Nothing makes me feel more like a biological piece of meat

Many TV observers of Olympic events are no doubt charmed when they see twin competitors holding hands as they cross the line.

To my mind, alas, an image of that kind is troubling. Those identical ladies are not simply cute ; they're clones. The situation becomes more troubling when we move to triplets.

For the moment, this situation has not reached alarming proportions. But, what would happen if we were to end up with a group, say, of four identical Usain Bolt clones ? Would gold medals have to be chopped into pieces, enabling each clone to take away a fragment?

I don't believe that this clone phenomenon, all on its own, will soon be responsible for ending the Olympics. But, with everyday annoyances such as dope, biased judges and (last but not least) Brazilian boos for non-Brazilian athletes, the end is probably near. Another trivial but slightly disturbing subject (but not necessarily a problem) is transgender athletes: individuals born as males who end up competing as females. The case of Caster Semenya, an 18-year-old South African female athlete, is disturbing, to say the least.

So-called “gender verification” tests were called for by the International Association of Athletics Federations (IAAF). They indicated an “unusually high level of testosterone” in her body. A newspaper revealed that a coach of South Africa’s runners is a former East German coach named Ekhart Arbeit. The former shot-putt champion named Heidi Krieger says that this fellow fed her so many anabolic steroids that she finally underwent an operation in 1997 that made her a male, now known as Andreas. Is that what we once knew as sport?

One of the most troubling events of all is when a once-champion athlete finds himself or herself beaten by a new-generation competitor. Emotions rise to an almost suicidal level.

For me, as a TV viewer, an annoying aspect of the whole Olympic show is that various sports have risen to a degree of technical complexity that often prevents me from understanding what is actually happening. Often it's no longer fun to watch a TV transmission of a sporting competition than I can hardly understand. For example, in a canoe/kayak race, I'm totally incapable of realizing whether a competitor has handled a "doorway" correctly. In a fencing duel, I never know who touched whom in an acceptable or less acceptable fashion. In judo, I have no idea whatsoever of who's winning and who's losing. In diving, I don't have the faintest idea of which competitor hit the water in the best style. And I'm sure I'm not the only person who gets bored by watching synchronized swimming, which has always appeared to me as a silly joke that has never made me smile let alone laugh.

As silly and boring as twirling...

In any case, the Olympic spirit has existed long enough, like competitive sport in general. It can't go on forever...

Meanwhile, here's a funny video of a loser:

Bugged nightware

In a recent Dilbert strip, the pointy-haired boss says he has just invested in new network software. When Dilbert asks him how he handled the technical aspects of this situation, the boss says he was assisted by the software vendor, who provided him with a weird explanation.

My present post is strange, almost crazy, but it’s perfectly genuine and understandable. Regularly, in my early-morning nightmares over the last year (since my fall in the Gamone staircase a year ago), I find myself programming a computer and striving to remove bugs from its faulty software. If the humorist Scott Adams (creator of Dilbert) heard about my behavior, he would possibly see it as proof that we humans are participating in a gigantic theatrical play staged by superior creatures.

Personally, I have a more down-to-earth explanation. During the day, I spend time working on my computer (as I'm doing now) and trying to find logical explanations for certain complicated real-life situations and problems. So, it’s not surprising that a former software fellow like me might imagine in dreams that he’s still programming. The other night, the situation was enhanced by the fact that, before going to bed, I had watched Kubrick’s Space Odyssey movie (for the first time in years), which is frankly a sacred masterpiece for enthusiasts of artificial intelligence. Besides, I had spent time, during the day, trying to handle the reactions of my sisters to family-history puzzles. So, all the ingredients were present for a troublesome night of dreams.

The problem with nightmares of this character is that I’m terribly frustrated by the fact that, when I’m dreaming, I’m not using a real computer (as I am now) and that my imagined computing activities are totally fake. Inevitably, the absurd background of my nightware becomes obvious as soon as I wake up, as is generally the case with trivial dreams. I have no trouble in immediately getting back in contact with reality, including the presence of my authentic computer, just alongside the bed where I had been dreaming.

