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A great writer ....

May 24, 1911 (in Prague). horror of the crowd. For 1 hour 1 / 2 on the boat, choking in the middle of a crowd of women like a big park round pigs, that growl, eat, drink, turbulent, waving tail and do their excrement. To love humanity, it must be seen from afar. Poor people! Question whether the true civilization does not depend on a ruthless suppression of the lower classes. Horror of their rampage.
Paul Claudel, Journal (Volume 1, Bibliotheque de la Pleiade, Gallimard)

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was just a single.

Before going to bed, get rid of something that irritates me. After the triple murder of Rivesaltes, heard on radio that one of the victims was a retiree taking rest on a bench and two other municipal employees and single. Duh, it's already less serious! What are these remarks at the con? Other times, it means: "The deceased leaves a widow and two young orphans."

And it changes anything? The lives of singles (and retirees) Has less value than that of married fathers and mothers? The scandal is it less if a large tared kill men without offspring? We knew that the worst mistake was to get a policeman. Now we can Assuming that the life of a bachelor of less value than a father. Deeply

we published a comprehensive classification indicating an ascending or descending into the horror of murder. Psychopaths can thus be calculated in advance the trouble they could based on their victim and determine if the game is worth it or not. That says a lot about the state of degeneration of our society and its moral values.

Another thing to complete the package: I hate crafts. I'll explain why another time. Allez hop! to bed now: tomorrow morning I'm a massacre of daffodils. This is serious, here, you think?

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And a little music, anyone? (6)

James Bowman "Ombra mai fu", Handel's Xerxes.

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Momentini

-Heard on the radio yesterday Annie Ernaux talk about his new (small, as usual, and whose title escapes me) book on the sister died before his birth and it took "replace". Few words but true, no pathos or exhibitionism, deep emotions in a gentle voice say, nothing spectacular or protest, to deal with his lifestyle. The opposite of Christine Angot, whose only purpose m'insupporte.

- The other night, the Chinese in front of me passed the brushes in his kitchen window. A gas boiler on the wall white cream. It applies, gives a first shot back, again, heedless of who can see it. I do not know why, I began to smile.

- The bouquet of daffodils picked by Jean-Claude fades gradually. Few survivors in a smaller vase. Corollas yellow on green background of my desktop. Maybe tomorrow morning we will go into the woods in search of a new load.

- I hesitate now when I do not know, ask for cooking advice to women on the shelves of Casino. I was always answers, and politely. Many add their own stuff to make it better. People are not indifferent, it's easy to talk to is missing. I try to acquire it.

- Received, finally, the validation of three years of work that the pension fund did not seem to take into account. This halves the time I have left to work.

- A knife sharpener is spent in my building this week. I thought this job was no more. When I was a kid, there was one who came regularly, once or twice a year, with his small trailer pulled by hand, its guns and its wheel. I was a little scared but it remains below the collector of rabbit skins (in Saint-Etienne, we said the "pater" as the Latin word) which promised to be shouting the same words on the road. The latter, I always associated the butchering I saw how my father being killed when a (lapin!). I was never there when this happened.

- Preparing meals tonight. This will be rabbit with mustard (purchased skinned, naturally) and baking potatoes. A first between the creature and me. She has an interest to behave! I still have not managed to cut it cuts right through his hands. A first too!

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Twelve soil cord England

From a small book in original format (yes, one, I never got rid!) found on my shelves and entitled Almanac of nameless men (Michel Clévenot and Horst Widmann, The Letter, L'Harmattan, 1977):
March 1750.
A Mrs. paris woman aged fifty years, daughter of a professor in Paris, which was fucking pimp in his youth and then, like many others, has refined this art. She rented a large house on Rue de Bagneux, Faubourg Saint-Germain, where she has twelve girls from sixteen to twenty years, most of which are pretty, fun to receive and honest people.
This is all the more remarkable that there is a porter, a cook, four maids for girls (One thinks of Muni, in Belle de jour. personal reflection.) teacher to write, dance and music, to give them an education and a surgeon assigned to visit them every two days.
are given twelve books for fun during the day with one of the girls, and twenty-four, by man's head, to dinner. (It gives twelve floors cord of England to those who fear harm.)
The priest of St. Sulpice, informed of the retreat of fun in his parish, has brought his complaints to Berryer, lieutenant general of police , who replied that there with no noise or disturbance in this house, there was not to find fault, that he had to talk to the Comte d'Argenson, secretary of state in Paris. The vicar of Saint Sulpice has spoken to the archbishop who wanted to complain about such a scandal in Paris. It is said that the Comte d'Argenson told him he was not well informed, nothing was more tidy than this house, there was no noise: "This is going to so, my lord, "he said, that you and I could go."

A cord of England. We could talk at that time, gentlemen!

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How small ewer? A March 3

Speaking of Celine Sollers Great bookstore, it's really too much for me and for Sellers and Celine! Even during the holidays! I can hardly stand the conceit of the first and the style of the other. Never could get used to it!

past two days, incessant return to a consignment shop to get rid of some furniture and items that I no longer wanted. No regrets, even for a small library available to me by my grandmother for my eighteen years. The apartment and begins to breathe slowly, I myself breathing a different air. Less congested parts, development of things I like and soon we will almost organize competitions for roller skates. I even see the bottom of my white shelves, is to say! On the second trip, I saw him leaving the objects to be redeemed me by strangers who they liked, a small pottery ewer decorated with antique junk and bought almost as long ago in Sicily. All the better if they can win again. To me, they represented nothing. The sun was there, and that's what mattered.

I noticed today when I paid more attention, that the plates on the mailbox and the front door still bore the name of Peter. Seeing reappear, then they me invisible for more than five years, I decided to change them. There appear more than my name, which in accordance with my present life and reality. Again, no hesitation.

I also, this afternoon, threw many courses and documentation that I have more utility, which still careful not to always give my fever attiléenne. I already made blunders by acting too quickly. I have traveled very little that I threw. Enough to see the monstrous amount of work j'abattais few years ago, find crazes educational or mythological, at a time when I was immersed in it. Glimpsed a fragment of a diary written in 75 out of a large notebook found in Uzès, at the foot of the ducal palace. I did not read before the break. All this no longer interests me. As for teaching, I prefer to live the last three years of teaching instinct. Besides, who will verify. And I still have a little bottle ...

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Esclopeando: All in the Jurançon shoes!

Travelling Exhibition Natacha Sansoz
> Collective AIAA
From March 19 to April 17 at The Commandery
Lacommande
(free admission)
Wednesday, Saturday and Sunday from 14h to 18h


For those who ever heard of my diversions of shoes and other objects and traditional dress, exposed to the Abbey of Arthous in the Landes region in May and Tenerife in the Canary Islands in October, be aware that the exhibition comes to exposing himself mid-March to mid-April to Lacommanderie, near Pau.

After two residences research, experiments and creation, with dancer and video artist Juan Karen Patrice Rullier, we worked to create a new sound and video installation.

Karen Juan prepares for the opening performance entitled: Finding Does it beautiful to her foot?



"In his exhibition, entitled Esclopeando Natasha Sansoz, Observer
habits and customs traditions manhandles
with irony, humor and utopia.
These diversions or" sabotage Visual Arts "questioning identities and bring a questioning our post-industrial societies, through objects and
outfits. "

Artistic collaboration: Pantxo Desbordes
Cast: Karen Juan
Video: Patrice Rullier
Technical Support: Vincent Lahens
Graphics: Yann Surel

Opening Friday, March 18, 18:30
places are limited.

I t is prudent to confirm your attendance.
Book:
contact@vins-jurancon.fr
05 59 82 70 30

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France Gall - Do not be so stupid (1963)

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and not others

There are people that we love for lots of good reasons: because they are beautiful because they have charm, because their conversation is interesting, because they are grown, because they make good love, because their voice makes you vibrate, because for their smile, damn you, because they take you to the restaurant or the opera and are attentive to what you say, for their fragrance, the color of their car, their eyes when you drown, crease their shoulder or their hand on your belly at night, their breath when they are lying, asleep, with you, their laughter or sudden melancholy.

The mystery is when you look like a man without reason, when the evidence is there, without explanation, as unstoppable as the sunrise on a summer morning. It is well with him. We do not need to know the reason. It is there and that is enough. It is not there and you're missing. You know his qualities, you would find fault, it infuriates you, you may want him to be what it is. But is he, as he is, that you love. Integer.

