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black mary, shirts, owls, raptors, flamingos, the quite involuntarily surreal Chateau d’Avignon & enjoying Abrivado

Abrivado, our hotel, seems to be run by a group of young(ish) couples. Relaxed atmos. Geezers in mufti. No superiority bullshit or internal hierarchy visible. Guy who brought brekky told us he’d personally included the juice in the set menu for us. Not: that’s what it comes

leaving L’Isle sur la Sorgue – with regrets, with unfinished business – to Arles – featuring J. THE ANTIPRODUCT & Van Gogh’s own pharmacie – to Les Saintes Maries de la Mer & welcome Abrivado

Leaving L’Isle-sur-la-Sorgue was again difficult, because of course we’d not really got to know our hosts, C. B. and M.-C. R. And we hadn’t really got to know our town, but we spent the morning, until midday, scooting around, over the canals and past the water-wheels,

le Pont du Gard, les Arènes et les deux carrés de Nîmes with notes regarding a spectacular taxonomy or the common root of the popular degradations of pornography, acting and public victimisation in gladiatorial spectacle, in the round, while art & religio

On the way to le Pont du Gard, I sucked up a La Jaunie into my windpipe. Not a pleasant thing, since they’re pure liquorice root. It was stuck in the folds of my vocal cords, so it felt, until it dissolved. Quite hot. Pont du Gard looked from

Notre Dame des Anges, Isle sur la Sorgue, Roussillon et Ménerbes

Planning forward to Barcelona, we failed to follow the advice of our SFR salesman, who’d sold us the SIM Card, which was to go to McDonalds’s, buy a coffee, and use the free WIFI there; we sought out GecoSystem, Espace Internet, an island of geekery, on the island,

Les Baux dans les Alpilles, les Antiques et l’hôpital psychiatrique de Saint-Paul-de-Mausole (la Maison de Santé de Saint-Paul) à Saint Rémy de Provence

Les Baux, the mistral blasting over it, where it rises out of the surrounding countryside, after St. Remy, in the Alpilles, under a cloudless, hazeless, pellucid and intensely blue sky, offered another of those heart-racingly exciting moments, expected, as in we’d seen photos, unexpected, because of how it was

sign of the great poet René Char in his home town, at market, Gordes, Frédéric’s Mistral & rain

The Sunday market in L’Isle-sur-la-Sorgue gets two Parasol d’Or, Golden Umbrellas, from the Syndicat des Commercants des Marches de Provence, Union of Market Merchants of Provence, more than any other market. It stretched today right the way down the river bounding one side of the old town and

Barcelo at Palais des Papes (cf. Murakami at Versailles) Avignon & Musee Calvert preceded by some notes on losing the thread

This writing has by now turned into an Exquisite Corpse. I feel as if I’ve lost the thread I thought I was following leaving NZ, arriving HK, that I’d thought would be most durable, to do with the sense both of place and of displacement, the latter a