You may think that you have seen this picture before, because I posted one very similar last year. Similar starlings if not the same ones were settling down to roost in the same tree in The Grove this Autumn as last Autumn, but I am not ashamed of repetition. The seasons don't apologise for it. Meanwhile perhaps differences matter more than we are prepared to admit.
Ennui is my favourite French word. It sums up an almost sensual abandonment of purpose, an idleness which is at the same time irritating and melancholic. A world-weariness which embraces tedium, a tedium which lulls the frenzy of getting and spending. An annoyance which manages both to grate the senses and to soothe them. It impossible to find an English equivalent which matches it for internal music or layered meaning. Poets like Baudelaire and Mallarmé liked it it because it evoked the sad, disentegrating world of sensuality and despair in which they lived. The first line of Mallarmé's poem Brise Marine sums it up..." La chair est triste, hélas! and j'ai lu tous les livres!". The flesh is sad, alas and I've read all the books." A sort of self-mockery and ironic wit buried there I always think. I find its musical equivalent in the Gymnopédies and Gnossiennes of Eric Satie
More stories for my other blog One Fine Day are brewing. One is nearly finished and will be posted soon. Writing them is not the problem. The challenge is working them out in the early hours of the morning or last thing before going to sleep, both curiously creative times of day. And then remembering what I have, to much asleep to write then down, recited to myself.