Perfection #TheDailyPost

… Is not of this world, they say, but we know that perfecting is!



So this project of ours won’t work as we conceived it, but this can be fixed: it’s called flexibility, and a sense of adaptation! Nothing is more difficult than moving to a new territory, having to relearn, and forget some of the “truths” we know. Here, we must quit our prejudices, and look forward.

So we revisit our initial thoughts, what we believed to be the right way and proved to be misplaced. It will take longer, cost more – ah the depreciation of sterling! – and be more rewarding in the end. Along this path full of obstacles and traps, we proceed, methodically, cautiously, as if in a minefield.

Sometime, expectations, those of the buyer and those of the seller, cannot be matched, so a little navigation is necessary: perfecting the deal takes goodwill, a favourable wind, and patience…

Image: Odilon Redon, La barque mystique


#FiveSentenceFiction: Flawed

For Naoko

 Lighter than feathers the notes of the piano float through the room, as you play, your gaze from time to time turning to me, radiant.

The evening is perfect: the rain falling on the terrace, now in darkness, can just be heard, and the sound of the fire crackling in the chimney, lighting this room, a perfect setting for the prelude to love.

Your white dress hardly conceals your perfect body, as your flawless hand hangs lightly above the keys, as if time was suspended…

You smile at me, and your smile is that of an angel, as I turn the pages of the book I pretend to be reading.

And for an instant my mind flies into the future, that far away shore where we have become the grey ashes of this glorious present.



#BlogMeMaybe: May 22 – May I tell you something about myself?

The old daemon

This post is dedicated to @JenVinci

“What is the one thing you really wanna do that you keep telling yourself you shouldn’t ? And what’s really stopping you…?”

Three motorcycles with a view on the Alps, parked at the rim of an abyss

Photograph from:
the Lazy Motorbike site.

Yes, I must tell you about this… One of the great passions of my youth! I dreamed about it at school, watching with envy those older neighbours who were earning, and thus could buy a… motorcycle… Ahhh the sound of the engines, the symphony of exhaust pipes! During my time in the armed forces – some five years – I read the magazines, talked about it with other guys who were also fanatic. Then it was my turn to earn enough to make a decision. Then, we worked six days a week and 10 hours shifts, in my industry. After a year I could buy my first bike, a second hand 250cc Triumph which was my training steed. A very nice bike, very rigid frame, and a beautiful sound, though it was losing a bit of oil! I learned, frightened myself in occasions. By then I was living in the Rhônes valley – a short distance from the Alps, and some 200km from the Mediterranean coast…

Ahhhhhhhh those rides, in the Spring, over the recently open passes, still littered with snow drifts and ice, the thrill of sharp bends, over those mountains, to reach the Italian plain and then the magic name: Imola, then the temple of two-wheel serious races for big heart bikes, 500cc and above – soon to be dominated by Oriental steeds under the banner of Honda and Suzuki. I indulged in my first new 750cc bike for my 24th birthday – a BMW R75. Parents helped a bit, and then I was earning comfortably, having no other responsibility than for myself. Those were the days: long rides to the coast, Cannes, Nice, the Alps of Hautes Provences. We were camping, drinking, and were, by the standards of the time, rather promiscuous. But then, we were clean, and so were our women. The days before Aids and worse are now long forgotten. Penicillin, then, just worked.

I rode thousands of klicks to Germany and Northern Europe. As a reserve officer, I was then prohibited to go further East, behind the Iron Curtain. But there was plenty to do this side of it! Those nights with Finnish and German Angels – men and women looking as if they were inclined to drink the Bavarian Hydromel and Finnish Vodka in the skulls of their enemies (maybe they did!). I enjoyed the orgies, the dancing and drinking around the huge fires, the worship of the bikes.

And one cool morning far North in Jutland, on an isolated beach, I saw Aphrodite, in all her perfection. She was from Norway, and was bathing nude, as I was, there were only the two of us, and the bike, I still have no idea how she got there. Probably with a group camping nearby. It was a happy encounter, without complication, the sort of thing that I still remember and cherish today, (without kidding) a dozen bikes, and a couple of  hundred other bodies later, and being married, and loyal, to the same very beautiful person, for some twenty years… The bike took me to England and her short circuits, my first encounter with Brands Hatch, at the time one of the fastest circuits for motorcycling competition in Europe (but was England Europe then?) We live nearby now.

I never had any serious incident, broke down a few times, had near misses. Some 120,000 klicks later, I was drawn irresistibly by money and the big city. Traffic scared me. I had other needs. I was working 70hrs a week, no longer in shifts, but a gruelling schedule that left me exhausted every week. I got older, and sold the last bike.

Since then, every few years, it takes me in the guts (no it takes me in the balls): I wanna ride again, I look at the youngsters, and occasional oldies, on their steeds… I get restless. But I am now heavier, married, committed to other activities. So, even when I see bikers winding their ways around the beloved Italian passes, in the clear Alpine air, I told myself to stick to who I am now. So fade old bikers, on their way to Walhalla.