It is inscribed — 2021/11/20

It inscribes itself in the wet soil the end of another season. Water and death go well together. The cold that sets in is a slow poison that transforms the dream of living things.


Every morning — 2021/11/13

Every morning, a new mixture of colours, a harmony that painters can envy. Autumn continues its timeless and cyclical work. Every morning, a reminder that the wheel turns, never quite in the same place since time, in our heads, piles up like dead leaves, brown and green, set with yellow and wind.


Photons of autumn — 2021/11/07

It is said that death is a fall but that its direction is relative. The soul would be eternal and, to be incarnated in a body, it must accept to die.


On the verge of a new Autumn — 2021/09/08

Almost a year ago, I was walking in the Saint-Sulpice woodland. I was on vacation. Autumn had officially begun, although this year, it is still in its infancy. As often happens when things are repeated, the observation is pretty much the same. However, the eye always finds something to explore. I'm back on vacation after a year of hardly going outside. I'm doubly inoculated, the virus is a little less scary, and the seasons don't give a damn.


Before saying goodbye — 2020/11/14

My autumn holidays are already no more than the impalpable dust of an atom. The work has resumed its rights, occupies my mind beyond what I would have liked, abandoning writing too much.


A walk in Autumn — 2020/09/30

It rained heavily during the night until the early hours of the morning. Autumn took possession of the clock. To say that a new cycle is beginning would be lying. If there has been a beginning, it dates from a few years ago to the power of billions.


A walk through contrasts — 2020/09/26

Autumn projects its contrasts. The day was warm, soft for the onlookers who, despite the virus, opened their mouths wide to the sun.


And remember again that everyone lives only in the present — 2018/09/30

The leaves do not seem to be ready to fade. However, by the end of September, they should already have a sense of the end. There are some of these unblemished autumns and this one may be one of them. The antlers will turn brown and will be bald by one or two gusts of wind. The next day, it will snow and we will not yet have our boots at our feet.


I walk — 2017/08/22

Time changes so little when we walk, the step beats the seconds, the centimeters, the thought scatters its psalmodious wanderings. And the morning becomes beauty with its light that already reminds us of death to come.


Just before the snow — 2016/11/20

Two weeks have passed without me writing here. I walked, though, watching the fall. It has gone from cold to warm, from a blue sky to a grey one, from dry to wet. The leaves make traces, then soften for good.


The anticolor — 2016/10/21

The light of autumn is not happening at the moment. This is indeed an advertised chronicle. We take out a warmer garment if possible waterproof. We protect ourselves more from gusts. The common cold is so easy to catch.


Ephemeral — 2016/10/20

The trees no longer have any modesty. The gaze never gets tired of any leaf. Mornings are wetter, concrete absorbs the plant juice. Soon there will only be flour left that will quickly be eaten by the wind and frost.


The mixing of the seasons — 2016/10/15

The cold inviting itself for the night, and no matter how much autumn stuffs us with embalmed afternoons, the mornings become cooler and cooler. Now you have to cover yourself a little, lift the collar, fear that the cold will attack the bronchial tubes.


The silent goddess — 2016/10/10

I must continue on the theme of light. After work last week, it was still too hot for autumn. People willingly walked barefoot in the park, young people, bare-chested and beautiful, juggling. I was too hot with my vest and windbreaker, as if from a season too far ahead of its time.


Morning light, evening light — 2016/10/03

Morning light, evening light, the trees are caressed from east to west, but the leaves are now tired. All this summer blush eventually turned into gold, emerald, simple terracotta.


The cold, of course — 2016/09/29

The cold of course and the days that, like cheap cotton, shrink at the first sign of hardship. I love walking when the morning shines its fine light on us. I have my steps for myself, my solitary rhythm thus marking this adult life which has dug so few furrows.


The flower-suns — 2016/09/19

The leaves are starting to fall here. We never tire of announcing, every year, the beginning of autumn. At this stage, the decline may seem philosophical. The air seems to be at the peak of its breath, already imbued with soft, dense juices, like the one in these rooms where the dying fall asleep.


Our seasons — 2014/09/28

Of course, autumn inspires the poet. It is a sweet season, heralding the bitterness of winter, but, with good weather helping, we are not yet concerned about it. The weather is fine, death is there to diffuse perfumes of appeasement, the air is warm, the light compresses the shadows, skilfully mixing the colors. Everything is in its place, in the order of things. You feel almost eternal.


Random schemes — 2011/11/30

The sun was able to land on objects and people for an hour. However, the rain is not over yet, and the streets will still be filled with a wet rustle. The clouds are coming back for the day. There will be melting snow tonight. It's beautiful outside, sad, but good.


Frosted stars — 2011/11/21

This morning's cold did not take as much to the throat as yesterday's more aggressive one. The sky, however, was still as blue as the northern regions know how to do. On urban and deadly surfaces, an overnight frost, bewitched by light.


The grey, the cats, the looks — 2011/11/19

It's grey, it's spitting, it's mild. When the sky is overcast, the colors take on aesthetic value, the ugliest objects brighten us up and wake us up from our sleep.


Life is breaking down — 2011/11/16

The weather is still grey and peaceful. We would probably like more sunshine and even more calm, yet we are satisfied with it. Walking around every morning like this does me a lot of good.


This beauty — 2011/11/11

There seemed to be only beauty on the ground this morning. Oh, there was the morning light, the promise that the day would be beautiful. There was also the refreshing air, purer than usual—autumn and winter make us believe that the cold will destroy the toxic fumes and waste produced by the human race—there was assuredly this anonymity of the passers-by who let me wander quietly.