This is it. My apartment is empty and there is an echo in the living room when I type. I closed the bills, took my name off the mailbox, threw some clothes in a couple of suitcases and handed my Belgian ID card back to the city of Ixelles. I am waiting for the expert to come and check how much damage I managed to do in the the 357 days that I called this place my own. In a few hours, I'll be in the Eurostar back to London and soon will begin to fret over the search for a new home, surrounded by people I love.
It was the shortest of years, it was the longest of years. There won't be anything to miss, with one notable exception: long, spumante-fuelled and zabaglione punctuated lunches at Luca's. The memories there, I can honestly say, were my only happy ones in Belgium.
I haven't decided what to do with this blog yet. I may just keep it and use it as a reminder that home is always where the heart is. Or I may re-title it and go on with my adventures in London.
In any case, this is another closed chapter. Adieu, but not without adding one of the most underrated of Jeff Buckley's songs.
Friday, December 14, 2007
Sunday, December 9, 2007
Ayed's eyes
I win. It’s all done and signed. London is waiting for me. I’m going home.
“Welcome back to your real life,” Brussels seems to say. “Here’s some work and here’s a bit of feeling ill, enough to tie you to your bed for the weekend. It’s going to absolutely suck.” I smile. I’m alive again. Ayed’s eyes are golden and I am going home.
Ayed is a nineteen-year-old Bedouin from a tribe that settled a few decades ago in the outskirts of the Wadi Rum desert. I met him while unsaddling Assaf, my stallion for the trip. He explained to me in his disarmingly broken English that Assaf was a ticklish pain in the ass. Assaf – my white Sandstorm – sings, runs, chases mares and bites when a human being tries to brush him. He is so loveable otherwise. But no, it wasn’t a good idea to try and get him ready on my own.
So every morning, noon and night, gorgeous Ayed came to help. He wouldn’t let me carry the bucket of water to my horse unless I put up a fight. He figured it was an exploit for a teeny person like me to carry heavy buckets while walking in soft sand for distances that had to be long (you don’t keep a stallion near the rest of the herd lest he try to untie himself and mount every mare in heat or kick every other male he finds). I did put up a fight every single time, Assaf was thirsty and I wanted him to like me as much as I liked him. “Assaf, he go fat,” Ayed would exclaim, helping me saddle him after a decadent lunch. Assaf, you fat bastard, you high-maintenance stallion, thank you. Because every day, in the desert light, Ayed’s eyes were golden.
My “tentmate” Nathalie and I would try to set up camp in places protected from the wind and with as few rocks as possible. Quietly, I would lobby for a spot close to my horse. Assaf would wake all of us up at 5:30, when the first rays of sun hit the sandy plains. Every morning at 5:30, I would fake a whine and a moan, all happy and tangled up in my sleeping bag: "Not getting up. Assaf, shut it."
All day long, I rode and whispered to him (thinking Robert Redford might've had a point). Asked him to trot, canter or slow down, negotiated with him so we would both feel comfortable, getting his ears to stay where I could see them and his teeth away from other horses' asses. All of me focused, intent, all of him listening, even when he pretended not to.
From time to time, I’d look up and watch Jef tell the others about the geological formations and the first people who lived there. Someone, maybe me, would launch into a song. Soon everyone would join in.
After a few hours, we’d meet the other half of the group and Federico would crack jokes while his lovely Maddalena and the rest of us rolled in the sand laughing. We would giggle like a bunch of school kids when Faleh, the other guide, ordered us to "listen to the silence." We would nod emphatically when his older brother Mufleh would dismiss “complicated people” with an impatient huff. At 5pm, as the darkness came, we would gather around the fire to drink hot, sweet sage tea. And that became our definition of comfort.
I lost my camera on the second day. Mufleh took me in his jeep and we drove on our trails. Mufleh made me relive my day just by looking at the animal tracks: “Here, you saw goats. Here, you walked. You stopped here. The canter was there.” After a two-hour, unfruitful search, he decided it was my turn to take the wheel. There I was, driving a 4x4 in the middle of the moonlit desert, next to a Bedouin who would not stop taking the piss:
- Mufleh, for crying out loud, where am I going???”
- I don’t know, Saudi border?” he said, laughing his ass off.
- Mufleh, you're freaking me out.”
- I don’t know, maybe turn left? Oh look, there is shooting star.”
- A shooting star! Gotta make a wish!”
- Ok, I make wish.”
- Is this a tradition for Bedouins too? Make wishes when you see shooting stars?”
- Nah, that is tourist thing.”
By then, I’d forgotten all about my camera. Later, I realized that it turned out to be the best thing that could’ve happened. There's something about keeping your camera at hand that makes you feel like a spectator. All of a sudden, I was free to just enjoy.
It worked. Two weeks later, as I prepare to leave this God-forsaken town, my mind's still filled with all that gold in Ayed's eyes.
“Welcome back to your real life,” Brussels seems to say. “Here’s some work and here’s a bit of feeling ill, enough to tie you to your bed for the weekend. It’s going to absolutely suck.” I smile. I’m alive again. Ayed’s eyes are golden and I am going home.
Ayed is a nineteen-year-old Bedouin from a tribe that settled a few decades ago in the outskirts of the Wadi Rum desert. I met him while unsaddling Assaf, my stallion for the trip. He explained to me in his disarmingly broken English that Assaf was a ticklish pain in the ass. Assaf – my white Sandstorm – sings, runs, chases mares and bites when a human being tries to brush him. He is so loveable otherwise. But no, it wasn’t a good idea to try and get him ready on my own.
So every morning, noon and night, gorgeous Ayed came to help. He wouldn’t let me carry the bucket of water to my horse unless I put up a fight. He figured it was an exploit for a teeny person like me to carry heavy buckets while walking in soft sand for distances that had to be long (you don’t keep a stallion near the rest of the herd lest he try to untie himself and mount every mare in heat or kick every other male he finds). I did put up a fight every single time, Assaf was thirsty and I wanted him to like me as much as I liked him. “Assaf, he go fat,” Ayed would exclaim, helping me saddle him after a decadent lunch. Assaf, you fat bastard, you high-maintenance stallion, thank you. Because every day, in the desert light, Ayed’s eyes were golden.
My “tentmate” Nathalie and I would try to set up camp in places protected from the wind and with as few rocks as possible. Quietly, I would lobby for a spot close to my horse. Assaf would wake all of us up at 5:30, when the first rays of sun hit the sandy plains. Every morning at 5:30, I would fake a whine and a moan, all happy and tangled up in my sleeping bag: "Not getting up. Assaf, shut it."
All day long, I rode and whispered to him (thinking Robert Redford might've had a point). Asked him to trot, canter or slow down, negotiated with him so we would both feel comfortable, getting his ears to stay where I could see them and his teeth away from other horses' asses. All of me focused, intent, all of him listening, even when he pretended not to.
From time to time, I’d look up and watch Jef tell the others about the geological formations and the first people who lived there. Someone, maybe me, would launch into a song. Soon everyone would join in.
After a few hours, we’d meet the other half of the group and Federico would crack jokes while his lovely Maddalena and the rest of us rolled in the sand laughing. We would giggle like a bunch of school kids when Faleh, the other guide, ordered us to "listen to the silence." We would nod emphatically when his older brother Mufleh would dismiss “complicated people” with an impatient huff. At 5pm, as the darkness came, we would gather around the fire to drink hot, sweet sage tea. And that became our definition of comfort.
I lost my camera on the second day. Mufleh took me in his jeep and we drove on our trails. Mufleh made me relive my day just by looking at the animal tracks: “Here, you saw goats. Here, you walked. You stopped here. The canter was there.” After a two-hour, unfruitful search, he decided it was my turn to take the wheel. There I was, driving a 4x4 in the middle of the moonlit desert, next to a Bedouin who would not stop taking the piss:
- Mufleh, for crying out loud, where am I going???”
- I don’t know, Saudi border?” he said, laughing his ass off.
- Mufleh, you're freaking me out.”
- I don’t know, maybe turn left? Oh look, there is shooting star.”
- A shooting star! Gotta make a wish!”
- Ok, I make wish.”
- Is this a tradition for Bedouins too? Make wishes when you see shooting stars?”
- Nah, that is tourist thing.”
By then, I’d forgotten all about my camera. Later, I realized that it turned out to be the best thing that could’ve happened. There's something about keeping your camera at hand that makes you feel like a spectator. All of a sudden, I was free to just enjoy.
It worked. Two weeks later, as I prepare to leave this God-forsaken town, my mind's still filled with all that gold in Ayed's eyes.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
Another Eve in the apple
The thing about my life: it's full of surprises.
In the most unexpected turn of events, I had to get on the first plane to New York yesterday morning. It's been barely more than 24 hours, but here's a quick list of the notable things:
1/ How quickly I went through immigration. Last time, in September 2005, the conversation went like this:
- Where are you coming from?"
- London."
- You're French."
- Yep."
- Born in..."
- Abu Dhabi."
She pauses. I smile my most innocent smile.
- When was the last time you were in the United States?"
- 2001."
- Which month?"
- September."
She looks up. Stares at me as if I'm doing it on purpose. Bigger smile.
- Put your right finger there."
- ...
- ...
- What's going on?"
- I, er... Wrinkly fingers you see. Hyperhydrosis. One percent of the population..."
- Wait here, please."
She didn't seem that comfortable handing me my passport. Thankfully this time, the guy had better things to do than background checks on small four-eyed girls.
2/ The hilarious hotel my company put me in. W is the Starwood brand of boutique hotels - meaning designer places with lounge music in the lobby, elevators, rooms and people wandering in the hallways acting superhumanly cool. For some reason I've had to stay in a few boutique hotels this year: Hôtel Duo in Paris, Gallery Hotel Art in Florence, The Zetter and The Great Eastern in London. All different... All perfectly identical. Notice the recurrent "W" theme on this one...
