Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Manish Malhotrasarres
* * Image: fr.famozz.com
Wassily Kandinsky Yellow, red and blue
EFFERV science
Cloud dreams. Dreamlike vision. The thinker is the light of humanity. Demagogue; polemicist. His ideas upset, disturb. Decline of Science: the time could prove him right. When the scientist from around the world to meet hers, the excitement is : Trade between America and Europe and Asia with intellectual jousting. Twirling stars and logarithms of a verb to another. The brains overheat in the assimilation of so much knowledge; eyes welled up, the comissures roam. They know they can change the world, an invention at a time. Theories are made and unmade, without the threat of an inquisition. At each seminar, the universe is revealed to them the conquest of space, until the nano-technology. With each pass of the theorists, a torrent of abstraction and hope flooded cities. The cartographers of the future draw large diagrams for the fate of man.
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* * image: Association-sclerodermie.fr
Paul Klee, The Timbalier
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I looks at him accusingly. I blame my indifference. What can I do, I thought? This screen, the mirror of the world, am I guilty of being a witness? Why assume he not the horror it disseminates? Like a rattlesnake ready to attack, its cable trying to connect to my conscience. Not at all disturbed, I threaten to blow fuses. Interjection spite, in a torrent of vulgarity. I take the exclamation point in flight and strike a direct circuit in the eye of Big Brother. It sees red and goes off in an explosion of information. I'll get the broom to pick up the damage: continuous news, reality shows, commercials and repetitive stun. Then I go to bed in the understanding of dreams.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
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writing, a little over sixty years later: The man who can rely neither power nor a god , must undertake on behalf of its responsibility Person human . It calls for creating, repeating the words thrown at the sixtieth anniversary of the National Council of Resistance, genuine insurrection against peaceful means mass communication that do not offer that as the horizon mass consumption, the contempt for the weakest and culture, generalized amnesia and excessive competition of all against all . And it reminds
about the CNR program is telling us: these principles and values we need now more than ever. It behooves us all together to ensure that our society is a society in which we are proud of: the company not undocumented, expulsions, suspicions against immigrants, not this society that challenges pensions, Social Security acquired, not this society where the media are in the hands of the wealthy ... We dare say that the state can no longer cover the costs of these measures citizens. But how can he miss today's money to maintain and extend these gains while the production of wealth has increased considerably since the Liberation, a period when Europe was ruined? Otherwise, because the power of money, so fought the Resistance, has never been greater, insolent, selfish, with his own servants into the highest echelons state. Banks are now privatized first show conscious of their dividend, and very high salaries of their leaders, not the public interest. The gap between the poorest and richest has never been greater, and the race for money, and competition as encouraged ...
Here is a book whose thoughts and reflections humanists do much good, which ends with the beautiful flight:
create is to resist. To resist is to create . Enough to occupy the new year and the following ...
Monday, December 27, 2010
Letter Welcoming New Church Embers
I followed for six years writing workshops with a teacher of the most exceptional Claudine Thibaudeau.
Claudine Thibaudeau is a precious friend. This venerable lady of life experience helped me to shape the writer I am, she advised me, corrected, encouraged, shown towards professionalism. We discussed various topics. Over time, our affinity crossed, hand in hand, the generation gap.
I miss those meetings, exchanges.
Although his vocation education spans decades, his career as a writer has just been initiated, with an autobiographical novel: Daughter of the castle, and a collection poems: When I enter in my job dead. Like what it is never too late to do! A month ago, I once again had the privilege of attending the launch. This time, I helped her honor as a student with the reading of short text. Here it is.
Tribute designed to be concise Claudine
It is these encounters that influence a lifetime. As
impetus came from the random, large outbreaks of humility and excellence;
Winds generous guide to the best paths to learning;
An outstretched hand fate;
Formerly unknown, became mentor Master
befriended
Foyer shares
Planter patient authors fallow; Goldsmith
a youth
A voice in the heart chime resonates a sweet friendship
A reassuring presence beyond time and distance
My model, my hero
So many elements in a single woman
Claudine Thibaudeau embodies them all
I now invite you to discover the author ...
Friday, December 24, 2010
Is Laundry Service Worth It?
not be good today on the straw. The little piece of heaven nursery, probably for the last year in the bucolic breath of the donkey and the ox. The very cool Loppsi Act 2 that has been created between fatty liver and brown the turkey will be an ordeal for him. Any squatter becomes threatened fine of € 15,000 and one year imprisonment. He could spend his next Christmas in the fetid breath of a jail between a pedophile and a sticky enterprising serial killer. Unless a divine intervention or papal demonize Sarkozy and his Judas and away from this cruel Golgotha.
And Jesus can count on support from the supermarket and the Brotherhood of Father Christmas. But all the other poor unbelievers ... For this unjust law also stigmatizes the entire habitat could threaten safety, security or public tranquility. rather vague formulation that will allow prefects, within 48 hours, to expel from their makeshift encampments of Roma people and other persons of their rare trip outside areas, like any precarious shacks, tents, trucks, mobile homes or caravans. Need I remind you that more than 500,000 people are currently without a real home. And even playing on detention or without a building permit, it is all the alternative habitat: tipis, yurts, cabins, trailers ...
Hide me these precarious, these marginals, these alternative or homeless. They go elsewhere to put their little jesus in getting any.
Monday, December 13, 2010
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Here! For the holidays, I continued my spree copied and pasted, to allow sufficient Reading to my hypothetical readers. Some texts still have the time, just to see the evolution of my writing between "old" and now.
But fear not: I will soon present new texts, fresh from my brain, not only the old stock warmed in the microwave. I documented, I expect just the right moment.
With that, if no new fails to break time, I want to wish everyone (or me) happy holidays. Me, I leave to continue a Christmas shopping ... barely touched the ordeal!
It's decided: next year I do all my shopping on the web!
Lines From Famous Speeches
Standing, mothers of Acadia!
Noella Arsenault-Cameron and Madeleine Costa-Petitpas
Will. To insist; want at a price. Want, to, power and hope. Of these four verbs, one emanates a scent of gold passivity, the action is not expected liabilities. Hope has the will, anticipation, anxiety, excitement ... and sometimes disappointment. A range of emotions more significant than a simple lexical field, stronger than a definition in the Petit Robert. The hope is wanting, and wanting to do and often leads to power.
Take Action. Noella Arsenault-Cameron and Madeleine Costa-Petitpas, two mothers Acadian from Prince Edward brought the ftandard of their language and cultural identity to the Supreme Court
They wanted a French school for their children, for children in the community of Summerside and for generations to come. They wanted a survival beyond their family units.
Against all odds, they claimed, gathered, surveyed, documented, fought in courts of law a more just allow education in their mother tongue. On their quest, the kids were sent into the neighboring county and had allowed one hour away by bus from their cottage to school. Noella and Madeleine could not stop there: they were eager to keep their children near them, while keeping them educated in their own language.