Two ends of the garden hose

My old garden hose has been left out in the sun and the cold for quite some time. So, I wasn't particularly astonished when it started to develop leaks at both ends. My guardian angel Martine brought her husband Denis to Gamone, to meet me and look into my garden-hose problems. The output end of the hose is a modern aluminium pistol, which has developed the fault of spraying out several voluminous leaks. Denis and I imagined that we would rapidly find a simple means of stopping these leaks... but that, surprisingly, would not be the case.

The input end of the hose is connected to a lovely old brass tap in the form of a bird, which my daughter Manya discovered long ago.

Denis rapidly replaced joints in the brass tap, which immediately worked perfectly. He checked the yellow hose itself, which appeared to be in perfect condition. The only remaining problem was the aluminium pistol, which simply offered no possibility of being opened. As Denis explained, the object had obviously been cast by a manufacturer who had done his best to make sure that the purchaser would never open it. So, Denis told me that I should purchase a new pistol device, and trash the old one. This time, I'll buy a low-cost garden-variety hose pistol.

My dog Fitzroy was excited to see Denis fiddling around with the hose, because he loves to jump around in vain attempts to clutch the spray of water between his teeth. As soon as I've purchased a new plastic pistol, I'll have to get accustomed to taking it off after using the hose, and keeping it safely in the kitchen. In that way, the pistol won't get baked by the heat, frozen by the cold, or chewed up by Fitzroy.

Olympian champion in the sport of survival

Fidel Castro in Havana
at his meeting with the French president François Hollande.
May 11, 2015 — photo from New China

In the course of his 47 years in power at the head of Cuba, terminating with his official retirement in 2008, Fidel Castro survived hundreds of conspiracies and assassination plots. If survival were an Olympic sport, 90-year-old Castro would indeed be covered in gold medals.

Six new Olympic medals for France

Friday was a good day for France at the Rio games. Here's our new score-sheet:

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We're in the 8th position, between Russia and Australia.
That's better than what I was expecting over the last week.
I persist however in not looking upon France as a "great sporting nation" ... whatever that silly expression might mean.

Extraordinary Time cover

Nothing more to be said!

We might all be synchronized robots in the Guiness book of records

Click here to see the robot show. For all I know, I might be starring there... Can anybody prove that this was or was not the case. Good robots don't know how to appreciate the distinction between facts and fallacy. I would expect that run-of-the-mill robots don't even realize that such a distinction exists. And we meaty humans are even dumber still.

Me and my car

Just over a year ago, in July 2015, I stumbled in the steep staircase at my house in Gamone and had a nasty fall, bumping my head. Doctors have told me that I could have easily killed myself. I'm convinced that the only creature who knows exactly what happened is my dear dog Fitzroy, but he has never told me. Today, in the house, Fitzroy remains constantly a yard or so away from me. Whenever I move up or down the staircase, Fitzroy accompanies me immediately. When I open the bathroom window, Fitzroy immediately places himself between me and the opening, with such determination that I once imagined incorrectly that I might have actually fallen from this window.

Since then, I've never got back to driving on the road. Theoretically, I'm still quite capable of driving. I once demonstrated this capability to my son, on the lawn of his house in Plouha. Above all, I have good eyesight and, since the accident, I've never touched a drop of alcohol.

These days, whenever I need to drive into town, I call upon my friend Martine. She's an expert driver, who looks upon my Kangoo as an excellent vehicle for picking up a fortnight's groceries. Martine has even suggested that she might assist me in getting back into action as a driver. But I'm not at all convinced that I need to do so. I'll soon be 76 years old, and the narrow roads in the vicinity of my house at Choranche are not reassuring. On the contrary, they can be dangerous. So, why bother getting back to the wheel? In spite of all my likely progress, I would be a permanent public danger.