Having said this, and as hard as I am to impress, this one has me with a big grin on my face. My room (probably "just" a Wonderful, as opposed to the Fantastic, Fabulous, Spectacular and Extreme Wow suites) is a corner room on the 42nd floor with view on the river.
3/ The blissful Bliss Spa line of soaps and lotions with the coolissimo retro design of a supermarket brand that leave my face smelling of bubble gum and the skin on my elbows and knees smooth like a baby's bottom. All this carried by the hotel and renewed... Everyday.
4/ HBO in the room AND a full DVD library!
5/ The memory of myself as an eleven-year old girl, at the bottom of a building here in New York, clowning around with my folks, making them laugh as I pictured myself as self-important business woman who would travel the world with a briefcase and a suit. There I was yesterday, on my way to the office straight from the airport, driving by that same building, on a business trip, without the briefcase or the suit. Thinking, damn. I'm someone I once imagined I'd become.
In the most unexpected turn of events, I had to get on the first plane to New York yesterday morning. It's been barely more than 24 hours, but here's a quick list of the notable things:
1/ How quickly I went through immigration. Last time, in September 2005, the conversation went like this:
- Where are you coming from?"
- London."
- You're French."
- Yep."
- Born in..."
- Abu Dhabi."
She pauses. I smile my most innocent smile.
- When was the last time you were in the United States?"
- 2001."
- Which month?"
- September."
She looks up. Stares at me as if I'm doing it on purpose. Bigger smile.
- Put your right finger there."
- ...
- ...
- What's going on?"
- I, er... Wrinkly fingers you see. Hyperhydrosis. One percent of the population..."
- Wait here, please."
She didn't seem that comfortable handing me my passport. Thankfully this time, the guy had better things to do than background checks on small four-eyed girls.
2/ The hilarious hotel my company put me in. W is the Starwood brand of boutique hotels - meaning designer places with lounge music in the lobby, elevators, rooms and people wandering in the hallways acting superhumanly cool. For some reason I've had to stay in a few boutique hotels this year: Hôtel Duo in Paris, Gallery Hotel Art in Florence, The Zetter and The Great Eastern in London. All different... All perfectly identical. Notice the recurrent "W" theme on this one...
Having said this, and as hard as I am to impress, this one has me with a big grin on my face. My room (probably "just" a Wonderful, as opposed to the Fantastic, Fabulous, Spectacular and Extreme Wow suites) is a corner room on the 42nd floor with view on the river.
3/ The blissful Bliss Spa line of soaps and lotions with the coolissimo retro design of a supermarket brand that leave my face smelling of bubble gum and the skin on my elbows and knees smooth like a baby's bottom. All this carried by the hotel and renewed... Everyday.
4/ HBO in the room AND a full DVD library!
5/ The memory of myself as an eleven-year old girl, at the bottom of a building here in New York, clowning around with my folks, making them laugh as I pictured myself as self-important business woman who would travel the world with a briefcase and a suit. There I was yesterday, on my way to the office straight from the airport, driving by that same building, on a business trip, without the briefcase or the suit. Thinking, damn. I'm someone I once imagined I'd become.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Two months and a few pictures
A squaw in Hyde Park.
Poppet's (I'm Poppet).
Zulu baskets in electrical wires. Wonder what percentage of the 35 euros they make.
Shibboleth.
Sisters.
Poppet's (I'm Poppet).
Zulu baskets in electrical wires. Wonder what percentage of the 35 euros they make.
Shibboleth.
Sisters.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
The demands of distance
This is an attempt to give an answer to those who are wondering and/or complaining about my long silences on this blog.
Sooner or later I'll be forced to change its title or simply drop it for good, as it's slowly losing its reason to exist. I've been working in London since the beginning of September and just got back this week. The signal's pretty clear. A definite return is imminent.
No, I've not warmed up to this lovely town. It was partly circumstantial, mostly deliberate. On top of having made no effort whatsoever to become acquainted with its people, customs or traditions, I was hardly ever here, traveling for work or... for work. I am simply not interested. At all. No, really. Unapologetically so, at the risk of upsetting all open-minded and relativists out there. Anything that will get me out of here, I will be grateful for. Time to put an end to this misery.
And so miserable and stranded I will be no longer. While this historical mistake of a country disintegrates, I will be preparing my return. Whether by an act of the corporate god or sheer self-determination, I am leaving and not looking back.
Belgians and Belgium lovers, I urge you to not take offense. This is me not making excuses and not pretending to feel otherwise. Brussels is perhaps a city with a gray, dull façade which hides a gem-like heart and, unlike London, doesn't throw itself at complete strangers with reckless abandon. As I said, maybe it's just me, maybe I like them easy. In any case... I'll soon be gone.
Before I do so, however, I'll be flying to Jordan on November 16th for a 10-day excursion in Ammam, Petra, and the Wadi Rum desert from the back of a horse.
More on this very soon.
Sooner or later I'll be forced to change its title or simply drop it for good, as it's slowly losing its reason to exist. I've been working in London since the beginning of September and just got back this week. The signal's pretty clear. A definite return is imminent.
No, I've not warmed up to this lovely town. It was partly circumstantial, mostly deliberate. On top of having made no effort whatsoever to become acquainted with its people, customs or traditions, I was hardly ever here, traveling for work or... for work. I am simply not interested. At all. No, really. Unapologetically so, at the risk of upsetting all open-minded and relativists out there. Anything that will get me out of here, I will be grateful for. Time to put an end to this misery.
And so miserable and stranded I will be no longer. While this historical mistake of a country disintegrates, I will be preparing my return. Whether by an act of the corporate god or sheer self-determination, I am leaving and not looking back.
Belgians and Belgium lovers, I urge you to not take offense. This is me not making excuses and not pretending to feel otherwise. Brussels is perhaps a city with a gray, dull façade which hides a gem-like heart and, unlike London, doesn't throw itself at complete strangers with reckless abandon. As I said, maybe it's just me, maybe I like them easy. In any case... I'll soon be gone.
Before I do so, however, I'll be flying to Jordan on November 16th for a 10-day excursion in Ammam, Petra, and the Wadi Rum desert from the back of a horse.
More on this very soon.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
Review of a non-life, part II
Everyone knows that the heart of Turkey beats on the Bosphorus Strait, in the busy streets of Istanbul. Ah, Istanbul, Gateway to the East, Istanbul and its 10 million (10 million!) inhabitants, its Great Mosque, its Grand Bazar and its Manhattan-like area code (212).
As luck and work would have it, however, on Thursday, July 19th, I landed in the hills of Central Anatolia. Ankara, political and artificial capital and eternal home to late ruler Mustafa Kemal Atatürk, was slowly falling prey to the dark. The long cab ride to the hotel didn't give me much to hope for. The mausoleum, unmistakably recognizable from the sky, even to the untrained eye, wasn't enough to make me look forward to my stay there.
I was excited, though. I wasn't there to be a tourist. I knew was about to be witness to a crucial moment in Turkey's politics.
So there I am, checking in the hotel and trying to get my laptop to function. It's 2 a.m. and I'm finally getting somewhere. I'm up early the next day to get some work done. In typical teacher's daughter fashion, I order a "Traditional Turkish Breakfast." Turkish tea (blacker and stronger than the blackest and strongest of English teas), fried eggs, bread, tomatoes, olives (olives!) and this smell... Oh sweet Baby Jesus... The smell of the goat cheese on my tray... It's more than my sleep-deprived organism and sensitive stomach can bear. As I stumble to the bathroom and shove my head down the toilet, I vow to stick to the pancakes. So much for open-mindedness.
Around noon, the city is relatively quiet under the scorching sun. As I step out for a quick break, a beautiful, sweet and almost chilling melody fills the air. It's the muezzin, calling for prayer. What a voice. Years since I had heard that. I was so little I don't even know how I could even have kept that memory. For the rest of my stay in Ankara, I'd stop and listen, every time.
I make time to visit the Mosque. At the entrance, I realize I left my scarf in the hotel room. I curse my forgetfulness and sneak in, hoping to observe and not get caught. It's about 30 seconds before the guard spots me. He walks towards me, gesturing, and drags me to a small cupboard. He chooses a pink, flowery scarf and wraps it around my head. There, woman. Now go. I go.
The Mosque is beautiful, the light flows in from all sides and the air is cool. The carpet is thick and soft under my feet. On the surrounding balconies, women are praying in small groups. Men are sitting in the main space, solitary and thoughtful. The serenity is palpable, it's all so inviting, I feel like spending the rest of the afternoon there.
But Atatürk awaits. His remains lie at the top of a hill, on military ground. Talk about worship... I won't go into it, but it does look like he both threw Turkey into modernity and traumatized it. He even "invented" a whole new alphabet...
He's been dead for 70 years, but his über-secularism is still causing mayhem in this Muslim country. He thought religion held the country back. As he put it himself:
The army still believes that it is its duty to preserve the secular principles of the Founder. In a public statement that eventually led the government to dissolve, it opposed Prime Minister Erdogan's choice for a president: a man whose wife wears a scarf in public. In a country where the military holds such political power, these early general elections turned out to be a true exercise in democracy.
And so the people spoke: they gave full legitimacy to a religion-friendly government who also made Turkey's economy one of the most attractive among emerging markets. Foreign investors applauded, civilians sang and danced as the military wavered from this giant slap in the face. A retired officer, interviewed by BBC World, called the event a "backward step."
