Joie de vivre

In Drafts, Film, Local projects, Music, notes, photography, Sundays, Visual artists on January 11, 2015 at 9:42 am


The survivors of the killings at Charlie Hebdo aim to put out the paper next Wednesday. For a host of reasons, it should sell in record numbers. After all, how many people will resist the gawker’s urge for a look at the survivors? How the paper will fare the following week and the one after that remains to be seen. But that’s not my point this morning.

I hope the survivors do a spot-on job on the bunch of notorious ones who will go marching marching at the head of today’s commemoration in Paris. The range of targets? Astounding. Syria’s Bachar Assad won’t be there – whether invited or not, he had more pressing engagements at home. And the North Koreans are on everybody’s black list. Still. A few weeks after jailing journalists in his own country, Turkey’s leader will be marching marching for freedom. God knows a stroll with friends is a healthy way to spend a Sunday afternoon.

Meanwhile, rain or not, I’ll be in front of City Hall over here this morning, and try to make it to Lisle-sur-Tarn in the afternoon. Why? Because my friends will be there. Smile though your heart is breaking? You bet.



After viewing Abderrahmane Sissako’s Timbuktu at cinéma Vertigo last night, I grabbed a shot of one of the magazines in the lobby. Don’t worry, R. Crumb, we’re all cowardly, and we’re all sweating metaphorical bullets – less damaging than real ones, unpleasant nonetheless.

Hate messages circulating – some, irrational, some calibrated to set off irrationality. They’re sickening so I read as little of them as possible. Life being so short, a lot of it depends on where you focus your attention.  Vulgarity isn’t my favorite focus either, but I’ll take it over real-life slaughters any day, and the drawing of a hairy ass never killed anyone, to my knowledge.


I’m more than happy to help a fourteen-year old boy edit his imaginary battles against the forces of evil. Doesn’t help one bit in getting the train moving on a new first draft.

Another rhythm – the finding of.


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