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the complete dossier on the show to download here.

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T.Ô.C. to the AIAA for a week ... it works

Finally, working improvisation best is to play, play, play ... And it's even better to the public.
TOC has rubbed so publicly Roquefortois almost every night this week at home ... And every night a different show ...

"There's a poetry to the language as there is one for the senses"
The trio
T.Ô.C. met an actor, a bassist and a plastic surgeon, he is performing mixing poetry with musical improvisation and creative plastic instantly. The voice is used both as a vehicle for its meaning, the texts are spoken or read or sung, picks Random or not (Cendrars, Breton, Lucas Volut, Monk, Peret, Richter), but also improvised slams. The vocal range of all sound ranges from pure acoustic to the meeting and the treatment of three signals.



Marc Sologub: Theo Girard
voice: bass
Peter Constantine drawings
Damien Dulau: PA

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Tonight, I drank white wine. I'm not sleepy. At the restaurant, with Marie-Claire, we chatted at length, like all times, rare, that we see ourselves. I waited in his office that she had finished her last consultation and we went Dining near Place Lyautey. A restaurant that looks a bit like the Brasserie Brotteaux where we had dinner a few months ago.

She returned from a trip to Turkey, Patmos and Ephesus on the steps of St. John, who was much marked. But what touched me the most is what she told me about his desire to write, which was new to her long mutilated that side. After being ejected from the center dirty school where I work, she trained as a psycho and has now calmed down on this painful past. See her go on this journey in words enchants.

Evening sweet Soothing with a woman who does not judge anything or anyone and knows how to listen and take a step back when necessary. We have three months apart, almost twins, and follow parallel paths and different time. On sunny days, I'll see her in her beautiful home of the Isere, where I took Kicou shortly before his death. With Marie-Claire that we shared the last moments of life of our friend in hospital Charpennes, when he was admitted to a palliative care service. I had called and we all went to visit him in his room in semi-darkness. On leaving, we both understood that we had say goodbye. She died two days later.

Marie Claire had written this farewell to George, the husband Kicou. She had then read large portions of the letter and had she found the words that I, I never could draw.

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Dinner And a little music, anyone? (5) Belle de jour

The same song, the same large by another great!
Rene Jacob and La Petite Bande, Gustav Leonhardt. Mass in B Minor by Bach, Agnus Dei.

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I thought I saw, I had not seen. It is often true of those cult films that eventually we "own" as we have never had any dealings with them, except by a few scenes, always the same, when it aired on television for a moment question of them (here, the first visit of Madame Anais Séverine, the madam of the brothel).

rare pleasure, therefore, for me, both for the theme that surprised and sometimes shocked at its release in 1967, this quest for pleasure is said ambiguous, where the fantasies of the heroine are superimposed on the story that by mischievous winks Bunuel (the reconstitution of the Angelus of Millet, for example). Intense pleasure as provided by the distribution of young Catherine Deneuve, Michel Piccoli, in the role of disorder idle it sticks to the skin, Genevieve Page, madam mother at once tender and brutal, Macha Meril, Georges Marchal, Francisco Rabal, Francoise Fabian. No less!

And Pierre Clementi, the ugly lover, pierced his sock and his long leather coat, with its silhouette of a young person who wants to go for a drive. I always had a thing for this actor, since The Conformist Bernardo Bertolucci and The Cannibals Liliana Cavani .

Ah! as I feel good in this world!

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The Watchtower

I had never read novels of Ana Maria Matute. I'm Italian, so it is Catalan. The Watchtower fascinated me as a little books have done so far. Pound strong and dark, the days when the gods, good and evil, black jumper and white horsemen of the steppes along the great river, engaged in battles in the eyes of a child hallucinated and ugly, who discovers gradually introducing him at a baron to chivalry (that of the first time, where courtly love had not yet taken its toll), it participates in this brutal history of the world before men.

