The Bliss is Everywhere!

Monday 8:45 p.m.
While flying through the sky on the way to Avignon, there was a great deal of bliss in the 737 jet. It's better to sit still and you can do that on a plane alright. Close your eyes, sit still, and ... oh, ra bliss, ra bliss, ra bliss!

The next chance was on the train from Avignon to Marseille, a two hour journey maybe. Such bliss. I opened my eyes when the train stopped at a station. Arles.

'What can you say about Vincent Van Gogh, except he liked colours and he let it show?' Jonathon Rickman and the Modern Lovers.

I loved being in France again. La Belle France!

Because I don't sleep as long as some other folk, I got a chance to do the bliss next when I awakened the morning after, and then the morning after that. Then on the plane coming home. We went for a couple of nights to La Ciotat, a beach town along from Marseille.

The Lumiere brothers opened the first cinema there. There was an old railway track nearby, the set for the first movie they or anyone else ever made. Right beside it there was a bit of dirt where they invented petanque, a kind of bowls. Foreign travel is very educational. They have condom machines on street corners in La Ciotat. I was kind of dreading the unlimited plonko collapso, but the Bolivian Marching Band made an unexpected visit and there were no hangovers. Hurrah!

Every time I got a chance to meditate, I finished feeling most elated. What a fantastic thing it is to have access to bliss! It is most regrettable that the UnFortunate Ones do not have access to the bliss, but truly brilliant for moi that I have! I'd like to believe in God so I could give thanks for this bliss. Thank you, God! Thank you, God! Oh, thank you, God!

You know you're not supposed to cling or crave or become attached to the bliss, don't you, Hotboy? Jack, the bliss seems unavoidable and most enjoyable. I cannot say that I do not enjoy that which is so enjoyable. That would just be stupid at my stage of the game. So let's appreciate our good fortune and celebrate the bliss! Oh, ra bliss, ra bliss, ra bliss!

Antoine de Saint Expurey (?), the poet of the air, was shot down by a German pilot near La Ciotat during World War Two, according Froggy McDuck. I was most impressed by war memorials when I first spent some time in the South of France in the mid-70s. On the memorials it didn't say: Died in the Second World War. It said: Killed by the Germans. Dearie me. Still, ever since they got carpet bombed, they've really been quite nice.Oo La La!