In keeping with my morbid, or perhaps mortal side, here's a fun shot taken in the Catacombes with my shadow brushing tenderly against one of those cheerful inscriptions which says something about death always being somethingorother.
I suppose I should have noted what it said but in a way it's better to just wonder, the way we do. It was about death anyway.
I've always loved these street signs written on the ground where traffic can come at you from both directions when you think that might not be the case and would happily squish you for your inattention.
It appeals to me, you might have suspected, because of its glorious underlying possibilities, and the fact that most everything I write can be taken in more than one way, searing British irony being probably both one of my finest characteristics and also the reason I don't have any friends, such is the curse and calling of the driven type.
Anyway, I'm so pleased with this, and the totally, well, almost totally haphazard way the black bars blot out my eyes, that I'm seriously considering using another version of this on my Paris and I blog, iPhoned as it was, to answer my first hater, who I'm excited to get to know better.
Unfortunately, they only call themselves 'Anonymous' in the comments section, which is a bit weak, even for an uncreative type, but beggars can't be choosers I suppose.
OK, better run, there are other posts waiting to be written, and other Parisians waiting to be shot, so to speak, so I'll love you and leave you, even if the feelings aren't always mutuel - none of it really matters in the end, does it? Enjoy, or don't - the choice is entirely yours, of course.
Taken up in my new favourite area, the Ménilmontant Heights, over in the north east of the city, there's plenty of glorious degredation to get your teeth and lens into as you wander around.
This month alone I've discovered old well observation hatches, entire buildings covered by so-in-your-face graffiti it's not true, Communards' graves and deathwalls, crazy little cafés, large-breasted wooden women in imposing churches, hidden defunct railways and more.
Last week I walked a fragmented path; last night I read a broken book, and here I give you a fractured me, all the more multi-faceted for that, I dare say.
This city is tearing me apart, and the pace of disintegration seems to be hotting up, and I think this is a good thing.
As time goes on, the more aware of its passage I become, and the more urgent it is to produce like there's no tomorrow, literally, like there's no to more oh!
I deal in fragments; fragments of time, fragments of verse, fragments of photos, fragments of feelings, fragments of friendships and, ultimately, fragments of fragments, ever diminishing, until the final infinitesemal fragment becomes indistinguisable from... nothingness. And my time will be over, the last piece placed, the jigsaw puzzle completed, the frame filled, the mystery solved. How it was. I hope the final fragment's a good one. I'll do my best.
Nice to have a new shot from time to time. Especially one taken on the spur of the moment, no preparation, spontaneously, on someone else's camera. By someone else!
Check this out - awesome! My idea, his doing. I brightened me up a bit - I was drowning in doom 'n' gloom. Not me at all, right?
Funny when you compare this to other pics taken at the same event - cheesy grins and happy shiny people, and then... this.
Which is fiction and which reality? And who's going to decide? Time.
Saw an application on Facebook today where you can 'see what you'll look like' in 10, 20, 30 years' hence. Now why would you want to do that? I almost did, but then drew back, ostensibly because it looked like they were tricking you into giving them your e-mail address for who knows what dark reason.
Or maybe I hesitated because in the end I'm not even sure what I look like today, so what's the point of going further. Listen, check back in 10, 20, or 30, and I'll let you know, OK?
My life used to be spent looking at bits of film like this isn't (it's all done with mirrors... or something).
Hours and hours spent in the dark room, the bathroom, fiddling away inside a darkbag changing reels and pouring in chemicals, getting the temperature just right and then some. The magic of the image appearing in front of your eyes, in a blacked out bedroom.
That was twenty years ago now. Now you can create 35mm film pics of all possible permutations with the tap of a screen (we don't even need to click buttons any more). What is the world coming to?
Well I like it, personally. Love it, me. Love gadgets and love the old ways, all at the same time and wrapped into one. The challenge is, to still keep coming up with something new. That's the deal. It amazes me more people don't seem to be doing this, or something, or just anything creative.
I have a cinema card which I laughed at when I signed up. For the price of just two films I could go to the best cinemas in Paris 150 times a month if I wanted; 5 times a day, non-stop, heaven!
I go about once every six months. Sitting in a cinema just isn't creative enough for me. I seem to need to be pounding the streets taking ridiculous numbers of shots I'll never have the time to process, because there will always be another bunch coming right along afterwards. It's scary. It never stops.
Well, it will one day. But by then there will be something to remember me by. If anyone wants to do any remembering. That was the guy who... kept the UGC cinema chain in business throughout the early years of the 21st century. But his photography didn't suffer for it.
Me an' a tie? Tie an' I! Never thought you'd see it - weep an' believe it; it happens to the worst of us.
Nice reflection of the bald head in the window, nice shot of the snotty nostrils in the foreground. Call me a sophisticated, high-powered, dynamic Wall Street-style, wheelin' an' dealin' business man. Call me what you like.
Life's a game. Rules are made to be broken, just a little bit. Like never wearing a tie. Depends where you wanna go. Swore I wouldn't. Damned if I would. Then I did. Some clubs can be fun... in short doses.
How many people believe in the rules anyway? How many people take them seriously? Or at face value. Call yourself a man? Where are your battle scars? Call yourself a woman? Why are you still whole? Call yourself a Christian/Muslim/Jew? Where's your cross/beard/cap? Call yourself a mug? Where's your Power Balance bracelet?
The list goes on. What club are you a member of? Really?
Luuuvvvelly flowery wallpaper, Brian! Can't remember where this was... hang on... oh yes, reflected in a round shiny thing of some sort which I can't place for the life of me. I don't really look like that, you understand - it's COMPLETELY distorted. I'm actually a rather suave, urbane middle-ages (ha! first time I've written that) gentleman, not the renegate rogue-type you see here. It's all done with mirrors, you see..
I tried taking another 'mirror-distorter' yesterday which I noticed as I sat on the bog of one of those peepods you find sprinkled around Paris. Due to the extremely wide angle of the good old iPhone, however, and the difference in point of view of its lens and my eyes, it just gave me some rather disturbing pics of yet another middle-aged perv taking pics of himself on the shitter, and not the weird and wiley effect I was after at all at all.
So when all's said and done, I'll stick with the dodgy wallpaper, wherever it was, and leave it at that. I'll also have to stop including the actual camera in the shots at it's starting to smack of amateurness if you ask me. Not that you did, but that's what comes of posting to a blog no-one ever comments on: dilerium sets in and you start talking to yourself, but seriously. At least I don't refer to myself in the third person. Not yet anyway.
Sab will be back soon, and he thanks you for visiting. Not that you did. You know what he means. Please tell him. When you get a round toowit.