All of this is fascinating, but have I mentioned my hamman experience? Not wanting to miss out, I let a young woman bathe me. I lay on the marble while she scrubbed me from head to toes, then soaped me up, washed my hair and rinsed me with warm water for the enormous marble sinks. She then took me to a room full of beds and I relaxed to the sound of a fountain and ate juicy pears to quench my thirst. Probably the most sensual half hour of my existence.
At Ankara's citadel, otherwise known as Ulus Kale, I bought two small kilims. I was incredibly proud of myself, until I decided to show them off and compare them to the one my colleague had bought in Istanbul. His contact there had a whole collection, all made by his grandmother, for her dowry. When she ran out of cotton, she went on with wool. It had so many colors and different threads. Mine, next to his, looked pathetic and soulless. Humiliation overcome, they are now bravely decorating my floors.
We left the hotel for the airport at 4 a.m. on Tuesday, July 24th, after a quiet evening at the bar. The barmaid, at our old timer's request, learnt how to make a Silver Bullet (Bombay Sapphire, a twist of lemon, an olive, three drops of dry Vermouth). She was also kind enough to recommend a nearby Turkish restaurant and sent us on our way with the sweetest of instructions.
As luck and work would have it, however, on Thursday, July 19th, I landed in the hills of Central Anatolia. Ankara, political and artificial capital and eternal home to late ruler Mustafa Kemal Atatürk, was slowly falling prey to the dark. The long cab ride to the hotel didn't give me much to hope for. The mausoleum, unmistakably recognizable from the sky, even to the untrained eye, wasn't enough to make me look forward to my stay there.
I was excited, though. I wasn't there to be a tourist. I knew was about to be witness to a crucial moment in Turkey's politics.
So there I am, checking in the hotel and trying to get my laptop to function. It's 2 a.m. and I'm finally getting somewhere. I'm up early the next day to get some work done. In typical teacher's daughter fashion, I order a "Traditional Turkish Breakfast." Turkish tea (blacker and stronger than the blackest and strongest of English teas), fried eggs, bread, tomatoes, olives (olives!) and this smell... Oh sweet Baby Jesus... The smell of the goat cheese on my tray... It's more than my sleep-deprived organism and sensitive stomach can bear. As I stumble to the bathroom and shove my head down the toilet, I vow to stick to the pancakes. So much for open-mindedness.
Around noon, the city is relatively quiet under the scorching sun. As I step out for a quick break, a beautiful, sweet and almost chilling melody fills the air. It's the muezzin, calling for prayer. What a voice. Years since I had heard that. I was so little I don't even know how I could even have kept that memory. For the rest of my stay in Ankara, I'd stop and listen, every time.
I make time to visit the Mosque. At the entrance, I realize I left my scarf in the hotel room. I curse my forgetfulness and sneak in, hoping to observe and not get caught. It's about 30 seconds before the guard spots me. He walks towards me, gesturing, and drags me to a small cupboard. He chooses a pink, flowery scarf and wraps it around my head. There, woman. Now go. I go.
The Mosque is beautiful, the light flows in from all sides and the air is cool. The carpet is thick and soft under my feet. On the surrounding balconies, women are praying in small groups. Men are sitting in the main space, solitary and thoughtful. The serenity is palpable, it's all so inviting, I feel like spending the rest of the afternoon there.
But Atatürk awaits. His remains lie at the top of a hill, on military ground. Talk about worship... I won't go into it, but it does look like he both threw Turkey into modernity and traumatized it. He even "invented" a whole new alphabet...
He's been dead for 70 years, but his über-secularism is still causing mayhem in this Muslim country. He thought religion held the country back. As he put it himself:
The army still believes that it is its duty to preserve the secular principles of the Founder. In a public statement that eventually led the government to dissolve, it opposed Prime Minister Erdogan's choice for a president: a man whose wife wears a scarf in public. In a country where the military holds such political power, these early general elections turned out to be a true exercise in democracy.
And so the people spoke: they gave full legitimacy to a religion-friendly government who also made Turkey's economy one of the most attractive among emerging markets. Foreign investors applauded, civilians sang and danced as the military wavered from this giant slap in the face. A retired officer, interviewed by BBC World, called the event a "backward step."
All of this is fascinating, but have I mentioned my hamman experience? Not wanting to miss out, I let a young woman bathe me. I lay on the marble while she scrubbed me from head to toes, then soaped me up, washed my hair and rinsed me with warm water for the enormous marble sinks. She then took me to a room full of beds and I relaxed to the sound of a fountain and ate juicy pears to quench my thirst. Probably the most sensual half hour of my existence.
At Ankara's citadel, otherwise known as Ulus Kale, I bought two small kilims. I was incredibly proud of myself, until I decided to show them off and compare them to the one my colleague had bought in Istanbul. His contact there had a whole collection, all made by his grandmother, for her dowry. When she ran out of cotton, she went on with wool. It had so many colors and different threads. Mine, next to his, looked pathetic and soulless. Humiliation overcome, they are now bravely decorating my floors.
We left the hotel for the airport at 4 a.m. on Tuesday, July 24th, after a quiet evening at the bar. The barmaid, at our old timer's request, learnt how to make a Silver Bullet (Bombay Sapphire, a twist of lemon, an olive, three drops of dry Vermouth). She was also kind enough to recommend a nearby Turkish restaurant and sent us on our way with the sweetest of instructions.
Sunday, August 5, 2007
Another point of view
It's blog-updating day. Just came across one of them well-angled pieces the NY Mag - among others - has a knack for. A couple of abstracts:
"For most of human history, erotic images have been reflections of, or celebrations of, or substitutes for, real naked women. For the first time in human history, the images’ power and allure have supplanted that of real naked women. Today, real naked women are just bad porn.
"When I came of age in the seventies, it was still pretty cool to be able to offer a young man the actual presence of a naked, willing young woman. There were more young men who wanted to be with naked women than there were naked women on the market. If there was nothing actively alarming about you, you could get a pretty enthusiastic response by just showing up. Your boyfriend may have seen Playboy, but hey, you could move, you were warm, you were real.
"Our younger sisters had to compete with video porn in the eighties and nineties, when intercourse was not hot enough. Now you have to offer—or flirtatiously suggest—the lesbian scene, the ejaculate-in-the-face scene. Being naked is not enough; you have to be buff, be tan with no tan lines, have the surgically hoisted breasts and the Brazilian bikini wax—just like porn stars. (In my gym, the 40-year-old women have adult pubic hair; the twentysomethings have all been trimmed and styled.) Pornography is addictive; the baseline gets ratcheted up. By the new millennium, a vagina—which, by the way, used to have a pretty high “exchange value,” as Marxist economists would say—wasn’t enough; it barely registered on the thrill scale. All mainstream porn—and certainly the Internet—made routine use of all available female orifices."
"For most of human history, erotic images have been reflections of, or celebrations of, or substitutes for, real naked women. For the first time in human history, the images’ power and allure have supplanted that of real naked women. Today, real naked women are just bad porn.
"When I came of age in the seventies, it was still pretty cool to be able to offer a young man the actual presence of a naked, willing young woman. There were more young men who wanted to be with naked women than there were naked women on the market. If there was nothing actively alarming about you, you could get a pretty enthusiastic response by just showing up. Your boyfriend may have seen Playboy, but hey, you could move, you were warm, you were real.
"Our younger sisters had to compete with video porn in the eighties and nineties, when intercourse was not hot enough. Now you have to offer—or flirtatiously suggest—the lesbian scene, the ejaculate-in-the-face scene. Being naked is not enough; you have to be buff, be tan with no tan lines, have the surgically hoisted breasts and the Brazilian bikini wax—just like porn stars. (In my gym, the 40-year-old women have adult pubic hair; the twentysomethings have all been trimmed and styled.) Pornography is addictive; the baseline gets ratcheted up. By the new millennium, a vagina—which, by the way, used to have a pretty high “exchange value,” as Marxist economists would say—wasn’t enough; it barely registered on the thrill scale. All mainstream porn—and certainly the Internet—made routine use of all available female orifices."
Bastille day in Gent
July 14, Bastille day. Train to Gent for the week-long festival. Music, beer, fries drowning in mayo. Miss Sly Stone at the Blue Note Festival. Miss Sean Lennon. Make it up with a tango class followed by a salsa class.
Admit that when it's sunny and you're drunk... And you're making new friends, you can have reasonable fun in Belgium.
Admit that when it's sunny and you're drunk... And you're making new friends, you can have reasonable fun in Belgium.
Review of a non-life, part I
I'd promised myself I'd never mention anything about what I do for a living in this blog. But the key thing about my life these days is that I have none. Or rather, that it is too inextricably linked with work. Where to begin, where to begin.
I could start by all the chapters I skipped this year... The G8, at Heiligendamm, maybe. Let's see... A quick copy/paste and a few snapshots should do it:
June 6th:
"I arrived at the G8 location. Plane to Hamburg, then train to Rostock, where I had to get off, because all tracks to Bad Doberan - last location before Heiligendamm, where the meetings are taking place - were blocked by the protesters with branches and trees. They did the same with all the principal roads.
They are incredibly organized, but so is the police. It's so militarized around here, I can't begin to tell you how weirded out the locals are. They'd never received so much attention.
June 7th:
"This is like the war. I'm being controlled at every corner, me on my bike. After dinner, as I was heading home, I took the gravel path across the fields. 2 barrages of polizei made me stop to inspect me last night and one this morning. Light on my face, identifying myself "accreditation, passport, ja ja, letter from landlady, I am staying there, danke, guten nacht und good luck..." Very nice guys in combat costume, holding my bike while I rummage through my bag trying to find the requested documents...
And all the while, above my head as I'm pedaling myself home, helicopters with lights checking the fields. On the ground, it's all i can do to avoid frogs and toads. which by the way, are really loud animals. I even saw a rabbit.
