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:

Bill Maher aime les Français
Uploaded by yom_

(Thanks to Alex.)

And just to close the evening, a love song to all y'all:

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.

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.

A ray of sun

Following up on Mr. Cool's complaint, here's making up for the three days without an update. Two posts in only a couple of hours... Man, I hope you're happy.

Also, I want to point out that I am back in action. The PowerShot 400 is dead, long live the Ixus 60. Because the blog must go on and I can't do without my images.

As it appears, Le Pain Quotidien isn't the only (or the closest, or the best) breakfast place in my neighborhood. There's a little shop with foggy windows on Place Brugmann which deceptively calls itself "boulangerie." But step inside and you will see one huge wooden table surrounded by a bunch of smaller ones. You'll hear German, English, Spanish, Italian, as well as French (with both French and Belgian accents) and Flemish. All of this with the added value of it not being part of a chain - I am a bo-bo (remember those? The new dandies?), so shoot me.


It must've been around ten this morning when I stopped there. I only meant to get a bit of bread and I ended up sitting down for tea, orange juice and a pain au chocolat, while I read a book purchased earlier at Candide, the multilingual bookstore. It was lovely.


This English guy and I wanted to get the Sunday Times or the Observer or something ("Sil voo play, le Sunday Times?"), but the international newspapers distributors were on strike today (huh...?). So i spent a few minutes browsing through the Francophone books. Found this one, which poses an interesting question:


(Whatever happened to French writers?) Yeah, that I would LOVE to find out. Too self-absorbed, maybe? So desperate to write something new without renouncing the classic standards they become repetitive and boring? Who the hell knows. I refused to get all worked up on a sunny Sunday morning, so I placed it back on the shelf. I walked out with The Concubine's Monologue, a 21-page rant about love, lust, passion and unhappiness. Amusing, at best.

And this is all from me tonight. Happy week, people.

Hopes up

Yesterday, as I was browsing through The Flyer, the Guardian's travel section newsletter, I found this thing that listed the top-10 European flea markets. Turns out three of them are in Belgium. Not that I'm particularly big on flea markets, but there's something reassuring about getting validation from a foreign newspaper. I can't say that I'm surprised: everywhere I look, it's decoration and antique shops. The Belgians like their interiors fancy.

More pragmatically, my living room is in dire need of tables... Coffee, dining, corner tables. I'm on a table frenzy. I want to put tables everywhere. Different styles, colors and sizes, wood, metal, mosaic. So I can cover them with cute things and throw my papers and handbags and scarves around, desperately look for my left shoe under every piece of really pretty furniture and be über late for work. Place du Jeu de Balle it is, then.

I gave The Bulletin another try. The "Web Guru" did well this week - did he hear my complaint? Made me discover this really cool - yet conceptual: practical people, start running - site that "scans through millions of pages (blogs) searching out keywords relating only to feelings." Kind of useless, but incredible: We Feel Fine. Good job, Guru.

Last but not least... I saw in the New York Times this review of a book written by Calvin Trillin, about his dead wife, Alice. I'd never heard of the man, but it intrigued me. So I found the complete story: "She was, as Roger Wilkins later wrote, so very pretty, but that wasn’t the first thing that struck me about her; it might have come as much as two or three seconds later. My first impression was that she looked more alive than anyone I’d ever seen." And this, my friends, is probably the most wonderful compliment a woman could ever hope to get.

Jovanotti, old(ish) but fun: