Oxford, Paris, and other things

 I didn't know you had passed away. I heard from a friend yesterday that your funeral were at the end of last year. A bit pissed off I wasn't told, as you were for a while QUITE A HUGE CRUSH of mine.  I have not written a poem about you. I'm not sure if I can write poetry anymore, sorry, but I remember having written a poem about the death of your dog, how sad you were then. I took a picture from the mini-book I published with Strawberry Press , the old fashion way of printing, letter by letter, love and sweat. Contrary to many others of my scribblings, I'm still quite proud of that poem, and that will do for now. I am sorry I cannot write a new poem right now, maybe in the future?  Another thing... I very much hope your violin is kept alive by a musician as passionate as you were. You are alive through that, the good old wood. As a sign of respect for your nationality, I took the picture with a tartan-themed background, it's probably not your clan, but that's a

 That's it, I've managed to find a copy of Hav by Jan Morris . In fact it was in the Westgate library but in the store so someone fetched it for me. I'm not sure if it's the two volumes together or just one, it's only called Last letters from Hav.  I so cannot wait to read it. And yes I've not started it. In fact I'm scared. What if, like a date you fantasize too much about, it's going to disappoint?  So instead, on the bus home tonight I gazed at the Ridgeway. The view was beautiful today, it had just rained and there was an immense cloud, just opening, over one part of the Ridgeway. " The Ridgeway " by Dave_S. is licensed under CC BY 2.0 . The Ridgeway , for those who don't know (don't worry I was in that category before I moved to Wantage) is the oldest road in England. It is said, perhaps, that the whole land was covered by forest and that early human would walk there, as it was more secure, And perhaps a bit more dry?  Apparently

 Recently I have really enjoyed reading two books written by women on walking. There's something particular about women walking, in some places still in the world, it is almost an impossible thing, and I have to admit that when I used to be walking the streets of Paris younger, there were some hairy days... and I would envy the freedom of women walking in London or other places in the UK. One is called Flâneuses, of course! by Lauren Elkin which is, partly a memoir, and partly a history of women walking the streets, lovely pages on Virginia Woolf who was a keen walker. Like many Americans (from the US that is) she's in love with Paris, but somehow she doesn't behave like an 'American in Paris' which can be a bit annoying. She's walked everywhere in Paris it seems, as I did when I was younger -as any young adult living in the city- and it was lovely to feel some sort of nostalgia, but not too sad a nostalgia as I'm lucky enough to walk back on Parisian stree

 Here we are on a Sunday and I had to go to work today in order to open and later close the building. Hell. Especially when you go out the day before, which does not happen often these days but still... Something helped me a lot this morning, le réveil des oiseaux. At 5 am there's no one out there, absolute silence in Walton Manor, North Oxford, not even a train to be heard and the cows and horses are not yet back on Port Medow, or perhaps they are, but the wind is not carrying their smell and their noises. 5.20 am and the first virtuoso comes to town, that is somewhere in the gardens behind the houses and starts the jam. Soon, other birds are participating. It's not quite a chorus, more like listen to me! me! me! I'm the best! Perhaps similar to The Greatest Jazz Concert Ever with Charlie Parker, Dizzy Gillespie, Bud Powell, Charles Mingus and Max Roach, with my favourite track, maybe because it is completely bonkers, Salt peanuts.  No, the morning birds are perhaps not p

 Sometimes you hear about a book and you want to read it and it's pretty much like a date, and you really have a crush on them, looking forward everything they will reveal to you, their charm, their wit, their beauty, their kindness, and you may be disappointed once you're there, it turns out you have been imagining things in advance, projecting too much, forgetting reality. And your date is tired, or upset, or distracted by the ex who's suddently appeared in the restaurant next to us or whatever. You date is alive but not necessarily well. But books are not like that, or at least books by authors you like, there will always be some bits you like: the appreciation of one's style, a certain turn of phrase here and there that deviates from it because the author was too young, too old, pissed off that day and so many other things like their ex sitting near them in the cafe where they're working who knows?, but you're rarely disappointed  - or I sincerely hope so. I

 As some of you know, or rather as most of you don't know, I'm currently doing an MA in English at Nottingham University. Almost finished now. I 'just' need to write a dissertation, and as you could choose a creative writing option, well guess what? I chose that. I'm writing (attempting to write) about Oxford. My favourite subject, at Nottingham, was to read about literary geographies. There I discovered the wonderful world of a psychogeographical Will Self , the poetry in prose of Kathleen Jamie 's Findings , Robert McFarlane and his big books full of encyclopedic knowledge such as The Old Ways , and more work by Ballard (whom I knew but 'only' the scifi author). Even classics, such as Mary Shelley 's Frankenstein , can also be read for their fantastic descriptions of landscape. So yes I thought, what's the place I know most in this country? The place where I've lived most of my adult life? The place where I believe I have a good objectif