its no picnic

Im wizzing around on my bicycle in the Bois.I have been back in Paris for 2 days and I just had to see, feel and yes ,smell my own personal garden, some call the Bois de Boulogne, I call it heaven..Its still there thank god in all its dry sun scorched glory. I took my usual route, up past the racetrack and left into the woods ,where I was confronted by a totally naked old man (more about him later...maybe) This place never ceases to amaze me.I have written about it before. But one thing that strikes every time, is the way the French pose themselves in a park. By this I mean the way they sit and ponder, the way they play with a ball, the way they ..well ...just sit. Its as if someone is painting them, or as if a photographer is taking a photo on a large format camera (say fromage). Its not just one group its the whole park.I almost wanted to burst out laughing its so posed. Or mess them all up a little, like I do when I see the pillows in my sisters perfect house, sitting perfectly on her perfect couch (maybe she is half French) IThe park is all very quaint and all very .......French, Parisian French that is.The usual suspects are there, breast feeding there babies, one woman looked old enough to be the babies grandmother (a wet nurse maybe).The hookers were busy trying to put food on the table while there knees were firmly plated on the ground (a figure of speech you understand) The muscle men were busy trying to discover new muscles, the hot ,half naked woman jog, while there breasts were heading east and west in a beautiful rhythmic fashion as if to say (at least to me) life is beautiful and so are woman and so is this park and so is...o.k. I get a little dizzy when I see this constant display) The fair has come to town (note to self: must finish 'fair comes to town' little movie from last year) Its not set up yet, King Kong is still on the back of a huge flatbed truck, looking very sad and very not King Kong. I cycle past the beautiful little cafe's that have been in the park over a hundred years.I want to stop and drink a beer but think maybe I will hold out, for a martini when I get home.(Im home now and Im drinking my martini...I toast you) I listen to Joni Mitchel singing in my ears as I wizz past little families with there long 7.30 pm shadows trailing behind them.'Everytime I think of you swallowed by the dark' it sounds corny as I write this, but surrounded by nature it means everything to me, it makes me blissfully sad .Thank you Joni. I cycle on and on trying to get lost in a park I know very well..........I climb up the last little slope in bottom gear, the sun is flickering on the tips of the trees and I know its time to say goodnight. I head towards the racetrack and turn right.The naked man is still there, basking in the last splatters of golden rays that nature can squeeze out. Maybe I should update my idea about the perfect French pose in the park.This man is a lucian Freud kind of still life. Maybe its title should be 'Meat and potatoes in the Bois'...Kay Sera Sera or rather Kay Seurat Seurat.(with apologies )

Goodnight one and all.................

what a novel idea

Soon it will be time to go back to Paris. Soon it will be time to pack up all my traveling circus equipment (art stuff) and take the show back to the other side of the pond.I have been here about 4 weeks and it seems I have been glued to my desk the whole time.It seems that way because its true (am I complaining again?) no dear reader Im not.I love being glued.
I have flown many times now (with the aid of a jet plane) across the atlantic. I do what most people do I suppose.I watch the stupid bad films that always seem to stop every three minutes.I listen to the captain state the obvious over and over a very very loud sound system (forget sleeping).I watch people get cranky and rude.I look at the very sad 'in flight' magazines and spend way too much time looking at the sky mall catalog (an amazing collection of stuff you would never buy on terra firma) I look forward to the really bad food and of course marvel at the angelic flight attendants as they scream at the passengers (the customer is never right when 30 thousand feet above ground it seems) Only when one actually leaves the plane might the beauties in uniform crack a smile 'thank you for flying with us' 'Oh ! the pleasure has been all mine' I smile back. I say all this and its not a very unique story. We all have stories from hell or rather in this case, 30 thousand feet closer to heaven.So I have decided (because the mood is perfect) to write a novel.As you have probably guessed, if you come to this site often that I am no writer. This of course is why I am writing one chunk of chapter a flight.I have written 2 already. Someone once asked a writer is there was a novel in all of us? and the writer replied 'Yes and thats where it should remain". Im not writing this to get it published (although don't think Im not going to shop it around) Im writing it to pass the time. Im writing it to expand a part of my brain that is usually occupied with all things visual. A few cans of paint and a few old oak easels.I really enjoy it, in fact I'm loving it. It's not that hard, all the words already exist in a book called the dictionary, the key is to pull out all the right ones and put them in the right order that make some form of sense. It's a lot of fun to create a a story and add and tweak and scratch out.I do this already of course with my art, as we all know, the process in most of the arts is the same...So what is my story about you ask? (I know I know you never asked) Well I will give you the name of the book and the first sentence for free (you will have to buy the book 9 flights from now)

SWEETTOOTH
By Philip Brooker

Reginald Sweettooth looked and smelled like an abandoned old house.

If it doesn't work out I can always think very very hard about wether to have the chicken or the beef. (I always take the chicken) I could also learn to spell in that 9 hour flight.That could also come in handy.
Now where did I put that dictonerarry, dicktinory,dectaniory....Damn!!!!

wish you were here (I am)

If only the image above really did reflect my feelings or rather my state of mind. Im sitting at my desk in my office as I have now for the past 2 weeks (sitting is a new experience for me. I will spare you the details but I fear you already know them) Im here in Miami, Key Biscayne actually, or as the locals call it 'The Key' (if only it was the key). Im sitting at my desk with my two best friends my apple computers. Quiet, Obedient mysterious and hard working. My trusted friends with there quiet hum of anticipation.I have a fantastic view from my window that would be the envy of a lot of people.I can see the tip of south beach with all its modern wedding cake buildings.I see coconut grove famous for so many many things, I cant think of one.I see the ocean with the gentle waves beckoning me to play with them (I cannot of course). I see herds of large cuban woman walking the beach clad in little bikinis (I admire there confidence) . Amazing pelicans so large and so agile swooping into the ocean like they are spitfires in the second world war over the English channel. Caught in an amazing dog fight (maybe that term was from the first world war), only they are not. I see flocks of herring in close formation showing off . Everything twinkles and winks at me like it knows something I don't. And of course it does. This is tropical splendor at its best. A best dress. A new car shiny and clean as its driven from the showroom for the first time. Im sitting at my desk for 14 hours a day doing what I love the most, Working. Working on my art, creating images. Making sense of this stupid occupation that has been thrown on me like a can of red paint (oil based paint, not the easily washable acrylic). Don't get me wrong, I wouldn't have it any other way. Im inspired. I love my new projects. I think maybe Im doing the best work I have ever dreamt up. What else would I say. I love my desk, I love my pieces of paper with silly sketches for future projects.I love the glow of my friends as they await my wacom stylus touch. I love that I can sit again. I love my martini at 7 (6 if Im in an adventures mood).I love all the new projects that will be born and delivered by the amazing Studio Bordas' and his beautiful assistant. An amazing studio indeed but also a delivery room, full of doubts and fears but usually not. I love the fact that I don't work in a factory but actually I do.I love that nothing is there one minute and then the next a whole set of images are ready and available, poof! out of thin air or me or maybe thats the same. I love that I can sit now without feeling Im being burnt on glowing white coals. I love that she lives in my building even though I haven't seen her. I love that I have written another entry for my blog.Long overdue.I love that my mother is in a safe place.I love all this and should feel very grateful. What I don't love (anymore) is Miami. It feels like an old marriage.It feels like the left overs from a great party.It feels like 2 inches of champagne left in the bottle that has gone a little flat.It feels like yesterdays pizza.
Im sitting at my desk with my best friends and its time for lunch.Maybe I sound ungrateful (Im not) Maybe I should look out of my window at the view of Miami in all its glory......I wont.