Yesterday, my neighbor Gérard phoned to say hello. He was astounded when I told him (to explain why I haven't visited him over the last year) that I no longer drive my Kangoo. He told me, literally, that abandoning the wheel was surely the worst thing that could possibly happen in the existence of a citizen of Choranche. (To better understand his point of view, you need to be familiar with the steep and narrow winding road that leads up to Gérard's house, which is nevertheless just a few hundred yards away from Gamone.) The news that I had given was as if I had just told Gérard that I was stricken with a major health problem. And he sympathized with me, even to the extent of suddenly referring with pain to his recent personal loss of his mother and two sisters.

To drive or not to drive. That is the question. And I'm more or less convinced that the ideal answer is... Martine.

NOTE A few days ago, the local doctor in Pont-en-Royans (an intelligent Rumanian lady with whom I communicate most often in English) told me that I would recover some facial nerves that were damaged in the fall if I were speak out loud as often as possible. This is not a simple task for a solitary individual who doesn't often use the telephone. So, I've decided to read out loud (in front of my dog Fitzroy) the French-language movie script on which I've been working: Adieu, Abelone based upon The Notebook of Malte Laurids Brigge by Rainer Rilke. If I work at this task long enough, I might even end up obtaining a role in the future movie.

UPDATE: Click here for another exciting approach to restoring any damaged brain functions.

Je suis Robel

This Ethiopean swimmer at Rio is my latest hero in the Olympic world. His name is Robel Kiros Habte and his specialty is not speed. People call him Robel the Whale. This sturdy fellow makes me feel like a champion in the pool.

Possibility of recycling French Olympic coaches and Eurovision artists

I wonder whether France could donate a few of our less talented Olympic coaches to Donald Trump, to assist him in his bid to become president. Similarly, French Eurovision songwriters could compose the theme music and write the lyrics for Trump's presidential campaign.

Admirable Olympic cyclist

I'm happy to see the success at Rio of the Swiss cyclist Fabian Cancellera, who will soon be retiring. I've always been impressed by the performances and the friendly personality of "Spartacus".

Big business

Kuwait has just announced its purchase of 30 French Caracal helicopters, for a billion euros. France may be performing in a mediocre fashion at Rio, but we sure know how to produce and sell advanced military equipment.

Plans for future new bridge at Grafton

One of these days, my native town of Grafton in Australia will have a new bridge over the Clarence River. The northern area, which includes the major town of Grafton, will have the following layout:

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The southern area, which includes my childhood town of South Grafton, will have the following layout:

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Details of plans for the future bridge can be found in a website of the Roads & Maritime authority. Random remarks about Grafton's old bridge over the Clarence River can be found elsewhere in my Antipodes blog.

The vast extent to which Pound Street is to be modified will certainly change the area where we Skyvington kids grew up, in the company of local friends such as Jimmy Kemmis and Anne Fisher. It might be said that a central zone of the city of Grafton will be transformed into a highway, running alongside Market Square and the clocktower, then through Jacaranda Avenue. To my mind, the old town will find it difficult to survive such an onslaught of road traffic.

So long, Marianne

The Swedish lady Marianne Ihlen, muse of Leonard Cohen, passed away peacefully on 29 July 2016 at the age of 81.

 

Marianne and Cohen fell in love in the 1960s in Greece, and they remained friends forever. Click here for an article on her death.

 

Know that I am so close behind you that, if you stretch out your hand, I think you can reach mine. [Cohen's words to Marianne]

French Olympics infected by Eurovision complex

The French medal score at Rio is not exactly impressive. Watching the TV coverage of French achievements, I imagined a typical Eurovision evening. France, one point. A Poulidor point. A single silver medal in team swimming. A photo of the silver team is not exactly joyful.

No medals at all in fencing, judo, cycling, ball sports… Waiting for a gold miracle, maybe in pole vaulting. I fear it might be like waiting for Godot. The French are simply not a great sporting people. In exactly the same way that we're not a nation that excels in singing competitions. But we have other prize-winning talents. For example, we can be good at politics, poetry, metaphysics... and silly things like that. We can make all kinds of fine speeches, and write all kinds of fabulous books. We're good at mathematics, and science, too. We've even got around to staging top-quality revolutions. But don't ask us to be worldly, pragmatic, champion singers or sportsmen. That's simply not French.