The watchman was dead, although I can not, however, specify when and if he disappeared forever from the dungeon of my father, the night when I shared my hunting with him; or when he watched the horizon, his body bent over the battlements, or perhaps much later, once all these things accomplished. (...) There, near the Grand River, three birch trees waved gently in a land also forgotten that the image of a young man recently invested knight and a squire who was pouring a drink into the cup of his lord.
grass-prairie grasslands and all the world-swaying like a sea caught when she intends to flee. (...)
upland woods came the white knights and black knights. Walls of the castle Mohl went to meet them white and black riders. Then I saw The Lord of enemies, so arrogant, so brave lad and if a last cry of violence arose in my mind. I am proud of his fury, I admired his courage, his cruelty and sent me the image of my childhood, lying in the meadow, eyes troubled pleasure to dream of war and blood. But the black sword stood with my own hands and broke forever the pride, cruelty, courage and honor. "Evil is dead," I said.
(Ed. Phoebus Libretto. Trad Michelle Levi-Provencal)

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Annie Girardot

I learned, like everyone else, the news of the death of Annie Girardot. I was in my car to go to my mother. I did really thought that tonight, while watching television. Her disappearance touched me very much, first because it was a great actress popular, everyone agrees, but also because it has always been, for me, a woman alive, passionate, giving smiles and bites. Thank you, ma'am.
I could not help but think that little by little, my mother glides on the same slope. Excuse me while mixing.

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In response to Karagar

Lu today on a blog that I frequent for a long time: The eyeglass melancholy . Extract Primer * Jean Sulivan

SOLITUDE "I am grateful that loves to help me feel comfortable in solitude. This is ambiguous. Thanks to the presence / absence of careful who loves me that solitude is precious to me. "
gap and the alliance, P. 17. *
Gallimard, 2010 (Edition established and presented by Charles Austin).

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A memory that came back this morning upon waking. Why at this time? I know damn nothing. We were in Alsace with my students, Hohwald for a European week. We went nine consecutive years. The last time the managers have wanted to celebrate our loyalty by offering us a bottle once the children go to bed: "You never know, we can not meet again next year." There never was a tenth year.

This time, I slept in the room at the back of the building, which I reserve as soon as I could because, instead of giving space on asphalt below, where the bus was parked, she opened the countryside and the surrounding woods. One morning, woke up early, I enjoyed the silence that reigned around me still to smoke a cigarette in the corridor outside the fire escape. It was still fresh, and although June is well under way, remnants of mist floating, vanishing around the house. The contours of the hill opposite were themselves embedded in cotton.

I was leaning on the railing, still pleased that moment stolen. breathing the fresh air as a delicacy which I was the only one to enjoy and that's where I saw him a few yards away, standing on its hind legs, trying to eat the tops of high grasses. It was a beautiful hare, bold and big, plump and beautiful to perfection in its vertical position. He had not seen me and the breeze blowing toward me, I could not perceive the odor or smoke from my cigarette. He also enjoyed probably the way the beauty of solitude morning.

I watched it long, strong and fragile at times, oblivious to my presence that would have scared off if he had seen. Can we say that a rabbit is moving? I think since that day. Table of serenity and life. It was just him and me. By now I had the sensation of being indiscreet, but could not tear myself away from this show. I seldom felt so close to nature, to forget to pull on my cigarette Only careful not to move, not to break the harmony of what was beyond me. He continued to nibble, sometimes resting the legs on the ground to recover immediately after sufficient rest. 'I am gone. I just wanted to keep that image, with no leakage which would probably soon.

Moments later, after lunch, children were playing there, pushing their hilarious screams of young fools release. The hare had regained his protective thicket.

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Grasses in the mist And a little music, anyone? (4) Nothing but me

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I always all these moments nothing but me in the evening after a meal with friends at home or at home, such nights when I'm not besotted by the work and where I know I can hang out in the morning in bed. Moments stolen from the hustle and stress, which can not think of anything other than what we saw in the moment, where there is no rush, when everything suddenly becomes lighter, as if time had lost its consistency.

Read, watch TV, come to this screen with no other desire than to be good. No phone calls mostly. No other noise tire slippage on the wet road, in a building where sleeping alone, I sleep. Or prepare a dish for the next day, stopping at the entrance of a repeat parts of the apartment and tell me that I like to think of development remains to be done, assume the location of a table , a trinket, dreaming that it will be soon and that allows you to dream because you have not already.

And when sleep wins, do not resist slipping into the sheets and go to sleep without having to set the alarm to trust your body will know when it will be well rested, hopefully, when we open shutters in the morning as the sun enters the kitchen, giving it a soul, always silent, start slowly and another day.