, I cannot remember what I was doing when I used to listen to it all those years ago, but whatever it was, I must have liked it. Dying, I imagine, must be easier, when you are accompanied by this feeling.

Tourists are go

I walked from Victoria up to Oxford Circus this morning where I was meeting my brother. As I approached Buckingham Palace I started to brace myself for the anticipated throng of visitors, there to see those blokes in tall hairy hats. Then I heard a brass band strike up; four slow chords which I recognised but couldn't immediately place. 5 - 4 - 3 - 2 - 1, it was the Thunderbirds theme tune. I have checked on Google and it was first played prior to the cavalry charge at Waterloo.

Rediscography

Two or three months ago I attempted to convert my favourite old cassettes into MP3 and would have been successful but for the fact that I seem to have a mono rather than a stereo mic socket on my pc. What did happen was that I started playing the cassettes again. I came to the conclusion that I would (in an unhurried way) watch out for Cds of my favourites and replace the tapes in due course.

I reckon that I will be able to go a long way to achieve this in a shop called Fopp. I found something that wasn't even on my list this morning; "All of this and nothing", by the Psychedelic Furs. As I type this, songs like "Love my way" and "Highwire Days" are having a similar affect on me to encountering someone that I was very fond of once upon a time, someone I didn't even realise I missed.