Failed apocalypse

It was the fields behind the farmhouse - a dreamy, mythical, apocalyptic light that photos absolutely don't and can't capture. I looked at the trees in the distance; they were floating in a light mist pierced by the sun's rays, and behind this natural gateway, we could make out a field, other trees, all the way to the horizon. I thanked God for leading me there, and we crossed the barrier of trees. All was silent, and with the light so intense, it seemed as if the world was about to let us in on a secret. But there was just one more field. We returned to the car.

The Lower Way

Walk along the bike path this morning. The weather was mild, everything was peaceful and comforting. A Sunday morning walk like I've always liked. For the first time I realized that there was ANOTHER path, parallel to the one I use like every walker, paved, well cleared, wedged between the railroad (inaccessible, fenced) and thick, inextricable thickets. This other path is located below, behind the thickets; it is almost invisible but very real. It is dark, unused, the more one advances, the more the hedges and the intertwined shrubs, with the tortuous, clawed, threatening branches, prohibit the entry to the curious ones. But it is incredibly attractive. One suspects that it leads to dark but unseen things. It is almost an unintentional metaphor, in the landscape, of the two paths a man can take in his life.

Dead zone

From time to time I like to lull myself with the idea that I am going to explore my region to discover places, people, things. But so far I only have an impression, each time the same, whether I am in a random village that I explore, or at the edge of the canal, or in the forest.

The reality is the road, the streets, the suburban districts, the commercial zones. The countryside, including its inhabited areas, is nothing but an empty scenery, in no way a place of life and activity. I would like to be wrong and hope to be one day disproved as I walk around, but it is an extremely powerful impression; more than an impression, an observation, even if I cannot exclude that it is different elsewhere in France.

The corollary to all this is that if the countryside is nothing more than a dead zone that no longer belongs to reality, then walking in it is like walking in a dream, meeting oneself, one's own representations and fantasies.

Dog club

Stopping, in my car, to take a picture of a more or less abandoned dog club that always fascinated me when I drove along it, all under a blazing sun, I realize that I would have been better off never stopping and settling for the fantasy.

For a few weeks I had the project of exploring my region, on a basis that was both methodical (study of the map, etc.) and left to intuition, to chance; noting names of localities, or precise places (the sawmill at the exit of such and such a village) as I drove along. I stopped that after a few photo sessions. An inexplicable uneasiness, a sadness. I understood some time later that these places only had charm, mystery, as long as they remained elements of a potential story, in my head. As soon as I go there to take a picture of them, their nothingness jumps out at me. They are places that have nothing to tell me, that have no place in my life. I have nothing to do there.