I could start by all the chapters I skipped this year... The G8, at Heiligendamm, maybe. Let's see... A quick copy/paste and a few snapshots should do it:
June 6th:
"I arrived at the G8 location. Plane to Hamburg, then train to Rostock, where I had to get off, because all tracks to Bad Doberan - last location before Heiligendamm, where the meetings are taking place - were blocked by the protesters with branches and trees. They did the same with all the principal roads.
They are incredibly organized, but so is the police. It's so militarized around here, I can't begin to tell you how weirded out the locals are. They'd never received so much attention.
After an 80-euro cab ride (the detours are enormous), I arrived at my destination. The location is unbelievably gorgeous. Heiligendamm is part of a series of spa towns on the Baltic Sea coast, all of which became famous at the end of the 19th century when some king made it fashionable to summer here, where the views are breathtaking and the weather unpredictable.
Because all the hotels were booked, I had to find myself a guest house, located about 1.5km away from the centre where I work.
Because all the hotels were booked, I had to find myself a guest house, located about 1.5km away from the centre where I work.
My transport means is a bike. A huge group of protesters disguised as a clowns was arrested right in front of where I'm staying, as I was on my way back to the center. I cycled on a dirt road through fields of cereals to get here. It's so surreal.
Oh, and I'm drinking Africola. This is coca cola from Africa. You know. To show they'll keep their Gleneagles promises about canceling the African debt."
Oh, and I'm drinking Africola. This is coca cola from Africa. You know. To show they'll keep their Gleneagles promises about canceling the African debt."
June 7th:
"This is like the war. I'm being controlled at every corner, me on my bike. After dinner, as I was heading home, I took the gravel path across the fields. 2 barrages of polizei made me stop to inspect me last night and one this morning. Light on my face, identifying myself "accreditation, passport, ja ja, letter from landlady, I am staying there, danke, guten nacht und good luck..." Very nice guys in combat costume, holding my bike while I rummage through my bag trying to find the requested documents...
Today, Bono is giving a concert in Rostock, about 22 km away from here. We're going with the camera. I hate this Bono b'stard."
June 8th:
June 8th:
"I'm back for the last report on the G8 summit. Tech guy is unplugging all computers, we're all about to leave.
Nothing major today. The 8 leaders didn't do so good on the help for Africa, pissing off my friend Bono and a few other more capable, credible people. Putin mocked Bush and Bush dissed Putin, all very politely. Sarkozy's role was pretty much limited to announcing Bush's diarrhea to the media after the meeting he had with him this morning. And all in all, Merkel did good.
Nothing major today. The 8 leaders didn't do so good on the help for Africa, pissing off my friend Bono and a few other more capable, credible people. Putin mocked Bush and Bush dissed Putin, all very politely. Sarkozy's role was pretty much limited to announcing Bush's diarrhea to the media after the meeting he had with him this morning. And all in all, Merkel did good.
I was up at 5h45, riding down my footpath at 6h30, spent my day running around... And so I finished with a stroll on the beach, dipped my feet in the freezing cold Baltic Sea as the sun set behind a wooden pier. All idyllic, except maybe for the food. Food is crap here, and that's an understatement.
I'ma bike my ass home now. I'll be on my way tomorrow. To Brussels."
I'ma bike my ass home now. I'll be on my way tomorrow. To Brussels."
Saturday, August 4, 2007
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Wednesday, July 4, 2007
Serious stuff
Sit tight. Bill Gates is no longer the richest man alive.
Sentido Común - a "respected Mexican financial website" according to the BBC - broke the story last Friday that he had been overtaken by a low-key Mexican gentleman called Carlos Slim. If their estimations are correct (and I don't see why they wouldn't be, it's a simple calculation), with a 26.5% increase in the share price of his company America Móvil in the second quarter of this year, the gap between Gates and Slim's fortunes is now of $9 billion, to Slim's advantage.
Forbes had reported in March that Slim had become the world's second richest man before Warren Buffett.
So now, it goes like this:
1/ Carlos Slim, with $67.8 billion
2/ Bill Gates, with $59.2 billion
3/ Warren Buffett, with $52.4 billion
As Sentido Común explains, Slim's fortune is controversial in México. On the one hand, some admire his pragmatism and the fact that he took great risks to get where he is now. He bought his companies for nothing during the external debt crisis of the 1980's when most investors were selling off all their Mexican assets. Now that Mexico is doing well, they consider it all a fair reward.
On the other hand, he is criticized for abusing a system that allows monopoles. He owns Telmex, which manages 90% of landlines in México and he controls 33% of América Móvil, which has a 70% market share in the country. This allows both companies to do pretty much whatever they want, namely charge their users an arm and a leg for each phonecall. In Mexico, where over half of the population lives in poverty (i.e. with under $5 a day), it can be hard to justify the fact that a man and his family own 8% of the gross domestic product.
Then again, if he is acting within the law...
Anyway, the story was picked up by pretty much everyone. The Guardian, Business Week, Reuters, CNN, A Folha de São Paulo, Le Figaro, BBC News. Looks like we're all loving the idea of a 'Thirld-Worlder' - no offence - doing better than Gates of all people...
Sentido Común - a "respected Mexican financial website" according to the BBC - broke the story last Friday that he had been overtaken by a low-key Mexican gentleman called Carlos Slim. If their estimations are correct (and I don't see why they wouldn't be, it's a simple calculation), with a 26.5% increase in the share price of his company America Móvil in the second quarter of this year, the gap between Gates and Slim's fortunes is now of $9 billion, to Slim's advantage.
Forbes had reported in March that Slim had become the world's second richest man before Warren Buffett.
So now, it goes like this:
1/ Carlos Slim, with $67.8 billion
2/ Bill Gates, with $59.2 billion
3/ Warren Buffett, with $52.4 billion
As Sentido Común explains, Slim's fortune is controversial in México. On the one hand, some admire his pragmatism and the fact that he took great risks to get where he is now. He bought his companies for nothing during the external debt crisis of the 1980's when most investors were selling off all their Mexican assets. Now that Mexico is doing well, they consider it all a fair reward.
On the other hand, he is criticized for abusing a system that allows monopoles. He owns Telmex, which manages 90% of landlines in México and he controls 33% of América Móvil, which has a 70% market share in the country. This allows both companies to do pretty much whatever they want, namely charge their users an arm and a leg for each phonecall. In Mexico, where over half of the population lives in poverty (i.e. with under $5 a day), it can be hard to justify the fact that a man and his family own 8% of the gross domestic product.
Then again, if he is acting within the law...
Anyway, the story was picked up by pretty much everyone. The Guardian, Business Week, Reuters, CNN, A Folha de São Paulo, Le Figaro, BBC News. Looks like we're all loving the idea of a 'Thirld-Worlder' - no offence - doing better than Gates of all people...
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
Feathers, Cadillac and Tom Cruise
I know, It's kind of against my rules to post two entries in the same day (I wear my stick up my ass proudly, as those who know me will tell you), but right now I'm under the influence of Cute Overload. I will not take responsibility for anything i do, say or write. So I like, totally stole this video from them.
Can I just say, I never thought I'd use the labels "animals," "gay" and "video" in the same entrée.
Can I just say, I never thought I'd use the labels "animals," "gay" and "video" in the same entrée.
Overloading on cute
OD'ing, in fact. Thank GOD this blog was in the Washington Post's list of the 100 best blogs, cos otherwise I'd still be questioning my sanity, even after the whole beach thing. Speaking of which, I'm sure you've seen, but I had to include it... Thanks to a mungbean muser:
(Apologies for the annoying Beatles song - i prefer it to the the original version, where there's the even more annoying voice: "oh my gaaaaahd they are adoooorabuuuuhl").
(Apologies for the annoying Beatles song - i prefer it to the the original version, where there's the even more annoying voice: "oh my gaaaaahd they are adoooorabuuuuhl").
Monday, July 2, 2007
Tempo giusto
Feel yourself become brainless. Not one functioning cell of gray matter in that big bone cavity above your neck.
Choose your bikini carefully. Put on a sundress and your Havainas. Reach for them glam shades.
Take a stroll on a dirt road on your way to the beach. Realize that your hips are moving in a wider, lazier sway. Feel how the heat slows you down. Feel your feet scratching the ground. Feel like a biiiig mama.
Take 10 minutes to dig a hole in the sand. Plant your parasol. Give yourself a sunscreen bath. Stay away from the sun. Then get up, make your way through the Italian families to the water. Dip a toe in it, work up the courage for the rest of you to follow. Don't regret it. It's turquoise and it's fresh and it's salty. Close your eyes, turn your face up. Enjoy the fact that no one's bothering you. Swim yourself to exhaustion. Sink your head til your ears are full of fluid and you know you'll have to jump on one leg like an idiot as soon as you're on dry land.
Sit on your towel. Lose yourself in the observation of the kids playing and screaming and laughing and throwing tantrums. See the parents spank their children. Think to yourself: "won't do them no harm." Feel unbearably nostalgic. Contemplate kidnapping one of the kids so he can take you back to childhood. Consider starting a therapy as soon as you get home.
Concentrate on your tan. It's the proof of what you've been doing in these few days away and your only means to frustrate the hell out of your co-workers. Measure the progress.
Worry about skin cancer. Grab your book, be fast asleep.
Open your eyes an hour later to a gorgeous sunset. Watch it for a little bit and head back. Take a shower, moisturize like a pro, go have dinner. Notice that the night is particularly bright. Raise your head, see a full, orange moon and its reflection in the quiet sea. Let your jaw drop. Fantasize about monsters and horrible things. Sense the fascination take over. You can't take your eyes off it.
Go home, lull yourself to sleep with Gustavsen, Gonzales, Libedinsky. Feel immensely grateful to Steve Jobs, Seb and Alex for the iPod and the wonderful music.