The case quickly took a significant propensity: the Canadian Supreme Court. This crusade did not suit everyone. Such a cause created a real controversy among citizens Summerside. Within their community, Francophone, fierce opponents. What right do they dare to waste their tax dollars with such a trifle?
If they were so unhappy they had to relocate in the county of Evangeline!
First round, they approach the goal, but fail to knock out the verdict on appeal brought by the defense, the case was refused. Dismay, tears, feelings of failure. Too few people to support them; alienation from their peers has driven a wedge between the city and themselves.
Second round: victory euphoria. Results obtained from painful sacrifices: the sidelong glances, hostile comments and venomous. Even their personal life suffers. They have crossed
a sea tormented by the winds of prejudice and malice, pollution and bureaucratic government hypocrisy, as what in this beautiful bilingual country from coast to coast, not all have the same rights, even acquired. They have rowed constantly reaching their shores, and finally one day, rest with the feeling of accomplishment in consciousness.
What one believes is right awakens by both virulent dissent among our natural allies. Do stop believing in itself becomes an arduous task, like swimming against the current.
Since this commitment were children involved, no battle on the battlefield does not seem too desperate for a legitimate or mother.
Acadian Two mothers, on a remote island in the sea, wanted to stand up to offer the world to their children. It was enough to try.
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The filles du roy, pioneers here.
Orphans of the Salpetriere, daughters of person, mothers of a new people, no one can dispute the courage of the filles du roy, important figures in our history.
They are pioneering a new country, born in France, shaped by America and its First Nations. Without
noble family, they will forever be noble by their choice: they agreed to leave their native France - where the obscurantism of the witch hunts still reigns, where rank determines your worth, where nobody wanted to them - to an uncertain fate, the new continent. In New France the opportunity to lay a new life. A better life? This depended of them ... and Providence. It accompanies their journey and allow them to reach the shore!
List miserable conditions of boat rides in the seventeenth century, and the many perils transatlantic take a chapter! It should be borne in mind that the sea voyages in those days that spared the strongest. Dehydration caused no nausea, poor hygiene, food and water damaged, too much proximity between passengers, storms pirates ... This odyssey lasted for months, according to the whims of the wind.
In those arrived on the mainland, new challenges were not long to wait. First, find a man to marry. Then, to clear land, build a house, the acres and acres of territory to traverse, on foot or by river from where the drowning claimed fresh victims. A new life as a journeyman with a complete stranger and a rebel peasant probably his relatives in France.
As it is far away, the old capital, the Paris of alleys and markets under the protection of the sisters could be dreaming of prince charming young ladies between!
then survive the elements: the fierce winter bites you its frostbite and isolate you in his snowbanks, the wet spring, summer and hungry insects, fall where everything has to be redone again to prepare for the season of scarcity. The endless cycle of seasons brought more chores. Protected by Louis XIV, the King's daughter had to abandon his dreams of a princess, bite the bullet and build this country with her two deft hands, with his soul, his belly, for generations to come.
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Irshad Manji
As it is sometimes difficult to stand against the enemy and he is just as difficult and risky to stand up against his. Against a powerful wind of ancient traditions, a fierce breeze where religion, law and morality are inseparable, a woman dares to confront this breath, hostile to dissent.
She knows how to make his way through every obstacle, and his desire to communicate his doubts through his faith is unwavering. Muslim, Irshad disturbing for several reasons: she is a feminist and sexual orientation goes against the values of his religious community. In addition, she is a journalist: the questions are part of his job, but question the scripture is heresy. Real betrayal of the "real" Muslims, a denial of the Islamic faith.
For many of his brothers in religion, Irshad deserves prison or worse: death. The threats are legion in respect of Irshad Manji. Hostilities against him are virulent, violent, inspired by a real resentment is palpable. Nobody should put the Koran in question, much less a woman!
How then can one not admire a woman so desperate in his desire to combine religion with openness? This reporter, despite the risks, take the time to write and publish such controversial ideas, n'ad'objectif to destroy taboos and social inequities between the sexes.
Even in this new millennium, no woman is allowed to write about it. Some denominations are therefore still cloistered in the dark ages? Irshad is here to deliver us from the blindness of the collective consciousness. Not saving: enlighten, inform. She can pave the path of light wherever she goes!
What makes this Toronto's worth mentioning in a book (other than those she wrote)? The lady appealed for tolerance and seeks to build bridges between people. She preaches acceptance other, non-violence. His best weapon against his critics: intelligence, humor, quick wit and a good touch of sarcasm, just enough sparkle to cross from adversity or accommodate differences of opinion and wipe hate the back of his hand, holding the other cheek.
So much to say about this remarkable woman. Just hear him speak, you will be captivated by his dynamism and relevance of his speech is a born speaker. Look at his face open and you'll love (is) by his charisma. Irshad Manji is not a helpless little lamb. Get her a challenge, a thorny issue, an intellectual game and is more of a ram. Get ready for parades and expenses.
Irshad Manji, to watch. A storm, a punch, a go-getter. Exciting, vibrant, wonderful.
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Women heroines of the world
Earth and its revolutions and its humanity revolts. What
humans inhabit this world! Many lives for so many stories to tell. These stories travel the globe, according to the trends, interests of humanity. We know now that we are no longer alone on the earth, then, in the meantime, we tell us. Births, deaths, wars, mutual aid, home and estate. Sneaky, lying sometimes slips between the pages where the story is written in the present tense.
Without being immortalized in the "great books" of women committing heroic acts, historical, small or large scale. They are all fighting: national, municipal, or personal. They will win, they sacrifice, their victories will be ours as well.
is the story of women around the world have with the word "courage" in my consciousness.
************************************************ *******************************
In crusade for a treehouse
Needless to search us grasp this history the stereotype of the poor sick grandmother in bed and vulnerable to prowlers of the forest. This true story about a real hero army of speech and firmness of character. His opponent is a band of officers with long teeth, ready to attack with their zealous enforcement of bylaws. A fight between these two forces of nature is to be expected. At stake: the freedom to build a treehouse. The noble cause: the grandchildren of the lady.
A very popular playground for children, the tree house is home to the imagination, confidences, complicity, friendship. This is the secret hiding place, the haunt of the booty, the sacred ties to consolidate what is more, built by a "grandmother" in love with her offspring, who has kept his child's heart. But now it is illegal to erect a structure to his property and said structure, embarrassing, will be destroyed. The ardent
grandmother was not of that opinion and chose the resistance against the acceptance of injustice and absurdity of the situation: it chains every day at lunchtime to prove his opposition. Fortunately, she can count on the support of his fellow citizens of other residents of Sylvan Lake have rebelled against the excessive zeal of some city administrators. These sanctuaries have a long childhood and never bothered anyone. Why deal with an honest civil little banal building whose only value is the investment in materials? These gentlemen and ladies-so quick to enforce laws they did not do better than to require the demolishing of a modest home Scots?