UPDATE I forgot to mention that France is also very good at building and selling advanced military equipment such as submarines, helicopters, fighter aircraft, etc.

LAST-MINUTE NEWS: The medal situation of France improved considerably today, Tuesday. There has been a lot of talk in France for the last few days about the undeniable role of dope in the modern sporting world. Speaking of the Chinese swimmer Sun Yang, the French competitor Camille Lecourt said publicly that "his piss is violet". As I see things, the entire sporting world does indeed appear to be grimly infected by dope. The evil American Lance Armstrong set the ball rolling, and the global situation appears to have worsened enormously over the last few years. At times I wonder if we haven't reached the end of high-level sporting competitions in the nice old-fashioned clean traditions.

French villages disappearing

The French word “désertification” designates the process that leads to villages abandoned by their former residents, who have deserted their home place and moved to big towns and cities.

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This sad phenomenon is now more rampant than ever, and there's no way of stopping it.

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In France, we also use the expression “rural exodus” to designate this sad gangrene. Today, some 15,000 rural villages are dying due to this inevitable process.

Australia's bad treatment of refugees at Nauru

A French-language article in today’s Le Monde reveals that the Amnesty organization labels the attitudes of the Australian government towards refugees as “cruelle à l’extrême” (cruel to an extreme extent). Click here to access the original English-language article published by Amnesty International.

Around 1,200 men, women, and children who sought refuge in Australia and were forcibly transferred to the remote Pacific island nation of Nauru suffer severe abuse, inhumane treatment, and neglect, Human Rights Watch and Amnesty International said today.

A Senior Director for Research at Amnesty International said: “Few other countries go to such lengths to deliberately inflict suffering on people seeking safety and freedom.”

A Senior Counsel on Children’s Rights at Human Rights Watch said: “Driving adult and even child refugees to the breaking point with sustained abuse appears to be one of Australia’s aims on Nauru.”

Book by a Daesh sex slave

Click here to read a short review by Richard Dawkins of an autobiographical book by a former Daesh sex slave, who has written (of course) under a false name.

Luckiest people in the world

At times throughout my life, for moments, I too have been a lucky person... when I succeeded in clinging desperately to make-believe. I would imagine briefly that my human existence made sense. That gods and magic were real. That I would only have to search deeply for meaning and happiness, and I would surely find them, for meaning and happiness were like a tasty hamburger that I could purchase, taste and totally consume whenever I felt hungry. All I needed was good appetite.

Alas, over the last few years, I have abandoned forever all my nice old make-believe worlds. My existence has become infinitely tougher. But I've finally acquired the precious art of searching constantly for the peace and harmony that Richard Dawkins referred to as The Magic of Reality - How We Know What's Really True.

Often, when I watch TV for example, I realize that relatively few people seem to have taken this step. Religious folk, of course, are still in the starting blocks, and likely to stay there until the cows come home. Politicians and world leaders, too. Indeed most ordinary people cling to common-sense and make-believe. And they remain eternally lucky, as proud as a pope. It's in our genes. How could human apes like Dawkins and me have survived back in the days when science did not exist yet, when our ancestors needed make-believe stories to carry on existing? They needed gods and convictions just as surely as they needed food, sleep and sex. That was the lucky dawn of human existence.

New Hillary look

Click here to see Hillary, on a Melbourne wall, changing from a bikini to more modest dress. Sadly, this wasn't just a case of somebody having fun. Local authorities in this Melbourne municipality requested the update for moral reasons. Shame on you, Down Under!

Linden leaves blown mysteriously into my house

At Gamone, three big linden trees are located in front of the house, and their dead leaves form a brown carpet, appreciated by Fitzroy.