At breakfast, chit-chat with the owner of the B&B in your non-existent Italian. Get lectured on the history of the region and actually learn something. Marvel at his niceness and his love for the land. Swear to check it out on wikipedia as soon as you get hold of a working, connected computer.
Watch that blond stewardess tell you off for checking in too late. Give her a look that says: "hey, lady, have you seen the color of the water on those beaches? Do you really expect me to act responsibly?" She doesn't. She's used to it. She shouts at people everyday. Still, just for kicks, she turns to her colleague and exclaims: "And she's not even in business class!!" Smile. It's all an act. We both know that neither I nor she would give up dirt roads, seafood risotti and salty locks of hair for all the business class seats in the world.
Sit in the plane, eat a disgusting tuna sandwich. Wonder why the hell anyone would put butter on bread already drenched in mayo. Notice that new brown spot on your right thumb. Fear that it's skin cancer. Panic. Vow to call a dermatologist as soon as you land. Grab your book, be fast asleep.
Wake up to the voice of the pilot: "it's 16 degrees Celsius in Brussels, with frequent rains." 25 minutes later, note that he was speaking the truth. Curse him and his entire family.
Feel that pain on your back come back as soon as you set foot in your home. Update your blog, don't let it end.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Mind officially lost
I know I haven't been the most faithful of bloggers these days, but I have a real excuse. I go from being a heinous bitch with a big bag full of snyde remarks, to acting like a drunken pompous-ass loser to disappearing and turning silent like a hermit to weeping-and-laughing over the keeeoootiest-pootiest stuff, all this in the space of 10 minutes. I don't need a shrink to see that I am losing my mind. Also, if your boss AND your boss's boss both tell you that you need to rest, it's a sure sign that something's definitely not right.
Just this morning at work, I found that we'd just received some Twinings Lady Grey tea, so I ooh-and-aah'd excitedly. A colleague, trying to make conversation, asked me something I didn't understand about the origin or the making of that tea. Instead of responding like an adult human being ("I'm sorry, what did you just say?"), I grabbed a bag of Earl Grey and got all: "Did you know that Lady Grey has orange in it? And she's Earl Grey's wife. They go together in the Twinings carton and they hold hands and go 'lalala' and have babies Grey..." While rubbing the two teabags together and making kissy noises. Imminent breakdown: 1. Puzzled workmate: 1. Well done, me.
Fear not, I am doing something about it. Leaving tomorrow on an emergency mini-break. I even got a pedicure at Lovely Ms. Juliette's across the street, and now i have bright-red toenails, proof that i'm dead serious about this. White sand, blue water. I have every intention of wearing nothing but a bikini, and plan to change into other bikinis exclusively. I am also taking my fabulous beach hat. Forecast, according to BBC Weather: warm as hell, sunny as fuck.
In the meantime, I'm de-stressing with the help of this blog for which I have Someone to thank. The captions are killing me. The usual little pets aren't bad, but do check out the crocs, the bats and the baby rays in the unusual animals section. Can't stand it.
Buh bye now.
Just this morning at work, I found that we'd just received some Twinings Lady Grey tea, so I ooh-and-aah'd excitedly. A colleague, trying to make conversation, asked me something I didn't understand about the origin or the making of that tea. Instead of responding like an adult human being ("I'm sorry, what did you just say?"), I grabbed a bag of Earl Grey and got all: "Did you know that Lady Grey has orange in it? And she's Earl Grey's wife. They go together in the Twinings carton and they hold hands and go 'lalala' and have babies Grey..." While rubbing the two teabags together and making kissy noises. Imminent breakdown: 1. Puzzled workmate: 1. Well done, me.
Fear not, I am doing something about it. Leaving tomorrow on an emergency mini-break. I even got a pedicure at Lovely Ms. Juliette's across the street, and now i have bright-red toenails, proof that i'm dead serious about this. White sand, blue water. I have every intention of wearing nothing but a bikini, and plan to change into other bikinis exclusively. I am also taking my fabulous beach hat. Forecast, according to BBC Weather: warm as hell, sunny as fuck.
In the meantime, I'm de-stressing with the help of this blog for which I have Someone to thank. The captions are killing me. The usual little pets aren't bad, but do check out the crocs, the bats and the baby rays in the unusual animals section. Can't stand it.
Buh bye now.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Back in the game - ish
Sorry for the long silence. Since last time, France elected a new president, Belgium chose a new parliament, Merkel put the EU Constitution back on its feet, Palestinians started killing each other, Paris Hilton went in and out of jail, I read my first Kundera, joined Facebook, met André and his beloved Dorine, went to Paris, The Hague, Heiligendamm, London and Luxembourg, fell ill and visited the A&E at Warren Street, managed to kill a plant, started getting a daily hit of Ben & Jerry's, changed opinion about life, love, death and God about a gazillion times. Point is, I'm alive and kicking.
Was just reminiscing here after being sent a thing I wrote last October and had forgotten about. A month before moving to Brussels, I came for a quick reconnaissance visit. With the date approaching, I couldn't get enough of London:
"i have my itunes on random, there's this spooky just-rightness going on. heard so far nas' the world is yours (the beat is really incredible), the detroit spinners, fiona apple, a beautiful track by anouar brahem, k-os, wyclef jean's cover of wish you were here, badly drawn boy's once around the block, gainsbourg's melody nelson...
had lunch at the tate with the girls. too many people at the slides so we compensated with a photo session.
brussels tomorrow. not thinking about it. not really complaining either. not explaining anything, not even going to try. i'm just getting out, taking it in. nights are becoming eternal, the fall's here. so i'm photographing it, snapshots left and right, that's all I do. it's an unending farewell. the party, the energy, the sweet hypocrisy, this crave for extremes people try hard - and fail - to repress. the day's uniforms and the dark's nonsense. the fog and the heavy clouds that always seem to go unnoticed (at least by me), the surprisingly clear, starry night skies. and now, this taste of unfinished business in every cup of awful coffee."
Memories of a melancholy ho. Don't get too excited you Brits. Bill Maher says we Frenchies are awesome:
(Thanks to Alex.)
And just to close the evening, a love song to all y'all:
Was just reminiscing here after being sent a thing I wrote last October and had forgotten about. A month before moving to Brussels, I came for a quick reconnaissance visit. With the date approaching, I couldn't get enough of London:
"i have my itunes on random, there's this spooky just-rightness going on. heard so far nas' the world is yours (the beat is really incredible), the detroit spinners, fiona apple, a beautiful track by anouar brahem, k-os, wyclef jean's cover of wish you were here, badly drawn boy's once around the block, gainsbourg's melody nelson...
had lunch at the tate with the girls. too many people at the slides so we compensated with a photo session.
brussels tomorrow. not thinking about it. not really complaining either. not explaining anything, not even going to try. i'm just getting out, taking it in. nights are becoming eternal, the fall's here. so i'm photographing it, snapshots left and right, that's all I do. it's an unending farewell. the party, the energy, the sweet hypocrisy, this crave for extremes people try hard - and fail - to repress. the day's uniforms and the dark's nonsense. the fog and the heavy clouds that always seem to go unnoticed (at least by me), the surprisingly clear, starry night skies. and now, this taste of unfinished business in every cup of awful coffee."
Memories of a melancholy ho. Don't get too excited you Brits. Bill Maher says we Frenchies are awesome:
(Thanks to Alex.)
And just to close the evening, a love song to all y'all:
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
A recipient of little stories
Everyone needs a recipient of little stories. Someone who, even if they're not next to you, will listen and laugh when you laugh, feel your indignation, roll their eyes and sigh when you're being a little crazy or snicker sweetly at your broodiness (which you know you won't share with the rest of the world lest they freak out, call you too young or scream that your time's running out and that you'd better get yourself sorted).
Someone who will totally get it if you send them the Washington Post piece on 'Intellidating' in New York ("In the New Dating Scene, the Attraction Is a Beautiful Mind. Rather than crossing the velvet ropes for a rave, house party or disco, the hip patrons here were packing into a controversial lecture at the New York Public Library on the modern meaning of feminism."), which was written about a year after you stuck a London newspaper cutting on your computer monitor that says
(a phrase that, by the way, they shamelessly re-used in the article).
Someone who will get the insignificant yet cringe-worthy events that happen everyday in the office, which allow you to bitch and mock and pay the most vicious, back-handed compliments to certain co-workers (today, we had a fire alarm in our Brussels office: we were all of us out and back inside in, get this, 6 minutes, to the second, uh-huh, that's how scary our drills are). Someone who will send you one more reason to obsess about the incompetence of the Belgian police. Now check this out. Isn't it just perfect?
Someone who'll pretend to have nothing but contempt for said bitchiness while blatantly revel in it and beg for more. Or love the idea of a cat calling a dog retarded (I don't care what you say, they so are). Someone who will single-handedly overrule all English dictionaries by putting a unilateral ban on the word 'gist' spelt with a 'g.' FYI, people, it's 'jist.' Someone who banters like they breathe. Whose hilarity makes you wish everybody saw the tangents. Someone who - you know it for a fact - is capable of 'beaming inanely' up to 4 times a (very good) day.
Someone who will picture you in a jungle when you say that you bought 5 plants for your apartment and will never question the importance of a strong, solid table for the dining room. Someone who will send you great books, great movies, great articles and make you read and watch stuff until your eyes bleed. Someone whose walk you'd recognize anywhere. Someone whose healthy ambition and unapologetic arrogance have become endearing, somehow. Because SOMEONE likes to act like they own the fucking place, think they know your mind, explode, shout that they couldn't care less only to apologize half an hour later. Someone who, against all reason, calls London your home. And keeps ORDERING you to come back. Because they have no goddam manners. Yes, I said it.
