Monmartre Streets

The people here seem hopeful they can achieve a more just society and that they might be able to lead the way and become an example for the French people.

There we saw with the “yellow vests” who also spoke about inspiring people; to be heard and demand better rights for the people.

For now, however, everyone is holding their breath — there’s lots of suspense — people just don’t know what will happen. It’s a peaceful protest from what we could see.

I think they just want to be heard.


Brown Willow

1840’s Rare Small Pottery Footed Compote by Petrus Regout & Company. I Found in Paris.

It was made in Maastricht Holland in the Brown Willow transferware pattern.

This shape is hard to come by. Beautiful piece! Very old but Quality for its age. A Bright and shiny glaze.

Diameter: 3″ x 2″ height.

Royal Sphinx is a pottery, founded by Petrus Regout in 1834 in Maastricht. The factory origins from the glass-cutting company Petrus Regout & Co, established in 1827. In addition, Peter Regout started a wholesale company in glass, crystal and pottery.

In 1834 Regout started a glass factory and in 1836 he also started to produce pottery. Initially he produced so called faience commune, simple pottery with a soft, red shard, made for the local market.

In order to increase his market share, Regout had to compete with the then very popular English cream ware. This is why Regout employed skilled British workers, and even imported English materials. When his sons became co-directors, the name of the company was changed to Peter Regout & Co.

Art Carved

What is the condition that distinguishes us from animal, plant and from inorganic matter, including the capacity for growth, reproduction, functional activity, and continual change preceding death.

Every human story is a life written and represented; and from there we exist. There are the experiences where we feel real emotion; just as I know emotion is not a fictional pseudonym.

We seek to dream and dream about the things we seek; of a spiritual reality and a destiny greater than the merely mortal.

What are those things that are more than merely mortal? The author with a prose; the lecturer with an intended set of temporal actions to achieve an objective, the painter with oil and canvas; to that, it is their life, of their work and to its end is their purpose.

Reflecting about what we see and what it

creates within us is what gives us self worth; an appreciation for the things that surround us.

Maybe it allows us to inspired, to be motivated. Could it be that dependence on the sense of this desire of fulfilment is what gives us this sense of value to our life?

Is it this philosophy or is the aesthetics that answers the questions to these principles that gives beauty to these arts; to writing, to critical thinking, to language, thought, the appreciation of an old Dutch painting; and perhaps even to an angel face carved in wood from the 18th Century.

Me and Jim found him in a market together near the Louvre.

I don’t maybe, but I think things like this old Wood face is the aesthetics; in the beautiful philosophy when I look into the face of an art carved angel.

About Montmartre

We were in Montmartre again; there is a spirit there and it was if we were touched with life again. There, the gypsies were on the steps of Sacré Coeur as the temperature warmed up the day. We headed up to the top with our two little chihuahuas. Climbing with them we seemed to be a prominent feature following them up the steps. We were on everyone’s lips and they were adored by everyone. 

We were finally back in Paris. It was summer. Love – amour – was our most popular subject for us. And Jim, my musician; where I await to visualise his lyrics through songs. It is there, he sometimes sketches out his lyrics. 

Love anyways, is not his most popular subject on his mind, however. Jim writes about what he sees in Montmartre. I watch him watching the people warming up around him; he is my young Englishman who’s heart is just waiting to be inspired. 

That day we did as we often did; people-watched from the outdoor tables of the café; watching street artist sketch portraits. Dozens of them. One artist stopped at our table and began cutting out our Silhouette on paper. Then charged us five euros!

First he picked up a French newspaper from the lot to read. And consequently, I still cannot speak or read a word of French even though he has sought out to teach me. 

On that warm afternoon; it seemed to be directed as was per at love. We watched a young couple, sit down in front of us at this café. They held hands across the table. They proceeded to tell each other, “Je t’aime” with sappy looks in their wide eyes. We resisted the urge to gulp down our wine and instead Jim brought out his notebook and a pencil.

He quickly sketched the scene before him, then began writing madly. He tore the picture out of the book and flipped it over, putting it down on the table. He didn’t care; he scribbled on the back of it in loose, scrawling handwriting, much too eloquent to be understood by anyone but himself.

By the end of it, his genius was satisfied I think in his judgement of spirit, his motives, and, glancing at them again, was satisfied that their love was real. It had to be. 

All I know is that we were in Paris again, and the in summer. and I know he was inspired once more.  I loved that. 


Photo: The Basilica of the Sacred Heart of Paris, commonly known as Sacré-Cœur is a Roman Catholic church dedicated to the Sacred Heart of Jesus, in Paris, France. A popular landmark, the basilica is located at the summit of Montmartre Paris, the highest point in the city. 

Poet Heart

Oh my poet-heart, is there still time for Paris
Where the sweet wind wandering goes?

Round each corner; the trees in airy flight
Nights bathed in amber light.

Low at my feet the winding sidewalks behold
Valley and town drenched, entranced in deep repose.

Has there ever existed such a more beautiful place…
None with more appeal; even when it rains.

But I know how softly on the music plays
Where mosses creep; where our love is not far.

A place where we are free
Flinging forth our memories with ease

Traveling to Paris in the car…
With my poet heart in the breeze.

Still Paris

Why is it France that sometimes beckons me

Paris whispers, I  wave, and she cries,

Listening to sounds of her calling us back

Waves of leaving never needing to say goodbye

A last smile before into the oceans crept,

Like waters blanketing tears that she wept

Rushing forth but not without a trace,

With you there, I first saw your beautiful face,

Keeping in mind that when I forget 

That I, long ago, Paris is where

I first fell in love with you there.

Paris still whispers, for we were there. 

 French Vieille Garde

The Old Guard (French Vieille Garde) were the elite veteran elements of the Emperor Napoleon’s Imperial Guard. 

As such it was the most prestigious formation in Napoleon’s Grande Armée. French soldiers often referred to Napoleon’s Imperial Guard as “the Immortals.” 

The Old Guard was formed of veteran soldiers who had served Napoleon since his earliest campaigns.