I’m finding myself in the city of lights (at least cultivating the illusions of finding something other..). Paris-Montmartre is my dwelling; here and there along the serpentine inroads and the vertical steps by steps heights one encounters strange shadows that take their dark pleasures by pale light - due to the exceptionally warm weather during the day, by evening, the steep heights of Montmartre have been shrouded in an ethereal mist which hovers the stony inroads with an aura from another world, a world of gothic amorphia, of gothic ladies whose sombre allures are mixed with a distinctly Diosneau touch, unlike the UK variety. The mist that veils and unveils the ambiguous nature of all feminine choreography, of the Gothic ladies whose depths of time « regards » are in the shades of red and black…the colours of infinity for Baudelaire….
The mist that obviates the distant traffic noises and dilates the senses to the stone outside… there is an animism to Paris even if it is all stone and glass, due to the light, the light that souls even stone, traffic and steel…