The dry leaves are light, and they're scattered by the slightest breeze. I've been intrigued to find leaves inside my house, even though I usually close the front door. I imagined that brief gusts of wind carried leaves into the kitchen whenever I opened the door. But there's another explanation...

 

Fitzroy's bushy tail works like a vacuum cleaner.

Getting ready for a harsh winter

A big truck-load of firewood arrived at Gamone on the morning of Christine's arrival, and the pile of wood has been present since then, covered by a tarpaulin. Over the last few days, I finally piled up the firewood in my shelter, where it's neatly stacked in six rows.

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A municipal employee, seeing me piling up all this wood, said that I was surely expecting a harsh winter. It's a fact that I now have a huge stock of firewood. Fitzroy watched with interest all this activity.

A week ago, I had moved blocks of stone into the area of my letter box, to minimize the risk of somebody running into either the mail box or the metallic fence posts in front of Gamone.

I also piled dozens of rocks onto the mound between my residence and the road.

News from the outskirts of Europe

The July 2016 newsletter of Britain’s College of Arms, which just reached me, indicates that an interesting event has occurred.

The Rt. Hon. Theresa Mary May, Prime Minister and First Lord of the Treasury of the United Kingdom since 13 July 2016, is entitled to bear the Arms of her husband Philip John May. He is the son of Robert John May, who was granted Arms, Crest and Badge by Letters Patent of Garter and Norroy and Ulster dated 10 October 1997. College reference: Grants 163/211.

Why was I absent for so long?

It's a crazy story... like many things in today's world. I was fed up with my costly iPhone contract, so I simply discarded it. Unfortunately, that phone link was being used periodically by Google to verify that I was indeed the owner of the Antipodes blog. As soon as the iPhone number disappeared, it was as if Google considered that I no longer existed. I had to go through several dull processes to convince Google that I existed and that I was indeed the fellow named William Skyvington who was in charge of the Antipodes blog. Finally, everything seems to have fallen back into shape.

I'm back on my Antipodes blog

God exists!

Wisdom spreads from the mouth of a child

There has been a lot of talk on the Internet about a 15-year-old Canadian lad, William Gadoury, who indicated a remote place in the jungle of the Yucatan peninsula where his calculations suggest that archaeologists are likely to discover an unknown Maya temple.

The boy's conclusions are based upon a fuzzy personal theory according to which the Mayans located their temples as mirror images of the layout of constellations in the heavens. This theory is, of course, pure mumbo-jumbo…  but nobody dares to tell the lad that there are few chances that a temple will indeed be found at the spot he has indicated. We are all so accustomed to religious trash that most people like to think that wisdom will flow magically from the lad’s mouth.

Personally, I’ll lay my head on the block. I’m totally convinced that his mumbo-jumbo guess will turn out to be pure childish bullshit.

People in Brittany should teach their cars to swim

The municipal authorities do their best to inform visitors that they must not forget that the tide rises and falls once a day... as it has been doing for many centuries. Some visitors seem to imagine that their precious automobile will surely notice that the water is rising, and climb to higher ground.

Out for a stroll

If you find yourself in this kind of situation, don't forget to check constantly that the appearance and size of the animals are not changing dramatically. In any case, don't ever be tempted to feed them.

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Paris, six months ago

After the terrorist attack, holes left by bullets in the window of
the bar La Bonne Bière were filled with red roses.

Making an effort to avoid watching Eurovision

This weekend, I plan to make an effort to avoid watching the world's most idiotic TV show, Eurovision. The craziest thing of all is that my native land, Australia, is pursuing its aims to become a permanent member of this organization. Clearly, Australia is stupid. Here's their candidate, named Dami Im, as True Blue as they come...

French Left is lost

The Left has lost its way. They're wandering around in the desert, but without a map or a compass. The prime minister Manuel Valls would surely like to lead his people in the right direction, but I fear it's no longer possible.

His party is in shreds. The situation is sad to watch, like the end of an epoch. The show is no longer amusing. The performers have lost their touch. The clowns are not funny.

