einar moos

The trees of Paris are sick, very sick. The municipality is doing what they can, but the truth, … the truth, it’s terrible.

La Bastille…

A la gloire…

Happy to have google raise 4 billion $? Well, their gmail service seems to be down since sunday and there is little info or reason why. In other words, stay off the big guys, I guess and get small. Small is beautiful.

Othe news: the register has (had) an awesome interview of a spammer – that has been taken off, as far as I can see… Anyone working as system administrator should watch out.

Martha Hraoui is a Lebanese painter living in Paris and Beirut. Her latest work is inspired by her walk to St. Jacques de Compostelle, very light sunny landscapes on paper. Buy her paintings? Why not?

Fatal accident. Old lady on her way out to buy newspaper run over by a bus. Her body carried 15 yards further and torn apart by the impact.

Alexandre is a clochard unlike most others, a real aristocrat, whose mother had set him up to do things he found dishonorable and he prefered to stay on the street. I know him for 20 years and we drank many bottles of champagne under the rain…



Originally a singer, composer, set designer, what made him take this road? Freedom, he told me, dans la rue je suis libre.

Followed him carrying the swimming bag and another one filled with vegetables down rue des Patriarches, he passed the café and turned into an alley. He disappeared across Les Travailleurs inside a café, at the counter. He was tanned and looked for his age like a young boy in a fine light-blue-colored jacket. He’d been to ile de Re. Sunny holiday. He’s waiting for his American clients, he says, and tells me of a commission to paint a portrait. He needs time and time he takes.

Take care of your salad, he says, as I head out and down to the former pont des tripes.

We walked to the oldest part of town, the confluence of the former Bièvre, and then up rue Mouffetard through some medieval alley to the place Monge and then along the rue Monge, entered the oldest theatre in Paris, in Lutetia, the arenes de Lutece. What magnificent sunlight, the silence, the sublime. You forget taking pictures.

Finished retyping Henry Miller’s unpublished piece Mejores No Hay, a trip through Spain that is ripping, ripe to be re-read and reconsidered, not as the major XX century American writers best work, but it fits in well with our time. So thrilled.