Now I may seem melancholy, but you'll have to forgive me: when someone goes, you're allowed to feel a little empty. Aren't you.
Someone who will totally get it if you send them the Washington Post piece on 'Intellidating' in New York ("In the New Dating Scene, the Attraction Is a Beautiful Mind. Rather than crossing the velvet ropes for a rave, house party or disco, the hip patrons here were packing into a controversial lecture at the New York Public Library on the modern meaning of feminism."), which was written about a year after you stuck a London newspaper cutting on your computer monitor that says
(a phrase that, by the way, they shamelessly re-used in the article). Someone who will get the insignificant yet cringe-worthy events that happen everyday in the office, which allow you to bitch and mock and pay the most vicious, back-handed compliments to certain co-workers (today, we had a fire alarm in our Brussels office: we were all of us out and back inside in, get this, 6 minutes, to the second, uh-huh, that's how scary our drills are). Someone who will send you one more reason to obsess about the incompetence of the Belgian police. Now check this out. Isn't it just perfect?
Someone who'll pretend to have nothing but contempt for said bitchiness while blatantly revel in it and beg for more. Or love the idea of a cat calling a dog retarded (I don't care what you say, they so are). Someone who will single-handedly overrule all English dictionaries by putting a unilateral ban on the word 'gist' spelt with a 'g.' FYI, people, it's 'jist.' Someone who banters like they breathe. Whose hilarity makes you wish everybody saw the tangents. Someone who - you know it for a fact - is capable of 'beaming inanely' up to 4 times a (very good) day.
Someone who will picture you in a jungle when you say that you bought 5 plants for your apartment and will never question the importance of a strong, solid table for the dining room. Someone who will send you great books, great movies, great articles and make you read and watch stuff until your eyes bleed. Someone whose walk you'd recognize anywhere. Someone whose healthy ambition and unapologetic arrogance have become endearing, somehow. Because SOMEONE likes to act like they own the fucking place, think they know your mind, explode, shout that they couldn't care less only to apologize half an hour later. Someone who, against all reason, calls London your home. And keeps ORDERING you to come back. Because they have no goddam manners. Yes, I said it.
Now I may seem melancholy, but you'll have to forgive me: when someone goes, you're allowed to feel a little empty. Aren't you.
Friday, April 6, 2007
Spring artsiness
Apologies, people, for the random post in French. I came across this poem in L'Année Poétique 2007 (Poetic Year 2007), an anthology of francophone contemporary poetry which publisher Seghers is planning on putting together every year. While most of the efforts included in this volume left me sceptical and unimpressed (you wouldn't believe the amount pretentious, unoriginal crap) this one in particular, by poet Jean Pérol, had me reading out loud as I was walking in the street. French speakers, I hope you enjoyed as much as I did.
Thanks to those who sent me messages of support and empathy about the 180-euro fine. Thank you in particular to my Belgian colleague, Brussels-born and bred, now a permanent resident and unconditional lover of London town, for this inflammatory writ:
"J'avais oublié de te dire un truc à propos de la Belgique: la police la plus stupide et incompétente d'Europe. Peuplée de crétins finis, cette police a prouvé sa nullité en se montrant incapable d'arrêter Marc Dutroux malgré tous les indices, condamnant ainsi à mort deux fillettes prisonnières qui auraient pu être sauvées. La même police a laissé quelques années plus tard Dutroux s'échapper d'un fourgon, couvrant encore un peu plus la Belgique de ridicule."
(again, apologies for this rough translation -- "I'd forgotten to tell you one thing about Belgium: Europe's most stupid and incompetent police. Peopled by utter cretins, this police demonstrated its dimwitness by being incapable of arresting Marc Dutroux, in spite of all the evidence, thus sentencing to death two little girls that could have been saved. A few years later, that same police allowed Dutroux to escape from a van, ridiculing Belgium even more.")
On an unrelated note, my favorite Mungbean Muser compiled her favorite photographers in a very, very cool entry. Go on, take a look, you just might learn something.
And now, for some music (it had been a while, hadn't it)... A quick homage to cellist Mstislav Rostropovich, who on March 27th celebrated his 80th birthday:
In The Guardian's piece about him, a hilarious anecdote:
"Once, his younger daughter Olga, who was studying the cello, thought her father had gone out, and settled down to read when she should have been practising. Unfortunately for her, Slava returned unexpectedly. Furious, he picked up her cello, brandished it and started chasing her with it, telling her to stop so that he could kill her (a request that she not unreasonably chose to ignore). Eventually, she ran out of the house, but he kept after her - and goodness knows what would have happened had they not passed Shostakovich, who happened to be walking nearby. He pleaded with Slava to calm down, and order was eventually restored; but I'm sure Olga learned to practise more diligently after that - or at least to lock her door."
Happy Easter, Passover or whatever it is you like to celebrate.
Thanks to those who sent me messages of support and empathy about the 180-euro fine. Thank you in particular to my Belgian colleague, Brussels-born and bred, now a permanent resident and unconditional lover of London town, for this inflammatory writ:
"J'avais oublié de te dire un truc à propos de la Belgique: la police la plus stupide et incompétente d'Europe. Peuplée de crétins finis, cette police a prouvé sa nullité en se montrant incapable d'arrêter Marc Dutroux malgré tous les indices, condamnant ainsi à mort deux fillettes prisonnières qui auraient pu être sauvées. La même police a laissé quelques années plus tard Dutroux s'échapper d'un fourgon, couvrant encore un peu plus la Belgique de ridicule."
(again, apologies for this rough translation -- "I'd forgotten to tell you one thing about Belgium: Europe's most stupid and incompetent police. Peopled by utter cretins, this police demonstrated its dimwitness by being incapable of arresting Marc Dutroux, in spite of all the evidence, thus sentencing to death two little girls that could have been saved. A few years later, that same police allowed Dutroux to escape from a van, ridiculing Belgium even more.")
On an unrelated note, my favorite Mungbean Muser compiled her favorite photographers in a very, very cool entry. Go on, take a look, you just might learn something.
And now, for some music (it had been a while, hadn't it)... A quick homage to cellist Mstislav Rostropovich, who on March 27th celebrated his 80th birthday:
In The Guardian's piece about him, a hilarious anecdote:
"Once, his younger daughter Olga, who was studying the cello, thought her father had gone out, and settled down to read when she should have been practising. Unfortunately for her, Slava returned unexpectedly. Furious, he picked up her cello, brandished it and started chasing her with it, telling her to stop so that he could kill her (a request that she not unreasonably chose to ignore). Eventually, she ran out of the house, but he kept after her - and goodness knows what would have happened had they not passed Shostakovich, who happened to be walking nearby. He pleaded with Slava to calm down, and order was eventually restored; but I'm sure Olga learned to practise more diligently after that - or at least to lock her door."
Happy Easter, Passover or whatever it is you like to celebrate.
Monday, April 2, 2007
Autre Sud, nº28
Soleil cigales
le lézard du souvenir bondit
et c'est furtif entre tes ombres
le passé perdu des provences pauvres
tu écrivais sous le figuier
sur la table usée de rotin bancal
dans la campagne abandonnée
et l'importance de parler
dans le bleu hébété tentait de t'emporter
à brides lâchées à encrier ouvert
où une mouche
finissait toujours par tomber
et noir sur noir vibrionnait
comme confus tes jeunes mots
dans l'ouverture d'un monde plein
mais maintenant que la table
et le jardin sont un peu mieux
mais maintenant que tu peux
en lui en toi ailleurs
presque tout lire à livre ouvert
seule t'affronte amère et sûre
jour après jour en son contraire
et jusqu'au noir plus noir que l'encre
l'autre importance de se taire.
Se taire
Très bien
vous le voulez
mutilez-vous de la musique
mutilez-vous de la parole
à jamais vous la perdrez
la rouge gloire de l'offrir
n'est-ce pas qu'en septembre
le soleil se pâlit
n'est-ce pas qu'en vos chambres
sexe ouvert dans son lit
la femme folle de force dort
ah fatigue et mutilation
écoutez bien dans vos maisons
comme immobile agonise
la fin du temps et des passions
tout meurt et tombe plus qu'à Venise
tumeurs et tombes des nuits grises
écoutez écoutez et butez
à vos bouches trop creuses
à vos mots que la mort
en cuir noir sodomise.
Sodomise
Lucifer a peu
de courage tendre
au milieu du feu
il suffit d'attendre
la douleur a peu
de ciel bleu à vendre
le bonheur ne veut
qu'aux flammes descendre
vivre sans un dieu
pourrait se comprendre
le corps amoureux
ne veut que s'étendre
tous les jours qui peut
sans son âme rendre
souffrir ce que veut
aimer et comprendre
la mort aux yeux creux
aime tant les cendres
qu'on voit au fond d'eux
les hommes l'apprendre.
Apprendre.
Jean Pérol, In Autre Sud, nº28
le lézard du souvenir bondit
et c'est furtif entre tes ombres
le passé perdu des provences pauvres
tu écrivais sous le figuier
sur la table usée de rotin bancal
dans la campagne abandonnée
et l'importance de parler
dans le bleu hébété tentait de t'emporter
à brides lâchées à encrier ouvert
où une mouche
finissait toujours par tomber
et noir sur noir vibrionnait
comme confus tes jeunes mots
dans l'ouverture d'un monde plein
mais maintenant que la table
et le jardin sont un peu mieux
mais maintenant que tu peux
en lui en toi ailleurs
presque tout lire à livre ouvert
seule t'affronte amère et sûre
jour après jour en son contraire
et jusqu'au noir plus noir que l'encre
l'autre importance de se taire.
