Another plastic rant...

I stood in the gardening aisle of our local hyper-market looking glassily at the rows of various sized buddhas and Easter Island heads, all made of plastic or resin - the same thing pollution wise I imagine. Duly took a picture so I could write this post and then found another absurdity which somewhat trumped (ugh, still difficult to use that word) plastic deities, (and I may well have ranted about such items before). In the pet section while looking for a bag of dog rice I noticed the area of dog toys/dog grooming, dog crossword books, etc, in which was probably the clearest message that humans have certain reached the point of stupidity beyond belief. 

lavender, rose and lemon flavoured dog poo bags

Dog waste bags . . . fair enough. I'd rather pick our dogs' poops up with a large leaf if available and hide it under a bush, but if one is in a city centre with no foliage of a usable size within reach, then, yes, poo bags, good. BUT, rose, lavender or lemon scented plastic bags . . . with appropriate colour coordination. Come on! Really? 

Imagine the product meeting on that one . . . 

'So, Barry, you're thinking colour . . . Like it, liking it! Appealing to the feminine middle age demographic? What about blokes - should we consider a more . . . powerful bag - explosions, car chases, war . . . thinking, silver, maybe sport orientated? Football team colours? Black? Oh, they exist . . . okay. iPhone shaped dispenser? Gun shaped?' 

At the other end of the spectrum, or at at least in that emporium, were the 100 percent bio degradable, eco-friendly, packaged in cardboard with a friendly poo illustration, versions. They are even organic. Seems a little excessive, unless you were planning on eating them. To my mind, these really should be the only ones offered, and it would give more space to buddhas and Easter Island heads.

Hottest day ever in Paris

And we were there in an apartment the size of a wardrobe which was part of an attic - chambre de bonne (maid's room) and the fan broke within three minutes.
I texted the air B and B owner woman who said, and I quote: 'I'm off on holiday, good luck.' When I complained - rigorously - she said there had been a problem of stock and she hadn't been able to buy one. I implored her to ring a friend to lend us one - nope. Not happening. You could try the housekeeper, she suggested. Housekeeper arrived said, 'mon dieu, 'it's like a furnace in here, but sorry I don't have a spare fan.'
Suffice to say, we didn't sleep despite draping ourselves in wet towels.
Anyway . . . gay Paris. It was all wonderful despite the various incredibly sweaty tram and metro journeys to and from galleries and museums - we spent about four hours looking at Buddha statues in the Guimet museum; partly as they were fascinating but also as the museum's air-conditioning was particularly effective.
We also saw, and heard a brilliant exhibition on the history of electro music at the City de la Musique. Walking to the building from the metro I experienced the same fear that I had done while visiting Death Valley - not that there was endless sand and cactus but the heat was as, or almost, as intense. That sort of primal fear that if one doesn't find shelter within minutes one would most certainly peg out.
Global warming monsieur Trump? Nah . . . course not.
The next day was due to be slightly less hot but we were already moving off to London where it was forecasted as light drizzle and about 22 degrees.


         

The rooftop view from our chamber of Hell - actually, would have been perfect at any other time in the year.

       

A street on the Isle de St Louis - at 5.00 am. The only time to really enjoy walking about . . .

          

                 An hour or so later, one of the cafes starting up for the day

     

        Notre Dame's reconstruction underway

      

              One of many serene buddhas

               

                        Early LIKE



                An interesting bit of pavement-claiming

               

A wonderful fountain which I put my feet in and almost put the rest of me in except several police were nearby water-spraying their horses.

              

                          A lovely archway

          

                  My favourite door and name of the trip

                        

                            stupidest shop name of the trip

             

                  Part of the electro music expo

             

                       best graffiti

              

                   THE shopping cathedral

                      

  and one of its bargains (4.500 euros . . . for a bag you could just about fit a phone and a lipstick in)



My favourite restaurant - where they still do the 'addition' on the paper table cloths

                

                            a man waiting for the metro



                               Au revoir, Paris

Cake meditation

As I have said many times, the internet is a marvel.
I just put in Buddha made of cake and lo . . . thousands of images. Here he is, beautifully sculpted in marzipan by the 'Artisan cake Co'.

Actually I don't think it would be possible to push a knife into that particular cake; I think it would have to become a fixture in the house, gradually becoming a little more discoloured and stickier with each passing year.
I was thinking more of one of Mark's cakes. Serious cake: eggs, flour, raisins, brown sugar, sliced prunes, cream icing topping: whatever happens to be in the cupboard, and made with a skill that I still find extraordinary after . . . well, how ever many years it is. He doesn't do recipes: People ask for them, but they don't exist; he's an instinctive baker - handful of that, couple of eggs, a shake of this, oops bit much, never mind. They always come out brilliantly except the beetroot cake which was totally inedible. Even Madame post-Materialist couldn't think what to do with it other than go and buy a pig so it wouldn't be wasted.
So . . . what has this to do with meditation, I hear you asking as your finger heads for the little red 'close this page' virtual button. No really this has a purpose, honest.
Years ago in London I went to a meditation meeting, mainly because there was someone there I fancied at the time.
We sat in a large warm room with dim lighting, scented candles - an odd contrast to outside on Holloway high street with sirens screaming and buses snorting. I relaxed and listened to the person leading the meditation. Already it was calming, the thoughts of car clamping and props I hadn't found for the following day's shoot sloping away.
Everyone was passed a large fat raisin. We were asked to chew it very slowly, very slowly. To think about where the raisin had come from, how long it had been growing in the sun, who had picked it, where they lived. What was the taste really like: the sweetness, the texture of its wrinkled surface.
Then the actual meditation: counting to a hundred I think - stop each time something enters your mind and start again. Let everything fall away, just the counting. I could see how it worked but my busy brain wouldn't shut off from lists of things to do, things I should have done, things that would have to no doubt be done. It was the only meditation class I ever went to, but I do try occasionally, without much success, to apply it to my life today.
Yesterday I relived the raisin experience and will try and do this most days.
It was a grey cold day, clouds scudding, wind moaning around the walls of the house. I had stoked up the fire and had a sacred piece of 'Galette de Rois' in replacement of Mark cake, as he is absent from the hothouse for a few days. The runty dog came and sat on me and I stroked his silky fur absentmindedly as I consumed tea and cake, very slowly. Where had this slice of cake come from . . . probably some boring factory that supplies French supermarkets, mmm not so good . . . but still.
Sweet, soft flaky texture, hot tea, dog's smooth back, the hills - brown with a scattering of icing sugar snow on them, silence apart from a couple of rooks in the tops of the cypress trees, time marked by the logs on the fire disintegrating a little more with each second that passed. Ten minutes perhaps, out of an otherwise fairly busy day. Time just to sit and really experience just 'being'.