Archive for the ‘animism’ Category


January 14, 2015




The Cathar Trail 12: 8 June 2010

January 11, 2015

8 June, 2010, Paris

Paris. This city grabs you by the collar and shakes you off balance, rattling your brain around in your skull, essentially insisting on the development of new neural pathways; new thoughts. No one is immune. Even the dead are remade in this place. It’s no wonder artists, dancers, musicians, writers and other associated creatives have so long been drawn here. For the poseur or the wanna be there’s the endless opportunity to engage in street theater. To be seen and to see.

But like the solid wooden doors that hide an endless array of wondrous courtyards and interiors, there is a depth beyond the twinkle of the Tour Eiffel, the tourists, and the tarts. Every street is coated and soaked in symbolism, history and meaning, around every corner is an unexpected surprise. And, yet, while landmarks persist, there is always something new…

The Parisian energy is a creative one — whether this is a totally innovative moment or mere tweaking matters little. At least the dynamism is always there, even if in almost invisible, infinitely subtle ways. New uses of colour, shape, concept. A melange of cultural contexts yet unconsidered. The shop window designed to gain the slightest competitive edge. There is a miasmatic desire to be Parisian — a bit different. To “pop” out of the crowd. At times this seems the subtlest of subatomic shifts, but that’s just the point. It demands a little more attention and concentration. It changes the mind, perhaps only at an imperceptible quantum level. A slightly new spin. But it’s there, and it’s the essence of vitality. It’s Paris.

The Cathar Trail 7: 3 June 2010 (Of Albi)

January 8, 2015

3 June, 2010, Albi

No longer on the Cathar Trail but still on the trail of the Cathars. Arrived this afternoon, in the hot sun, in Albi. Found suitable lodging and went off towards the cathedral, Sainte-Cécile, which is beyond imposing. It screams out in brick and mortar the spiritual anxiety which once existed in the minds of the organized church and French crown in this area. Overcompensation doesn’t begin to describe it. Its functional, almost military exterior is sharply contrasted by a gaudy, even somewhat tacky, interior. It’s dripping with Baroque bluster. A treasure room houses lugubrious holy relics, raunchy a la Rococo. A veritable counter-reformation cabinet of curiosities. The largest brick church in the world, it looks every bit the fortress.


Albi itself is everything one imagines in a medieval farm town, with lovely winding streets and staircases. After a rest, I went out for a before dinner stroll. Sun was just setting, casting beautiful light on the town. Found myself overlooking the river Tarn and the old bridge at the Place du Château, which marks the sight of a long-gone castle once held by the murderous crusader Simon de Montfort. Many were the times Montfort took up the cross and sword against heresy. Cathar history is everywhere here. There was a cat sitting by the square, with devilish and mean-slitted eyes, watching me warily; almost felt the gaze of a dark and daemonic incarnation — the inquisitor’s strongman in feline form.

At dinner, I happened to strike up a conversation about the region with a local theater owner, a true homme de la Midi. He too seemed fascinated with Cathar history, and reminded me of how different the south was from the north, even until quite recently. His parents spoke the langue d’oc (hence Languedoc), and his sense of being southern and different was palpable. Dualism abounds in French history. He told me I must go to Cordes, a classic example of a medieval village nearby that is soaked in Albigensian and Cathar history. Suppose I will hang out a couple of days here and explore. Tired with a week left in France, but tonight feel less so.

The Cathar Trail 5: 1 June 2010

January 8, 2015

1 June, 2010, Montségur

Well, I did it. I went ahead and got rid of a few random items — was junk mostly. Cathartic, you might say. Then I managed to get a boost to Roquefixade (the idea of a major grind up a hill right out of Foix seemed folly) and set off under mixed skies mid-morning. It was the best choice of the trip. Roquefixade was pretty enough, and I left it noting a simple, sombre monument to the French Resistance.

The trail then wound its way past a small farm and through patches of lovely, lush woodland. After a few squishy switchbacks (so much mud!) I came out of the forest to a point where I had my first view of Montségur. It seemed so menacing and far.


But I persevered, and some wonderful spots were sighted. As I reached the little town of Montferrier I took a wrong turn and ended up hiking about an hour up a random hill. Lost, I asked a few farmers for directions, and they kindly helped to the point of total confusion.

A bit demoralized, I came back down to Montferrier and, luckily, happened upon a fellow traveler who helped me regain the way. I was then faced with a long, grinding climb all the way up to Montségur, which seemed to sit in the clouds as the afternoon started to fade.


The final stretch was tantalizing torture, fording across little streams and through dense woods. I even startled a fawn. All along the trail today there were so many idyllic natural scenes; farm animals (donkeys, sheep, cows, ducks and ducklings) and some wilder brethren (so many slugs!). Montségur itself was too daunting when I finally arrived, and was enveloped in mist, mystery and the gathering dusk. I think I will perhaps rest a day and explore here tomorrow.

What a day!

Shell No.2 (“Still Life With Shell”)

January 1, 2015



December 25, 2014


Low Tide

December 6, 2014

Low Tide

Soundless fowl in mist
Moonlit no-thingness of life
Gulls squawk, the road hums


November 28, 2014

Sat watching a trio of otters having lunch by the shore. One of them swam off but the other two busied themselves with their meal. As one crunched hungrily at a piece of mussel, the other languished on the beach — stretching and grooming with furious nibbles and scratches. Then, suddenly, the two turned and dove into the water, swam out briefly, and came right back to shore, shaking off and flipping their wet otter tails back and forth. It was all so unaffected and relaxed. Leisure incarnate. Just taking a dip.

They resumed their meal. The larger of the two went back to preening, getting quite fluffy in the process. He turned to look at me briefly, and as the other finished her meal the two rubbed their heads together, nuzzled and “kissed” each other, and ambled with a waddling gait up the beach to new adventures…

Just watching “otterness”. Just watching.


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