If the municipal law is inflexible, our heroine is as Alberta. She circulated a petition and harvesting two thousand signatures of citizens together. If necessary, it is ready to present his case to the provincial court and even to higher authorities. Gail Armstrong is a grandmother lioness, ready to fight against anyone, in the interests of her offspring. This will not be a wolf or a staff member who will intimidate. If someone touches its Territories Business, she fiercely defends.
Nathalie Benoit,
On November 11, 2003
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Amelia Earhart
America between the wars. In the United States in 1928, accompanied by two men, a woman passionate about aviation flying over the Atlantic. Simple transient and a transatlantic flight was the muse of his generation. Amelia Earhart was born.
In 1932, four years later, Amelia Earhart was flying his own plane, the Lockheed Vega, through the same journey. Only this time around. Behind the sense of adventure and pleasure of being in control of his aircraft, the desire to restore an error of history: they were at the controls during the first voyage, his two cronies should have a share of public recognition. Amelia had inadvertently diverted the attention because she was a woman the first to do so. Merit awarded sex, more than an achievement. This time, she would deserve the praise and popularity for his achievements.
Former social worker to conquer the social boundaries, she pushed his machine to the ends of freedom: his and her sisters. Free to share the sky with birds. Open to the world and its possibilities, she lives in new aircraft wings to push humanity beyond and in this race to progress, it was high time that women begin to have a significant role in the equal to men. Amazon
early nineteenth century, unkempt hair and leather pants, this reckless driver always sought to preserve its independence, doing what she loved to do so without hindrance, without compromise - even in the sacred bond of marriage. Ambition
the pincers, why not go further, seeking new challenges? The idea of going farther was a natural, true to the temperament of Amelia: the world was within reach. The Pacific Ocean, then circle the earth. With his experience, Amelia felt ready to travel the world.; Spouse could do nothing to support that, why miss an opportunity to dazzle the press?
Amelia popular icon. As aviation was a pleasure crude as this activity had enabled him to live and to promote feminism his hobbyhorse. His message: that men could do, women can too!
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This unfinished project was intended as a collection of prose poetry about women, and heterodox inscoupçonnés models for our girls, as these examples are not all necessarily set foot in both borrowed from the path of showbiz. Another of my criteria for my research subjects was the action: even if some of them met a tragic end, I wanted women of action and not passive victims. I leave my readers to judge my choice, my initiative and the rest.
In memory of Saida Saida
Menebhi
Under the blazing light of Morocco in the 1970s, a wave shy tormented the current influence of the mob. She was swallowed unfortunately victim among hundreds of others, by the muddy swirl of oppression. This little wave called Saida Menebhi.
Saida, student activist socialist the rebel ... the disappeared. His story was similar to numbers of revolutionaries. His struggle for a better world was nothing exceptional, but she was. Anyone concerned about the plight of others can not help but be moved by this sun flower, his joys, his suffering, his affection for his family and friends. It is through the correspondence that we learn to truly know her. Soul full of love, scholarship, relentless in adversity, vulnerability and great clarity on the subject of education: his letters exude personality. Touching this fallen star for such a short stay! It is easy to imagine friend, neighbor, sister or classmate.
Pink Sands, destroyed in 25 years by the relentless wind of a regime hostile to the rights and dignity of men. His courage will probably even higher in the sky as the legendary Kahina Berber queen of ancient times. Sacrifice everything to defend his ideas: a body scarred by torture, a right spirit, the chance to be with his relatives and friends. Still she resisted the efforts of watchdogs Derb Moulay Cherif for the break. Then, a final gesture of revolt : In jail, Saida and its congeners staged a hunger strike. Forty days. The pink sand crumbled, resistant to touch until the end of the human hand, but eroded by the tests. Saida
the "happy" was a heart that resonates, from Rabat to Casablanca, a voice of sex "low" that tried to stifle. Life in the womb of life. So much love in one person. Within the country Saida, trees were straight from the truth, people were free and shadows, comforting.
A woman like many others, This native of Marrakesh: silenced, ridiculed, broken, sacrificed at the altar of government. A youth forged from a thousand examples of justice as enamored of life, honest, supportive, optimistic ... never banal. Only time converts passionaria legends. For now, a symbol, a poem. An inspiration.
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Paradoxes of Leon Bellefleur
I contemplated several non-figurative works and my choice was that of artist Léon Bellefleur. The work of Mr. Bellefleur occupies pages forty-six and forty-seven Summer 1982 issue of the journal Magazine'Art: it is on this subject I write abstract. Consider this simple exercise would be a lie, I left the image in my head to sleep until she comes of itself inspire me, just for one night just before sleep overtakes me . So I try to translate my words without much inspiration in the chaos let settle. In this Dec. 13, the day writing workshop, my pencil has great difficulty in following my ideas, as they burst and shoving in my head, just like paint strokes to the canvas Bellefleur.
This work appeared to me the paradox: death and life, beauty and ugliness, storm and calm.
First, death. I had in mind a scene as I had seen in movies: the dying eyes shut on life, death and open onto connected then luminescent images: a prismatic vortex gives way to a passage infinity. It is happening at a tremendous velocity, like the soul was sucked into a black hole en route to the afterlife. Then, nothing. An eternal night. In this scenario
often explored and exploited, I transplanted mine: my pictures, my impressions. Agree to let the curtain fall, agree a passage route in an explosion of light - as if I was spinning at full speed in an alley of trees for Christmas. The first sensation of dying would be like trying an extreme ride for the first time: I'm afraid and I am overwhelmed by the speed. But once past the first plunge, confidence builds, I recognize the look of the ride safe and I can let go. The frenetic whirlwind
perhaps stunning, even attacking the limit. I would like close your eyes, but my body no longer mine. My heart flutters in the afterlife. It is both disturbing and fascinating. Then, like a TV appeal by a wave foreign arise before me pictures intermittent brittle, vague or precise; feelings and emotions all too intertwined. Memories appear and march through the mess without any regard for chronological order. Debris out of memory as a powerful shower of asteroids. This is the good old cliché of "film of his life as it unfolds at full speed, only the head assembly is of gross incompetence.
The moment apprehended approach ... the eternal calm after the wild ride. But what kind of peace? Nothingness? The place, however, seems familiar: the black ink is peppered with white ... space! So that's it, die? Floating in the sidereal space? Adrift in the sea of infinity? Be one with the universe? I realize more than ever that I am a speck among many others, one down from the sky almanac, fallen to earth. I atom, I became Ash and I am stardust.
Yet, the sadness does not add to this observation. I feel light and everything is so peaceful here! I do not hurt anymore, I no longer cold and I'm not tired. The concerns of humanity does affect me more. How I want to explore this new dimension!
time, great enemy of mortals, was dissolved in the cosmos.