Se taire
Très bien
vous le voulez
mutilez-vous de la musique
mutilez-vous de la parole
à jamais vous la perdrez
la rouge gloire de l'offrir
n'est-ce pas qu'en septembre
le soleil se pâlit
n'est-ce pas qu'en vos chambres
sexe ouvert dans son lit
la femme folle de force dort
ah fatigue et mutilation
écoutez bien dans vos maisons
comme immobile agonise
la fin du temps et des passions
tout meurt et tombe plus qu'à Venise
tumeurs et tombes des nuits grises
écoutez écoutez et butez
à vos bouches trop creuses
à vos mots que la mort
en cuir noir sodomise.
Sodomise
Lucifer a peu
de courage tendre
au milieu du feu
il suffit d'attendre
la douleur a peu
de ciel bleu à vendre
le bonheur ne veut
qu'aux flammes descendre
vivre sans un dieu
pourrait se comprendre
le corps amoureux
ne veut que s'étendre
tous les jours qui peut
sans son âme rendre
souffrir ce que veut
aimer et comprendre
la mort aux yeux creux
aime tant les cendres
qu'on voit au fond d'eux
les hommes l'apprendre.
Apprendre.
Jean Pérol, In Autre Sud, nº28
Monday morning and a couple of good points
I know a guy who might be sorry he ever sent this to me... No matter. Great reading:
It's all feminism's fault (again), by Zoe Williams.
"Just about the only cancer feminism doesn't give you is prostate cancer, and I wouldn't put it past us feminists to start stealing prostates the way we've already stolen managerial positions and bar stools, would you? (...)
The argument that feminism has undermined masculinity is strange since it suggests that, in order to show strength, men must see weakness manifested all about them; no matter if that weakness is faked or forced or cajoled. (...)
In this ideological portrait, men cannot handle challenge, do not seek excellence and need to be indulged through lying. (...)
Even if gender parity increased your risk of illness by a factor of 100%, what do they think would happen - women would all resign our jobs and resume knitting?"
***********************
From another lady, called Laura Barton. On musical crushes vs. musical loves:
"Musical crushes only placate you, they merely tell you what you want to hear, in a voice you've heard before. Bands you love seem to answer a question you didn't even know you were asking."
It's all feminism's fault (again), by Zoe Williams.
"Just about the only cancer feminism doesn't give you is prostate cancer, and I wouldn't put it past us feminists to start stealing prostates the way we've already stolen managerial positions and bar stools, would you? (...)
The argument that feminism has undermined masculinity is strange since it suggests that, in order to show strength, men must see weakness manifested all about them; no matter if that weakness is faked or forced or cajoled. (...)
In this ideological portrait, men cannot handle challenge, do not seek excellence and need to be indulged through lying. (...)
Even if gender parity increased your risk of illness by a factor of 100%, what do they think would happen - women would all resign our jobs and resume knitting?"
***********************
From another lady, called Laura Barton. On musical crushes vs. musical loves:
"Musical crushes only placate you, they merely tell you what you want to hear, in a voice you've heard before. Bands you love seem to answer a question you didn't even know you were asking."
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Another day in Brussels
**** WARNING - Kids and sensitive souls please refrain to read this post. The author is too fucking angry to even pretend to try and control the swearing. ****
Let's start with a little game: what can you buy for 180 euros? A return ticket to London in the Eurostar, if you're silly enough to buy it only a week in advance. 10 meals, with wine and dessert at Casa Italiana, this lovely family-owned restaurant on Archimède (amazing zabaglione). A complete outfit at Zara or Top-Shop. A very good pair of shoes. 2 iPod Shuffles and while we're at it, about 18 CDs and/or DVDs on sale.
I get off the tram with - who was it - Jay-Z playing at full blast in my iPod. Street is quiet, cars are waiting at the red light, I cross the street. CROSS the bleeding street. I'm all chilled and bouncy, trying hard not to dance to the beat. When I hear two voices loud enough for me to turn around and wonder what's happening. I see two cops, one with a bad moustache, the other with a bad accent, each double my size, shouting at the top of their lungs: "HEY!!! YOU BLIND???" A guy who looks like a student is watching the scene. He says wearily, loud enough for them to hear: "Aaah come on... She had her iPod on..."
The two motherfuckers run to me, demanding to see an identification document. I ask them why they want to see an identification document, the guy with the bad accent starts speaking to me in Flemish, as if he didn't just hear me speak French. Moustache-Face gets all smartassy on me, says "Well you're obviously deaf, but you're not blind, you're wearing your glasses, aren't you?" I reiterate: "Can someone please explain to me what is going on here?"
"The little guy was red," says Moustache-Face. "Excuse me?" The little guy. The little guy that tells pedestrians when they should walk, or not. The little guy at the red light. Was. RED.
- ID, please."
At this point, I'm laughing. I think it's a joke. I pull out my passport.
- No, I need your Belgian ID card."
- I don't have one," I say.
- Why not?" He asks.
Fuck this, I'm lying:
- Because I don't live here." ("You retarded piece of shit," I add, in my head).
- Oh no?"
- No."
- Fine. We'll check in the computer."
I call his bluff. I haven't bothered to register:
- Sure," I say. "Check in your computer."
Who wants to fucking register in this town anyway.
He browses through my passport, looks confused:
- Where's your address?"
- There. It says Paris, right there."
Flemish Moron butts in:
- So you cross the streets like this in Paris?"
- Of course she does."
He's going to be like that, huh. Fine:
- Yup. In Paris. And in London. In Madrid and New York as well."
Because you see, there is actual crime to fight in these cities.
The asshole was waiting for that:
- 180 euros. I need another ID."
I pull out my driving license. Address in Madrid. The man gives up:
- We'll send the fine to Paris."
- You do that."
And good luck getting paid.
That's what happens in Euro-Hick Town: 180 euros can also buy you the right to fucking jaywalk. The jackasses from the police force have no peace to keep, they are so bored all day, their dicks are so sore with all the wanking off they do, they'll fine... Jaywalkers.
As it turns out, though, I shouldn't even complain: Arrested, cuffed and jailed, the don caught jaywalking.
Let's start with a little game: what can you buy for 180 euros? A return ticket to London in the Eurostar, if you're silly enough to buy it only a week in advance. 10 meals, with wine and dessert at Casa Italiana, this lovely family-owned restaurant on Archimède (amazing zabaglione). A complete outfit at Zara or Top-Shop. A very good pair of shoes. 2 iPod Shuffles and while we're at it, about 18 CDs and/or DVDs on sale.
I get off the tram with - who was it - Jay-Z playing at full blast in my iPod. Street is quiet, cars are waiting at the red light, I cross the street. CROSS the bleeding street. I'm all chilled and bouncy, trying hard not to dance to the beat. When I hear two voices loud enough for me to turn around and wonder what's happening. I see two cops, one with a bad moustache, the other with a bad accent, each double my size, shouting at the top of their lungs: "HEY!!! YOU BLIND???" A guy who looks like a student is watching the scene. He says wearily, loud enough for them to hear: "Aaah come on... She had her iPod on..."
The two motherfuckers run to me, demanding to see an identification document. I ask them why they want to see an identification document, the guy with the bad accent starts speaking to me in Flemish, as if he didn't just hear me speak French. Moustache-Face gets all smartassy on me, says "Well you're obviously deaf, but you're not blind, you're wearing your glasses, aren't you?" I reiterate: "Can someone please explain to me what is going on here?"
"The little guy was red," says Moustache-Face. "Excuse me?" The little guy. The little guy that tells pedestrians when they should walk, or not. The little guy at the red light. Was. RED.
- ID, please."
At this point, I'm laughing. I think it's a joke. I pull out my passport.
- No, I need your Belgian ID card."
- I don't have one," I say.
- Why not?" He asks.
Fuck this, I'm lying:
- Because I don't live here." ("You retarded piece of shit," I add, in my head).
- Oh no?"
- No."
- Fine. We'll check in the computer."
I call his bluff. I haven't bothered to register:
- Sure," I say. "Check in your computer."
Who wants to fucking register in this town anyway.
He browses through my passport, looks confused:
- Where's your address?"
- There. It says Paris, right there."
Flemish Moron butts in:
- So you cross the streets like this in Paris?"
- Of course she does."
He's going to be like that, huh. Fine:
- Yup. In Paris. And in London. In Madrid and New York as well."
Because you see, there is actual crime to fight in these cities.
The asshole was waiting for that:
- 180 euros. I need another ID."
I pull out my driving license. Address in Madrid. The man gives up:
- We'll send the fine to Paris."
- You do that."
And good luck getting paid.
That's what happens in Euro-Hick Town: 180 euros can also buy you the right to fucking jaywalk. The jackasses from the police force have no peace to keep, they are so bored all day, their dicks are so sore with all the wanking off they do, they'll fine... Jaywalkers.
As it turns out, though, I shouldn't even complain: Arrested, cuffed and jailed, the don caught jaywalking.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
HAHAHA
This is one of my favorite t-shirts. It was designed by a London friend, Damien Poulain. Damien comes from Angers, where I studied for 3 years after high school. He's been a hopeless East-Ender for almost 5 years now, if the count is right. I'm a jeans-&-t girl, so I'm in it often. Every time I wear it, invariably, someone in the street points, smiles and goes "hahaha!"
