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").
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
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
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