I focus a bit and noticed that the configuration of the stars has changed around me. Thus, in thought, I come and go in the vastness? What a discovery! I'm going to explore this vast territory. Sedentary I was on earth, the stars I'll cape. He had to die to change your life!
Since the announcement under the paradoxical aspect of the text, I also see life in the table of Mr. Bellefleur. A less poetic life: disease. Is it the influence of my cold, or artistic event that reminds me reminds me of the virus that lives in me. Brushstrokes evoke in me the ruthless assault of light, images, sounds or movements, screaming, on my way. The virus, He rejoices, he feels strong and powerful. He torments my sinuses, my head, my eyes and even my skin. The entire table looks strangely thick fog from my brain. A fog of discomfort on my accomplice carnal contaminated ... And burdened by fatigue caused by a succession of sleepless nights when I was too busy to unblock my nose plumbing to sleep. When the yellow pigments ... I pass comment.
Is not it natural, after all, talking about the infinitely small (viruses) after speaking of the infinitely large (universe)? These elements belong together like good and evil.
Also dependent on each other as two living organisms such as the organic-in this case human-microbial and virus-bacteria of all kinds. Of course, the coexistence of these organizations is more destructive than constructive because one feeds the other to survive. Result: to gain strength, "the guest" weakened "the host". Let's talk antibodies: In order to protect against certain diseases, you must be ill, or injected into the contaminated substance. Ironic, no?
It is difficult not to make a parallel with humans: our planet has given all its resources to give life to parasites, in return, destroy and destroy themselves. Of creation is born of destruction, and until the complete disappearance of any species landed. How many contradictions in this world!
And while the planet dies, another is light years from us, is being born. Fascinating as cycle! It gives a little dizzy ... all because of an artist named Leon Bellefleur!
Nathalie Benoit
2004-12-13
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Nighter
O oppressive night, the source of my insomnia! I have no other remedy against you a long walk in the moonlight. The storm has passed, but still the persistent rumble of thunder.
The wind is a breath caresses. Despite the heavy humid air, the night after the rain delights me. See, this summer mist low over the glistening streets, the trees tormented by the recent flurry of rumors! Feel, the air heady charge of storm! Listen to the serenade of crickets shrill off! The celestial dome
hid under her veil her firmament ink ... and then?! The vigil is no less fanciful, very smooth, like a Chagall.
While my peers are in their delusions thank you dream, I want to venture alone in the park where everything seems to sleep. Feeling insolent, I salute the officer candidly nuitard in full tour of surveillance. He looks at me with suspicion, then returns to his state of sleepwalking, regardless of my intentions.
I crumble nonchalantly on the wet grass and then exhale all the ease of finding myself in this beloved garden. I contemplate the lake in a state of complete bliss: the scales of fish swim happily in the opal moon waltz water. This water ballet would have been touching if not a generous beam moon had both lit. It's a real reward night for my flight! My head hangs like heaven tin, my eyelids are lead, ribbed like a terrestrial globe, but my soul is light, like water lilies floating ....
Through the translucent clouds, the sun bathed in silver wave obscure. Captivated by his reflection, I let fatigue creep in me.
Won by the languor of the evening, in the ethereal light of dawn, my spirit sinks into the abyss of deep sleep without dreams.
Nathalie Benoit,
On March 12, 2002
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Murmur of the Heart
My heart fades. The petals of my youth fall one by one, spin in fatal emptiness of the past.
My thirsty soul affection observed with anguish the hourglass for hours without tenderness. Still solitary walks in the solstice equinox, without a hand to warm mine. Another cold season without anyone to warm my bed. Point of romantic getaways, no surprises to brighten my days. No future bright for me.
When will the delight of that moment when I found the ideal partner, sun of my sad existence, where I experienced the joy of getting up in the morning, with the sole motivation, anticipation of the review be loved?
Vibrate for the simple pleasure of caressing the head of another, full relaxation, a rainy Sunday. Live for these little pleasures banal, planted one by one into our temporal vortex called "daily"
A small soft word written in haste before leaving
few words in his ear, inspiring a smile.
of glances,
grafts memories
a spontaneous hug. This tenderness
yet I refused. I look for the key she flees. It reminds me of the past have scorned. It did for me but contempt. She has partnered with Life to confine myself to solitude, to condemn me to uncertainty.
before others, I smile and joy for me so basically extends to infinity of an Arctic desert. My sanctuary is an emotional night without dawn Saharan Africa, a door ajar, poorly kept. I left a few men enter and leave without a promise they made, never to return, without a last look back. A soul burns with love is easily abused.
My breath became audible groan. My eyes, was armed with a shield of tin. My conscience, this blind, I oriented the wrong direction. I closed up hope waiting for more favorable circumstances to romance. Without really knowing if I seek a friend in the features of the Ideal, or rather the Ideal in the guise of a friend. Nathalie Benoit
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When the curtain falls on the day
Rendezvous with nocturnal solitude. The somber gravity of my thoughts weigh myself. I search with fever responses to my ongoing quest for identity. Old fears resurface I try in vain to flee .... The shelter of my musings is actually a trap designed to sink deeper into myself. I am afraid, terrified even, inaction threatens me and dispersion.
Where am I? Who am I really? Did I do the mourning of Scotland, or even missing those around me?
The gravity of the dark night weighs upon me so much! My heart is heavy and ready to burst into a sob of distress.
I desperately seeking a way out in vain pleasures, until my muse. Is she stayed there with my girlfriend? Fog and lucidity are waging a struggle without thank you. Nathalie Benoit
The February 28, 2006
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The future traveler backpack bustard.
When cool sour morning, I greet the departure of pilgrims adults, I let the sadness in hibernation.
More bitter farewell, finished the sinking of the heart: wild geese can go to their tropical holiday! Winged Migration leaves his peace boreal like leaves Scots abandoning their homes. One rises, one falls into a graceful demonstration of gravity. Among insects numb and shivering trees, my heart burns like fire. Yearning of exile.
As geese at the dawn of the equinox, my journey starts before the first foliage. I leave behind family, work, friends and animals to reach the old continent. The northern
brazen and early sunsets have the aroma of waffles in Brussels, the rain pours its torrent on my head - cool shower Irish - and the days and the rhythms of the west have accents of Britain, Castile, Florence or Thessaloniki. I breathe the mountains of Corsica and olives from Italy.
wing beat in the blink of an eye, the world before my eyes ... and a mosaic of people to know!
Without sorrow, I will follow the disturbing procession of travelers with a long neck, chest puffed up with hope. Anticipation. My own journey: light as a dream balloon with both feet planted on the ground. Nathalie Benoit
The July 4, 2005
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Aziza walker hope
Inspired Walking in love with Gaston Miron
The Aziza Beauty, Maghreb
Your feet with henna crossed the Atlas Gold
like your skin
What dreams are you, darling daughter
the beautiful look of jet bruised? Your name
you do not seem predestined
You've preferred your brothers, livestock and crops
Dew Fresh, light water lily
You probes the sky and sea for a destiny
worthy of you. The breeze brings you only the bitter silence your god
Aziza, think again: God has not forgotten his daughters
Sunny of existence, your wandering soul is stronger
That palms of your country
Heroin nomad, pilgrim dunes
Before you, the forgotten gardens of liberty!
It argues, on and staggers through the desert
of the unknown.
She left hers, misery
Deserted family promised dowry hungry
She suggested walking, sometimes short and staggers towards
hope ... we told him about the Saudi, Saudi
native tribe where women
Speak It was
sheet, it will root
Exits to bind to one of them It
advance without certainty, nor North nor South
His bottle is empty, but his heart is young and full of ardor
His end is still distant ...
Nathalie Benoit
The September 27, 2004
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The sky is for donkeys
Faithful servant suffreteux shy and with soft eyes carved in sadness, you too, heaven will open its doors. When you feel at midnight on the mower to run in the woods and fields, do not be afraid! Do not resist if your blood runs dry in your veins, if dreams invade you before dusk, if you feel tired from you and your heart seems lighter.
Brame last time your song of hope, a little donkey in the cloak of velvet! The world hath not denied. Go, let yourself go! Take part in the caravan of donkeys thy brethren, if you see pass. The celestial kingdom will welcome you with joy. The grass above it is not already a caress? Trafficking of your lungs that air fragrant watermelon and orange orchard. More than myth, more than mirages but a silver fish lake affable. Eternal garden of delights at your feet, the peaceful oasis of poets awaits your nostrils silk, nice Dapple.
The Lord, our father was able to recognize your humility. Nathalie Benoit
The April 13, 2004
Sterowniki Eye Toy Namtai
horse, my chimera
How many times have I wanted you ride, Weird? My most secret dreams told me about you ...
From a long wavy mane including ballet mad tickles every movement of your neck strong; of rippling muscles in a shimmering gown, soap scum, a long silky tail to beat the cadence and the flies of both eyes at once shy and alert, ready to please his master.
I mostly dreamed of galloping long and frantic, meadows into deserts, steppes shores, or intoxication, an accomplice of the time, was alone the pleasure last. These impromptu ballads or beast and rider are discovered without even talking
... My soul is full of a powerful companion, a hot-blooded horse whose profile athletic recalls his ancestors, immortalized in the form of Greek statues. But a friend who offers me patient and playful the velvet of his nose while his mouth calling for a treat.
A small woman and a horse rushed to a vague ideal of freedom, the time horizon. Their bond is closing the cycle of seasons.
The face of one lost in the hair of another, it is no longer a girl or horse, but a female centaur.
Nathalie Benoit,
On May 24, 2004
Dibujos Pokemon Mac Hack
In Florence ...
Light - ethereal vision - horse and rider soar in pursuit of an animal symbiosis.
From his hoofs, the beast strums the earth a thousand times kneaded. His rider: a young girl with hair of coffee and green eyes where the innocence of his age is lost in a mature determination. Tame, or transfer by hand? Teach or learn? So many ideas, choices and decisions are scrambling under his mop bullied in the air split by the gallop.
Under the abyss of heavenly draped his tawny color to the rumors of autumn twilight, the youngster picking on his horse walk, trot, canter. extended canter, stop, step aside ...
Weight ultralight cons heavyweight. The hour is discipline.
Muscles contract. Widen the nostrils, quiver. Two ears, radar velvet, probe the area for any voice signal. The little gray dapple horse is listening.
Bold, yet tender and brave. Ham, but never aggressive.
Once training ended, six legs will tread the green grass. This pair enjoys touching, both relaxed its mutual silence. The time is complicity.
Nathalie Benoit,
On August 7, 2002
Gay-gay-model-promotionscom
Scent of Scandal
Gonesse-en-Vexin,
October 10, 1808
I know, the interval between my two letters, ie between it and the previous one, was long. It happens, my dear, strange things with my older sister, Elsa. Imagine then that just returned from his campaign in Spain, Mr. Sevigne (my brother-military) received a letter and is soon gone. Where? We ignore it all. Why? We do not know. Needless to describe the pandemonium of battle in the family. Besides the great confusion that prevails in the minds of my poor sister and her stepmother Mrs. Imagine: he left without having had time to kiss his wife and children! We're in total darkness as to the reasons for a departure also precipitated. With that, I embrace you and find you soon, meine lieber Jael. But you keep on your side to speculate on questions that sucitent this early retirement of my brother. I do not want that on my return to Germany I am compelled to dispel rumors about any mistress or second wife in a foreign land. So, on behalf of our friendship, do not once for any of succumbing to your imagination too vivid. I leave you, and you'll know if there is something new.
Amelie von Innsbruck
Gonesse-en-Vexin
November 12, 1808
That one month has elapsed. You who are dying to see me, I know: long time ago that I promise to return to Germany. And yet ... here I am still the same family estate. May you forgive my long silence: these events have been grueling.
My mother has indeed made up us and I want to give thanks that your father for wines from its vineyards in Cologne. It was very generous of him. My mother has taken care jealously by going far. And it came a chance! She has been an invaluable aid; especially his eldest daughter. Here, time seems suspended and the days that followed the terrible news, are only sadness and tension. But where are my manners? Here are details on the famous afternoon of October 20 which I am sure, will enlighten you.
This afternoon there was no way for to be joyful. The rain ruined our plans to try and donkey rides. It is when the messenger of General disaster that appeared in all our lives were turned upside down. After reading the letter intended for him, my sister fainted. Once recovered, she has barely spoken 5 words, until today. Elsa is in disrepair, lacking to such an extent that I replaced, and when Penelope and the little Emile need something, that they appeal to me. Mental health concerns us all greatly.
Ah, tender and faithful Jael! Who would have thought that your whims take one day a real form? However, the marriage of Mr. Sevigne with this intriguing ... in the city of V ... was the least of our worries. He was drunk! This grotesque contract is worthless. No. The worst is that his drunkenness has revealed his impulsive nature, so he squandered the fortune of his ogress ... but the dowry of his lawful wife and a huge part of his fortune. Cursed be the devil's game! It was soon riddled with debt. Once sober, he believed enough in law to annul her marriage contract and ready to return at his home. It was not counting the letter of that odious woman and avenging his lawyers. Dear Justin! He had assumed that his high rank in the army of Bonaparte would guarantee a certain immunity against low blows and justice. Alas! the debts of our dear lieutenant are also those of his family.
