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.

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.

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

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."