I don't know how it will conclude. Maybe in a catastrophe...

Time scanners

This evening I watched a fascinating TV show on ancient archaeology, produced by an excellent US team from the University of Arkansas, whose main speaker was Dallas Campbell. They use an amazing high-tech gadget: a portable scanner that can detect the form of stone structures hidden below the surface. They examined a famous construction in Jordan of the ancient Nabataeans: the site of Petra.

Their spectacular performance opens up revolutionary perspectives.

Allah should get off the bus

Observers are going to say that, in a city whose new mayor is Muslim, it's nice to find Allah moving around on the celebrated red buses. I disagree. God is ugly and disgusting, because he's a harmful falsehood, no matter how he travels around. May he remain hidden. It's time for a change. Let the light of atheism move in, to replace religious stupidity!

French justice steps in

I would imagine that many French people are shocked by this affair. As much as the French are not necessarily narrow-minded about sexual naughtiness, they really hate the idea of a rude randy fellow who tries to use his authority to pick up women. Be that as it may, the judiciary authorities didn’t remain idle for too long. This morning, the parquet (official body of magistrates) decided to launch an investigation into the alleged misconduct of Denis Baupin. As I indicated at the end of my blog post on this subject, Denis Baupin himself charged France Inter and Mediapart with defamation... which, to my mind, was a mistake that will pursue him negatively.

I believe it would be honorable for Baupin’s wife Emmanuelle Cosse to resign immediately from her ministerial job for as long as the above-mentioned investigation is being conducted.

Click here to see severe reactions in the French press.

Here is the infamous photo (Baupin is second on the left) that apparently set the ball rolling:

This group of bright fellows thought it would be a smart idea to celebrate Women's Day by wearing lipstick. Not surprisingly, their idea backfired. They strike me as a bunch of dumb pricks...

Australian researchers searched… but they found next to nothing

Researchers from the University of Sydney in Australia attempted to discover factual data proving that mobile phones, since their introduction into society some 30 years ago, might have been responsible for cases of cerebral cancers. Their conclusions have just been published in The International Journal of Cancer Epidemiology.

Between 1982 and 2012, some 34,000 cerebral tumors were encountered in Australia: 20,000 male cases, and 14,000 female. Meanwhile, the use of mobile telephones increased enormously. In 1993, only 9 % of individuals over 20 years old possessed such a device, whereas they are now over 90 %. For the sake of the study, let us suppose that the use of portable telephones was responsible for a 50 % increase in the presence of cerebral cancers, as numerous observers have suggested. That hypothesis would mean that, in a population of 100,000 individuals, we should discover 11.7 male tumors and 7.7 female. In a male population of that size in 2012, the researchers encountered only 8.7 cancers; in a female population, only 5.8 cancers. So, there’s something seriously wrong with the familiar theory concerning the grave dangers of portable phones.

At the celebrated Institut Gustave-Roussy in France, the cancer epidemiologist Catherine Hill is outspoken: “The evolution of the incidence of cerebral tumors has nothing to do with portable phones. If there were indeed a slight relationship, it would be too small to detect. It’s amazing that people who are afraid of the possible danger of their portable phone are prepared to carry on smoking!”

Prominent French politician loses his job due to allegations of sexual misconduct

Denis Baupin is a deputy of Paris, and a vice-president of the National Assembly. After a fortnight of investigations, two prominent press organizations—Mediapart and France Inter—revealed today that this prominent political personage has a serious reputation of inappropriate sexual conduct. Within a few hours, as an outcome of these allegations, Denis Baupin resigned from his post at the National Assembly. For the moment, nobody has filed charges against Baupin.

His wife Emmanuelle Cosse is a minister in the present government.

Shooting the messenger : L'avocat de Denis Baupin, Emmanuel Pierrat, a fait savoir mardi 10 mai que son client déposait plainte "à l'encontre des journalistes signataires et des directeurs de la publication de Mediapart et de France Inter", pour "diffamation publique" selon les informations de l'AFP. 