Since we have not heard from my brother. By cons, we will soon usher in the new. The need to protect my sister and her children the spectacle of disgrace us to pack our bags as quickly as possible, without omitting the only valuable property belonging to them yet. You're probably wondering what will happen to Mrs. Sevigne the stepmother of my sister? Given that this holy woman is very attached to her daughter and her in-laws, we give Him his kindness by taking him with us at home. That is why we meet at last, meine Freundin! Understand: the good bourgeois of Alsace is a widow for quite some time. Do you not I told? She looks forward to disinherit his son if the latter never deigned to give much sign of life.
I embrace you and put an end to this match, since we see each other soon. Rehash the painful events of the last time I was exhausted. Auf Wiedersehen! Your
Amelie
PS My dear nephew and my dear niece
like to kiss you tenderly, although they
you have ever seen.
Are not they cute?
Where-men-like-to-touch
Istanbul, Turkey
On May 15, 1966
Hi, brother!
I set foot on Turkish soil with as much bias in my luggage that my bags themselves! Gradually, my stay there was responsible for breaking my preconceptions about these and the Levantine countries austere.
So many wonders, I saw Turkey! It is a country where beauty, as cruel as its inhabitants sometimes you tear out the same emotions at the heart cry of a admiraton that fails to emerge. Cappadocia, Lake Van, the Anatolian plateau ... A surreal nature: sometimes wild, sometimes subdued with finesse.
Did I tell you that I am awakened by the muezzin in Istanbul? The call to prayer has even surpassed my alarm clock. But I was not troubled: these songs have a tinge of melancholy. Melancholy, a prayer? I can easily guess your laughter when reading this letter. I know how my tendency to romanticize any aspect of life, t'exaspère. Later, during the visit of the town, my guide introduced me to an evening of poetry and folk songs in a cafe. Fairly new to the Turkish language, I did translate the poems and songs whose sound kept my attention. Basir, my guide, was loaned to the year with great pleasure. Many rang pleasantly in the ear, both by words as by the pace. I found these to a scent of antiquity. The rich and tumultuous history of ancient Constantinople must surely get a grip on its people.
Earlier, during my trip on a donkey in the desert plains of Pamukale, our fitted was mobbed by a crowd of Kurdish children. These youngsters were thrown at us without any shame or distrust us to our place to beg for every little trinket at hand. I offered the little beggars a notebook and some pencils to bother with me more than they were for. I caught the eye in a flash of joy when I asked them how they were going and how old they were in their mother tongue. One European who knows the Kurd?! And condescending to talk to them?
I would write you more about this wonderful expedition, but I am weary easily. You see, digestive discomfort me bedridden. Dinner yesterday, as luscious as it is, very wrong and I spent a sleepless night, sick as a dog. Do not worry about me: I feel much better, but I miss the rest ... even the most gifted natures have weak points. My weakness, for example, that the flavors of the world. You yourself know how I can be greedy!
with this letter you will find some photographs and postcards. And a recommendation: come join me! Join me around the world will only be more fun with my best friend. Despite your apparent confidence, I know you have not yet submitted your separation with Gisele (after nineteen years together). I find your last words in a bitter taste. Go out to you, old man! Travel! Meet other people! It's gonna change your mind, believe in a veteran divorce. This was my final offer. Basically, you know what you have to do at your age. I'll miss you anyway if you do not come.
you later, eternal accomplice of rainy days and happy!
George
Nathalie Benoit,
On July 22, 2003
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The Selenites
The Paris February 17, 1873
I am writing to reassure you. I doubt that you worry about me. But to tell you frankly, I do not understand why you complain about my long silence, my "wild stories". It is obvious that you're laughing at me.
I do not ask you to understand me and even less of me believe. But you're the only person whom I trust. You alone are worthy of trust because I know you would not think a minute to myself locked. I always defer to you and only you.
is again because of the Selenite. Yes yes, them again! I managed to have a meeting with their king's chamberlain. However, since I myself have a hard time convincing me to leave their world and regain my own, how then convince them to let me go? I therefore wrote my own little list of "pros" and "cons" - the "cons" of course being that the world to which I belong I'm missing. I miss you too, I am neither unfair nor ungrateful. And yet, the list of reasons to stay among the people of the moon goes far beyond the reasons for leaving.
However, Selenites me so welcome among them and I have forged solid relationships ... well, I met the perfect man (my husband). And what better place is there, otherwise it --- to start a family? The moon is a place rich and prosperous. Their unique silks put East to the bankruptcy, even as the blue glow of these fabrics would fade Pierrot himself envy. Evenings, dances, fairs, costume parties ... my house and my hammock between two willows ... really, you want me to be so happy? Who would not want a life like mine?
I forbid you to call me a dreamer, my MV ...! You're not one to lecture me on the imagination of some women too: one has only to read what you publish. This lunar
people is also true that people around me. The moon, I also visited many times. I have been so often criticized. That's why I have elected domicile is my world and no one can drive me.
Contrary to what one might think the moon is not so far. I have only my elbows on the window and look up the sky. I even see my friends up there, make me sign. With that, I leave you, for fear of boring you to death. I embrace you, my dear Jules and order you not to worry if I do not answer when you knock on my door. Although
tenderly
Sandrine
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A moose in downtown
(Mtl, PC) Yesterday evening, Montrealers have been the surprise of their lives when in rush hour, a moose escaped from a traveling zoo at the Old Port of Montreal emerges in full jam on Notre Dame. The animal, apparently disoriented, has tacked between many vehicles locked bumper to bumper, but has caused little Degas. With the help of local police and wildlife officials, officials of the massive beast of six hundred pounds have identified and controlled using a dart gun tranquilizer.
********************************************* ***************** How curious
forest! Trees have many strange forms "and they do not move in the wind. As ants are huge and they move without legs! The only quadrupeds here look nothing like my brothers and friends of the undergrowth, where are the moose, deer, hares and bears? Have I been the victim of a hunter? Am I dead? Although fascinating, this beyond wild animals would hardly seems inviting. It's noisy, dirty, dull, full of humans, birds are rude and the air is stifling. I'm outta here! But what do I see in the distance? A mountain, topped by a strange human structure? Perhaps it is the "Eternal Mountain" where my parents, brothers and cousins waited for the last major crossing Lake family.
Perhaps-who knows-the hostile place where I find myself is that purgatory moose, to test my fortitude on the road to paradise. I'll show them what I can do! I go through this ordeal with dignity, like a real man, not as a young buck, still unable to mark his territory without taking the antlers in the branches. My destination does not seem so far away. I shall succeed if I can sneak in without me problems between the giant ants and trees without life. Here, my neck and bites me ... who are these two bipedal steps from me?
- We got the guy, "exclaimed a man!
- Yes yes, we have located the moose on the corner of St-urban and Notre Dame, announced the other on a radio transmitter. You can bring the vehicle, he will not go away with the tranquilizer.
Oh no, the men caught up with me! I'm trying my luck to the Sacred Mountain ... if I could get rid of this numbness ... the strange sensation of well-being ...