Saturday, March 24, 2007
People
I have a beautiful sister who knows how to laugh and dress. She surrounds herself with people who are good-looking, uncomplicated, talented and funny, like her. Some of them play music, like Eric (most of the songs of the album he released are about her). She wears her hair very long with long, big, hippy earrings. She loves music. I owe her Rufus Wainwright, Devendra Banhart, Karen Dalton, Sly and the Family Stone. She loves Seinfeld and Sex and the City. And she misses New York's Lower East Side, where she spent a few long months. Sometimes, when she's sad, she'll go see our mother and stay with her one night, maybe two. Mother will look after her and spoil her a bit. The sis always finds something funny to tell me about her stays there, and we laugh on the phone or online and it always makes me feel good, if a bit envious. Angie was a quiet little girl, whom I always found incredibly cute. I annoyed her so much, I also disguised her and made her up in our games, I was often the nanna and she was always the princess. I can't even begin to tell you how much I love her.
I have a friend in London who plays the piano. When I still lived there, sometimes I'd stay the weekend at his place. I called it my second home. We ate pizza salad and chocolate, watched movies with a couple of doobies, slept, did a bit of yoga, he'd practice and practice and practice Chopin's first ballad and Bach's 18th fugue while I worked on the computer. I never minded listening to him work and play short passages over and over again. In fact, I loved it. We listened to Bella Davidovitch, Martha Argerich, Bill Evans and he'd search for videos in youtube (once he learnt how to explore it) on all of them, and Pogorelich. Now I have a bit of him in my iPod and whenever I'm feeling tense or I need to concentrate, I listen to Chopin or Rachmaninov. But he's not all piano. He loves to party. Reeeeaaaally party. Party hard. Though I think most of the partying he did when I didn't know him. He is soft-spoken and his kindness, it seems, doesn't really have limits. On a couple of occasions, when I really needed advice, he was there, asking all the right questions and making all the right statements.
I have a friend in New York who's known me since Brazil. We were 8. Or maybe 9. He's like a brother, speaks the same languages that sis and I speak, although for different reasons. When we were little, we used to spend endless hours on the phone. We were at the beginning of our teenage years and boy, did we have things to talk about. We'd founded a sexual education club. We gathered at recess and talked about growing boobs and pubic hair and menstruation and masturbation with other kids we liked and trusted. Another kid who wanted in ratted us out to the oldest, most conservative of our teachers (Mrs. Weinberg, math) who was determined to let our parents know. She was stopped in her tracks by our sweet biology teacher, Mrs. Andreamanalina, who took the matter into her own hands and gave the entire class a chat about how our bodies were changing. We still remember her fondly. Alex and I share a love for Michael Jackson, dancing and singing. Once, later, we were already in France, he called a radio station in the middle of the night, had them call me and he made me sing with him, on air, one of the Brazilian songs we loved. Alex still dances like a damn star. And he sings, too. He did years of drama, played in a few, very funny plays. Lately, in his spare time, he's been reading Kant. I still don't know why. The man's a brain on (very coordinated) legs. A brain that functions at lightning-speed. Don't try to keep up. Just enjoy the ride.
Ying I haven't known for long, but I got her under my skin. Like one more of the family. She's my sistah from down undah. She met all three people above and fit right in. Ying is younger than me and sometimes I wonder how that's possible. We talk and talk, we deconstruct the world and rebuild it together. She one of them incredibly generous people, brave and hilarious and mind-blowingly clever. Ying looks tough and has a deep, deep voice. Ying has a style that, if you're careful, will tell you pretty much everything there is to know about Ying. Practical and unique. Ying can be intimidating, but Ying can't be your friend if you're intimidated. Ying is questions and reason and love and sweetness. Ying got me in an instant, she saw exactly what was there and I don't know that I will ever be thankful enough for that. The first time I saw her, we had dinner at another friend's. She took us for an conversational rollercoaster ride about what it means to find your place in the world. I knew then and there I'd never be bored with her.
PS: 700 couples showed up at the mass, anti-racism wedding in St Niklaas.
I have a friend in London who plays the piano. When I still lived there, sometimes I'd stay the weekend at his place. I called it my second home. We ate pizza salad and chocolate, watched movies with a couple of doobies, slept, did a bit of yoga, he'd practice and practice and practice Chopin's first ballad and Bach's 18th fugue while I worked on the computer. I never minded listening to him work and play short passages over and over again. In fact, I loved it. We listened to Bella Davidovitch, Martha Argerich, Bill Evans and he'd search for videos in youtube (once he learnt how to explore it) on all of them, and Pogorelich. Now I have a bit of him in my iPod and whenever I'm feeling tense or I need to concentrate, I listen to Chopin or Rachmaninov. But he's not all piano. He loves to party. Reeeeaaaally party. Party hard. Though I think most of the partying he did when I didn't know him. He is soft-spoken and his kindness, it seems, doesn't really have limits. On a couple of occasions, when I really needed advice, he was there, asking all the right questions and making all the right statements.
I have a friend in New York who's known me since Brazil. We were 8. Or maybe 9. He's like a brother, speaks the same languages that sis and I speak, although for different reasons. When we were little, we used to spend endless hours on the phone. We were at the beginning of our teenage years and boy, did we have things to talk about. We'd founded a sexual education club. We gathered at recess and talked about growing boobs and pubic hair and menstruation and masturbation with other kids we liked and trusted. Another kid who wanted in ratted us out to the oldest, most conservative of our teachers (Mrs. Weinberg, math) who was determined to let our parents know. She was stopped in her tracks by our sweet biology teacher, Mrs. Andreamanalina, who took the matter into her own hands and gave the entire class a chat about how our bodies were changing. We still remember her fondly. Alex and I share a love for Michael Jackson, dancing and singing. Once, later, we were already in France, he called a radio station in the middle of the night, had them call me and he made me sing with him, on air, one of the Brazilian songs we loved. Alex still dances like a damn star. And he sings, too. He did years of drama, played in a few, very funny plays. Lately, in his spare time, he's been reading Kant. I still don't know why. The man's a brain on (very coordinated) legs. A brain that functions at lightning-speed. Don't try to keep up. Just enjoy the ride.
Ying I haven't known for long, but I got her under my skin. Like one more of the family. She's my sistah from down undah. She met all three people above and fit right in. Ying is younger than me and sometimes I wonder how that's possible. We talk and talk, we deconstruct the world and rebuild it together. She one of them incredibly generous people, brave and hilarious and mind-blowingly clever. Ying looks tough and has a deep, deep voice. Ying has a style that, if you're careful, will tell you pretty much everything there is to know about Ying. Practical and unique. Ying can be intimidating, but Ying can't be your friend if you're intimidated. Ying is questions and reason and love and sweetness. Ying got me in an instant, she saw exactly what was there and I don't know that I will ever be thankful enough for that. The first time I saw her, we had dinner at another friend's. She took us for an conversational rollercoaster ride about what it means to find your place in the world. I knew then and there I'd never be bored with her.
PS: 700 couples showed up at the mass, anti-racism wedding in St Niklaas.
Friday, March 16, 2007
Black and whiteys - part II
Quick follow-up on my previous post about Wouter Van Bellingen, 34, the deputy-mayor of St Niklaas (who now has his own wikipedia entry), who refused to let him marry them because he's, erm...
Young Wouter with his adoptive family.
Black. Ooh.
March 21st is the international day against racism. The mass-wedding will be taking place next Wednesday. 3 couples times 100 have already registered. Expatica reports.
Young Wouter with his adoptive family.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
None the wiser
27 years old. Piscis and a monkey. Time flies, unlike me.
Breathless. Otto e Mezzo. The Science of Sleep. A Little Trip To Heaven. Notes on a Scandal. Les Poupées Russes. Y Tu Mamá También. Yes, a new video club near my house. Well. New to me.
Zadie Smith's On Beauty. Innumerable articles, some about modern love, others about babies who get down. The memory of online contemporary art classes. Work up to my ears.
I want to extrapolate. Seriously, I do. Only it's terribly late.
In time. In time.
Breathless. Otto e Mezzo. The Science of Sleep. A Little Trip To Heaven. Notes on a Scandal. Les Poupées Russes. Y Tu Mamá También. Yes, a new video club near my house. Well. New to me.
Zadie Smith's On Beauty. Innumerable articles, some about modern love, others about babies who get down. The memory of online contemporary art classes. Work up to my ears.
I want to extrapolate. Seriously, I do. Only it's terribly late.
In time. In time.
Thursday, March 1, 2007
Uninspired entry
There's a tree outside my bedroom window that's totally out of it. Covered with tiny pink flowers, convinced it's spring. I don't blame it. Today for the first time, I had lunch on a bench at Square Ambiorix, listening to recently downloaded music in my spanking new iPod. Freezing cold and sunny. Lovely. That was after the guy at the sandwich place said "take away, as usual?" with a smile from ear to ear.
Couple of hours later, I received a surprise phone call from my stepdad. He was visiting Brussels and took me out for coffee. He's all excited, starting a new job in a couple of weeks, managing a development project in Ivory Coast. It's his thing, Africa, agriculture. Quite a character, my stepdad. Won't pay a dime to the government and doesn't believe in the "NGO mentality" that plagues EU delegations there. Was thinking it'd make a great story.
Still no inspiration.
Whoever said mobiles killed the phone booths couldn't have been more wrong. They're put to good use in London town.
"Valentine's day is for gay people, too." Brussels is, like, so open-minded.
Last, but not least, cookies that won't take anything for granted.
Love y'all later.
Couple of hours later, I received a surprise phone call from my stepdad. He was visiting Brussels and took me out for coffee. He's all excited, starting a new job in a couple of weeks, managing a development project in Ivory Coast. It's his thing, Africa, agriculture. Quite a character, my stepdad. Won't pay a dime to the government and doesn't believe in the "NGO mentality" that plagues EU delegations there. Was thinking it'd make a great story.
Still no inspiration.
Whoever said mobiles killed the phone booths couldn't have been more wrong. They're put to good use in London town.
"Valentine's day is for gay people, too." Brussels is, like, so open-minded.
Last, but not least, cookies that won't take anything for granted.
Love y'all later.
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