Back on the road today at 7, bus rolling through the early morning rain in the Loire but before I race out the door, seasonal hoopla to readers kind enough to visit Riffs on a regular basis. Have a fine, restful last week of the year or go crazy, as you like. The Romans called the week between the solstice (December 25 in their book) and the New Year Saturnalia, when rules were suspended and masters waited on servants. Could we get some of that going again ? Take a walk, see friends and if you have time, troll through the Riffs backlog, where 112 essays await. I’ll post a short piece about the Saturnalia later this week, and give Riffs a much needed kick start in the new year.
I had to hunt for the delicate, dreamy stone image from the walls of St. Lazare in Autun, Burgundy, site of one of the great abbeys of the early medieval era (12th century). Did the angel awaken the sleeping Magi or was he the night-owl of the three wanderers, a man who kept those late hours when time seems suspended ? Quite a story, three kings setting out across the desert, no maps, just following a star…A bit mad, weren’t they ?
The Middles Ages get a bad rap. You know, incessant wars, pestilence, monks keeping the secret knowledge to themselves, disenfranchised, uneducated masses. Nothing we’d know anything about! Historical era designations should be junked. The Dark Ages ? At least here in France, that period of some five hundred years is a time of indigenous cultures expressing themselves, melding the Roman influence with local genius, creating the French language along the way. Medieval, Middle Ages to what and whom ? It implies a state before we sweep on to stage. The Middle Ages are understood as some sort of brutish interregnum but most of the valuable things about their civilization, the sense of devotion, the handmade and the communal life, keep man sane, tethered to his earthly existence. Ah, well, nostalgia is out. Perhaps an angel is tapping our hand right now, patiently urging us to awaken.
Back to the Beautiful Grind in 2024, a year that promises to be weird, cataclysmic and intimate in equal measure. I start it in legal limbo, as my Big Fat Dossier sits on some desk in Lons le Saunier in the Jura where the grand fonctionnaires most assuredly won’t peruse the pages until after their Saturnalia, whatever that’s like. It’s OK with me, as the reluctant detective in The Long Goodbye says all the time. See you @, JG/Riffs