Once Goliath, moose tame a wild animal shelter was installed in the truck, drivers stuck in the traffic jam began again to breathe and workers who witnessed this scene unusual, returned to work. Of course, the spectacular escape of the animal at the center was THE topic of conversation in recent days and had made headlines throughout Quebec. The whole province was the scent of adventure and speculation was rife on this adventure.
Meanwhile, shelter, Goliath had regained consciousness and recognized with amazement tinged with joy the trees, plants, the woodland, wetland and ferns from its natural environment.
- All this was it only a dream? Have I imagined all this, he wondered? He then began to sniff the air with delight full of chlorophyll and the smell of pine and eventually concluded that, in dreams or in reality, the mysterious world of humans was not for moose.
Nathalie Benoit
The October 14, 2003
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Poor Zina
Gracious, proud, tall and slender in his coat Amazon, Zenaida Vladimirovna whip his gray mare. Sonia, though still young, responded obediently to the commands of his rider. Far from the plains of his native Ukraine, however, appreciate these Zina knew Payage countryside of Russia, his second homeland. His father was a boyar, attached to the brother of the Tsar. And it was to thank Vladimir Borisovich that worthy member of the imperial family had offered a luxurious dacha located a few miles from Moscow, a plethora of serfs in his service. In a surprisingly mild for a Russian nobleman, Vladimir manage staff knew of his property with firmness, without having to use too knout its peasants.
12 years old, the young squire Zina followed like a shadow. Ensuring that "Mademoiselle" did not fall, the young man s'aquittait his task with great zeal. Son of the steward of Boyard, Vika saw his mistress as his only family. The steward Oleg often seemed unaware that he had a son since the death of his wife he loved very little elsewhere. Zenaida only cared about this child, who had a fondness for the sickly young nobleman. Riding briskly
its proud Sonia, Zina let his mind drift to a handsome young man with the gentle name of Alexei Ivanovich. Member of the prestigious body of the pages in Yekaterinburg, Alexei was the very image of romantic hero tales of his golden childhood. Barely bigger than his admirer, Alexei was slender, but had broad shoulders. His face was endorsement, punctuated by a playful and mischievous eyes, green as the Ukrainian steppe in the spring. Even his mouth, smiling at the corners, and was mocking her blonde-red pigmentation, eyelash hair, to give it that finished look of a man-child. But this set was so smooth that he enjoyed great popularity among young girls. Zenaida was irresistibly attracted to him. Was it love? Zenaida mingled coquetry and love it? Who, of all her suitors was really sincere in his speeches of eternal love? But Alexei Ivanovich
was like no other. Confident, straight, always even-tempered and too clever with the horses a centaur, he exercised a fascination on the maiden herself could not explain.
Alas, dear Aliosha have been little more than a chimera, since Zenaida Vladimirovna was already promised to another man. His father had betrothed to a rich and distant cousin, Yuri Sergeyevich. Contract that benefited more than the father's daughter. That's what she found, this afternoon, with bitterness. This repulsive Yuri was not even the last of his choice, even if the survival of the planet would have depended. He was a paunchy and oozing earthworm, small piggy eyes and lustful. His mouth unveiled a teething aqueous unsightly and reeked reeks of fermented meat and bread and butter. His broad, flattened nose did not help his ugly face. And besides, it was a pretty confused that "elegance "With" excessive ". To camouflage his nails improperly cleaned, he adorned his fingers big heavy rings set with precious stones. He announced his presence with the fragrance of his mother, he carried to excess. And since she began thinking over his future stepmother, the heart of the beautiful sank further. Cantankerous and possessive, Madame Adelaide was confident until the blindness that the world had to bow down to his son. Yuri It simmering with so little restraint that the good society, all of which were members, had difficulty hiding his pity and contempt for them.
Zina shiver of horror and drove his head this sinister individual once and for all. The wedding date was still far and it could even think of a way to escape this impasse, even should she throw herself into the Volga! Imagine full marital duties with this snail pestilenciel, blowing like a seal on it, the poor girl enough to want to end his days.
But if she ran, where would she go? Alexei to his fine? She was not even sure if he remembered her from the last ball of the winter when they had committed a brief conversation. She must go as far possible so that it is neither recognized nor identified. In Poland, Aunt Olenka? Impossible. It was so attached to her brother, she would have ratted thinking to do well. Too bad! Zenaida would have no choice but to seek refuge among the Gypsies. They teach him the violin as she had secretly wanted to play: in their own way. There she would be truly free. But what would happen to Vika, if she put her plan into action? She took her with him, nobody would notice anyway its absence. It would raise horses and use the whip. Then the voice again child of his protege's left his dreams of running away. He warned that the dinner hour approached. Especially as master Vladimir was a stickler for punctuality.
a sigh, beautiful Zina ordered a half-flip to his mare. She knew that when she put one foot in the family dacha, his desire to fly fly away in smoke. She was too conscious of her submissive nature towards his parents and his disgust to displease his father. This sign of providence she waited for the issue of his cruel fate had not arrived and probably would ever.
Its future-as its end-face was so dark, she felt stifled, oppressed under the weight of filial duty which it had never failed (or was it just a sky so heavy that the whole day announced that a storm did not arrive?). The young woman had always done what was required of her. But join with Yuri, was beyond his strength.
Finally, the thunder rumbled. Not wanting to be soaked by the rain, Zenaida urged his mount to break from trot to canter. In the distance, his father was waiting on the pitch the door. Suddenly an obstacle Sugita of the driveway and cedar came to place on his route. A motley caravan, stood in the way of two walkers, astonished at such events. Two men got out and brought down the heiress of horse gently, without sudden movements. The response was so fast anyway that neither Zenaida nor Vika had time to intervene. But when the robbers drove his mistress in the trailer, without resistance on her part, Vika struggled vehemently against those who detained him against his will. He screamed all the expletives as he could learn coachmen and grooms. Flying, a woman of fierce beauty waiting for his accomplices, the reins in the hands ready to leave at the slightest sign of danger. His face was impassive, his expression was steady, his eyes reflected the ruse and authority. But she did not seem menacing. A gypsy, a real one! She spoke to her in Romany hostage without worrying whether it was included or not. Zenaida's heart pounded his chest. Excitement or dread? Difficult to determine.
With the consent of the mysterious driver of trailer, the daughter of Vladimir Borisovich approached his squire gently took her shoulders and whispered in his ear words that seemed to reassure him. And together, they indulged themselves to their captors, watched aghast, idigné helplessly the boyar who had attended the scene of his property. Everything happened so fast! It was too late to go to the rescue
No one knew what happened to Zenaida Vladimirovna thereafter. It is hoped that these gypsies were somehow the issue as she had hoped. His father sent thousands of men looking for him but in vain. He sank into despair and the game until it finds a semblance of peace in a monastery in Smolensk.
