Friday, 6 April 2012

Our Language, Tiger

Paris iPhone Photo Chronicles
~ Our Language, Tiger... ~

Our Language, Tiger, originally uploaded by Paris Set Me Free.

BONUS: For Street Photography Fans!

Said Stephen Fry, of Dr. House & Laurie fame (at the time), in a moment of pure poetically comic genius, "is the creak on a stair, it's a spluttering match held to a frosted pane, it's a half-remembered childhood birthday party, it's the warm, wet, trusting touch of a leaking nappy, the hulk of a charred Panzer, the underside of a granite boulder, the first downy growth on the upper lip of a Mediterranean girl. It's cobwebs long since overrun by an old Wellington boot..."

I myself tried to sum it up thus thirteen thirsty years back when ago:

They trickle down, most often
Like fugitive raindrops
Dodging and weaving, decorating
All my window panes

Or scuttle like busy insects
Searching for scraps and signs
Diving for bolt holes, freezing on trees
When danger comes along

Often they cling like children
On school's first fearsome day
To mummy's arm
Unsure of themselves, embarrassed
Not knowing what to say

But sometimes they rage
Like stallions
Silken hooves kissing the ground
And fly over ravaged landscapes
With eyes ablaze
Great chests heaving

'Words' © Copyright 1999 Sab Will / Paris Set Me Free

It's words I was waxing. Whatever the truth, which lies, no doubt, somewhere in the middle, as Kate said justly as ever, the point, for me, is in the wondering, not in the ultimate reality, which I'm pretty dubious about.

Take this tiger, tiger. They live in Africa and manifest usually, in my experience, through flesh and bone, not bronze a baguette's throw from the Louvre in the Tuileries, if you please.

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Crocodile carnage to boot, but this particular tiger ain't had it so easy. Although this will be the subject of another post, I'll intimate simply that this poor proud guy is a walking wounded war victim. It's sobering how many of them there are in this city.

Shot through the heart, apparently not, but not far off. His great chest must have been heaving that day, as the dying lay scattered around him, liberating the city, but losing themselves in the ricochets of Rue de Rivoli ravages and worse, not burning so brightly in that irksome forest of fear and loathing.

He holds his handsome hide on its best side, face turned away from the path, which is why most people strolling insouciant don't suspect the depth of his hurting. Sometimes you have to do walk on the forbidden grass to sample the sweet taste of freedom, on a whole bunch of levels.

This one, at least, is accessible, more or less, give or take the odd Panzer, while a panther would have been more apposite but, like busy insects diving for bolt holes under the anteater's thrusting tongue, freedom fighters can't be choosers. I chose Paris, but I don't think I'm free yet. Language still has a few surprises left for me if I'm not mistaken. Of course, I've never been mistaken, except about mistakes...

And why not...
© 2012 
Sab Will / Paris Set Me Free - Contact me directly for photo tours, interviews, exhibitions, etc.

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