That news is truly sickening. From now on, I'll be wary of believing in randy French arseholes who like to call themselves "ecologists".

Family history can be confusing

Here's a studio photo of my grandfather Ernest Skyvington [1891-1985] with his parents William Skyvington [1868-1959] and Eliza Mepham [1865-1899].

During my youth in Grafton (Australia), I was in constant contact with my grandfather, who had become a successful businessman in the Ford automobile domain. After my move to France, I became most interested in genealogy, and my grandfather—whom I called Pop—tried to provide me with as much information as possible on this subject. I was disappointed to discover, though, that Pop's knowledge of his English ancestors was amazingly flimsy, as if his ship voyage to Sydney in 1908 had discarded all "luggage" about his background in London. Here, for example, are two blatant cases of missing information that alarmed me for years:

• Pop could offer me no serious information whatsoever concerning the destiny of his own father, William Skyvington. He imagined vaguely that this man had been killed during World War I, but he could offer me no serious information whatsoever on his death. Now, if Pop had been an ignorant hillbilly, abandoned by his London relatives, I might have understood his ignorance. But that was not at all the case. Members of his mother's family were smart individuals, interested in literature and music, and relatively well off.

• When I asked my grandfather whether he could recall his own grandfather, Frank Skyvington, Pop amazed me by saying that he had never once heard such a name!

There was clearly something weird and disturbing in this curious state of affairs! A deep psychological problem? In the family-history domain, Pop seemed to have been brainwashed. I simply don't understand...

• Click here to read my very first blog post, entitled Family-history shock, published on 3 May 2010, on what culminated, several years later, in the Courtenay Affair.

• Click here to read the major blog post in this affair, entitled Chromosomes reveal the truth, published on 3 August 2014.

• The final step in understanding the Courtenay Affair consists of acquiring my book:

They Sought the Last of Lands

My Father’s Forebears

© William Skyvington 2014

Gamone Press, Choranche

ISBN 978-2-919427-02-4

This book can be ordered by dropping in at your local bookshop.

Plantu can imitate perfectly the style of any fellow cartoonist

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Nice weekend

This is the kind of sweet weekend that I've been looking forward to constantly since my return to my wonderful mas de Gamone six months ago. Choranche is a spring poem.

Gamone is such a paradise of greenery that I can't avoid the temptation to ask myself whether dangers could emerge here. Terrified above all by images of today's horrors in Canada, I'm thinking of the possibility of bush fires. Normally, that's not a typical threat in our corner of the world. But we shouldn't refuse to think about it.

Popularity of our French president is lower than ever

A poll published yesterday indicates that the popularity level of François Hollande has descended to its lowest level ever since the start of his presidency. Only 16 % of the people who were questioned said they had confidence in the head of state to “tackle efficiently the major problems” of the nation. That’s a drop of 2 % since the previous survey. This fall is surprising in that France’s latest economic figures have been rather reassuring.

Space odyssey

The movie 2001 : A Space Odyssey by Stanley Kubrick made a huge and lasting impact upon me.

The monolithic slab seems to be a giant silicon chip that programs and powers our earthly existence.

The movie culminates in a vast journey through the so-called Star Gate, which ends up in an old-fashioned bedroom, often referred to as the renaissance room. I have always imagined this kitsch bedroom as the attempt of  a nouveau riche American to create a fake copy of a supposedly stylish place.

Last year, when I had an accident at Gamone that could have killed me, followed by a few months of convalescence in Brittany, visions of this Kubrick bedroom reoccurred to me constantly. I tended to think that I had in fact moved through the Star Gate and that this was my tomb.

Breathing my mountains

For the Nth time, this evening's main TV documentary showed me an album of glimpses of my extraordinary "back yard", the Vercors.

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I realize the extent to which I breathe constantly the atmosphere of these glorious limestone mountains that surround me. I must remain in their midst. I cannot ever leave them. That would be unthinkable.