The end
Nathalie Benoit
The February 28, 2001
Sunday, December 12, 2010
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L a locomotive arrives in swimming across the city rustling. In a deep trench, houses on both banks, full of light living ... We threw the bundle on the wharf, a hundred meters before the canopy in the grinding of irons. Before cutting the rails, along the railway square in the laundry of the week, to the brakeman that Kerouac charring his sketches, his long chorus syncope with black borders books.
Under magic stars straddling the darkness over the earth rail , was elected to celestial brother, Jack, the tireless drummer ink. We got on the road, so when typing in each band of wandering landscape derails in twelve steps, each face nailed his blues riff. A devil of a place this referral when life returns to the snow's not lost. This end of the roll of the world and all its trembling that poetically named everything.
excerpts from Jack Kerouac's "Book of sketches" Lucien Suel translation published in The Round Table in Spring
Saturday, December 4, 2010
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On est à des milliers d'asa, cherchant un peu de fraicheur. Quand l'œil tombe sur la matière éclairée de ses seuls grains de beauté, l'épiderme du monde. Alors on reste dans l'ombre buvant cette musique, avec la seule envie de prolonger ce vertige jusqu'au violet du spectre.
Ceci n'est pas une fenêtre du quattrocento ni l'ailleurs d'une cimaise. Ceci n'est pas la respiration fluide d'un Rothko ni le frémissement a pattern. This is the breakthrough fugitive red and blue stained glass. Caressing the materiality of a painting of the sun. now light a piece of the universe.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
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It snowed. And it is always, first as a scree miraculous. An event that rocks the reality in the imagination. Despite its regular occurrence, it preserves its extraordinary quality. It becomes a phenomenon that transcends sudden existence.
It snowed. And the eye feels unlikely that materiality is lost in space without tags. Do not know how to fold his clothes because it at once so fresh and so hot the skin to the heart. He chose to give this abstraction the spiritual dimension of an array.
It snowed. The eye and listens silently picked up in the form of woolly trees. Music calligraphic passerine surprised. It does not really know what color to give this light that the stares. It applies to this great book to follow his white eyes of a child.
It snowed. And it is always, first, as a sweet wrapped up. A white mêlement that transforms reality into emotion. A collection of landscape which removes color noise to let us singing.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Building Lobster Boat
And we, with what remains of speech, at the foot of a mountain of shoes? To approach the unspeakable. To confuse the animal in the same skin as our skin. To think the same flesh, the torturer might have called our brother on earth, with the same human form. And we, with the same bag of guts before history that goes back to Cambodia bodies in Bosnia or Rwanda. Before this time rusty. There are
facing me, eyes round, and I find myself suddenly in that glance of fear: fear their ... We are faced Jorge Semprun. Before this faceless, returning from the trip at the end of absolute evil. It is with some chalk to line the boards of the barracks, these car freight trains that ran as slow to gray on the dead face of Europe ? With a few words out to make this time indelible .
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Reptiles Respiration Cold
Rather than this picture of a landscape, our eyes quickly drugged by their plumage album, still too melodic for our false notes at the bottom too overexposed by their paint swatches. Often too good for our linen box.
magnetic Rather this corner of a cafe, this small theater seasons humanities. This little piece of Eden thunes two cons a small train to hell. Bifurcation aperitif in the smoking compartment of a percolator.
was once one remembers a stroll in the sizzling colors, the clarity of a knee loving us round to an earthquake lights. It was a time in the odor of an avenue of grass still wet.
We have entered leaving a backwash of chairs in polished wood voice red card players, the thud of young fists on the table, the phosphorescence of copper abouchées lips now a merry band.
Rather paint this picture for a trip than a landscape, still pulling the tablecloth, the place of sponge bruises to the soul, this association with the clay men, a place that really helped from the portrait. Earlier this photo-stained black grapes.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
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L a red table was empty. This portfolio remained abandoned on the bench. This issue 90-60-90 scribbled page. The impression now less an oversight than pasting a piece of the puzzle. The feeling of having moved the black part of a huge chessboard. The red table was empty. Suddenly the place seemed to lean dangerously.
The red table was empty. Remained in this thriller carafe into the background. The slurry of a chill in the bones, an air free détimbrant the beautiful harmony. Printing a hitch détissant the quiet walk haphazardly. The feeling of being trapped in a strange spinning frame. The red table was empty. Suddenly the place seemed slyly close.
The red table was empty. Remained that book by John Le Carré. The underlined phrase a lip gloss: "Writing is like being in an empty house and watch for the appearance of ghosts. "
Friday, November 12, 2010
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smoke and screams. O what city bible saw Verlaine in other seventies machine to unwind the underground when he cribs with Rimba 34/35 Howland street, redoing the Commune in pubs in Leicester Square. The same révolvérisé later 178 Stamford Street with New Germain and his taste for strolling , his love for the streets, advertisements walls rouged color floods. The heart
crazy Robins onne through novels. That night ... you go to the dazzling cafes . O bible paper that wets in the vapors of malt, these imaginary lines of a constellation in the mist of time. O shock in our nights around London these new specters rolling through the thick coal smoke and eternal.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Incestos Italianos Gtatis
"We do not lose his time listening to his heart "A 98-year Mougin Julius died. This great figure of Art Brut, Dubuffet or Chaissac close friend of Giono Calaferte or just died. A painter, handyman, this proletarian rebel, anti -militarist visceral Chemellier had lived long in a house on troglodyte caves which he had adorned the walls before retiring in Rognes. Former factor he has published thirty books, including The Great Halourde, The heartache , quantity of poems and letters.
"He did it with the words of the French language that the Cheval made with stones," said one of his friends Claude Billon.
" Today, I think, is the anniversary
the death of my father. In 1922, May 22
In that time, all TB patients died.
They "went" to the end.
To the last crumb of their lungs.
I saw.
I can still hear the deep cough.
my father's eyes were huge. The
death, what then?
Each of us walking on the road, always accompanied
.
Because there will always be right
life and left his shadow
so-called "death".
We must love one another and understand
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
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In 1995, the book festival de Montaigu, we had with Michael, who came to "Extending the field of battle" , spoken poetry and Aubrac. Every year he left for the festival of transhumance ... In the bleating flock of microphones, after goncourt I see him in his black sheepskin.
poem taken from "The Skin" on collages Sarah Wiame
Monday, November 8, 2010
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We are in the skin of the eye, the colors scraped into the night blast. It is after a painting trip. In a place worn with pleasure. We do not know where to take the view that great leap into the void now depreciated by the wings of the brush. We put her head against the cool tile.
We do not always know what is expected of a wharf, a jump anthrax, a sky that washes down the shades. We know we are moving from melancholy. We will move chills unearthed in the flesh of a room. The songs are mornings that give ants the heart. We
not always know what is expected of a breach, a fabulous drift, a new heaven to walk on our legs. Sometimes they take us to a table. In a polychrome molt. Simply enjoy the time before the fall of a naked light as to the origin of the world.