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Five o'clock tea

Through the window I watched the taxi hurtling down Gran Via when asked me what I thought. I usually say "nothing," both true and false - there is always something that comes to mind, but this is hardly ever stated. I looked away from the outside world, have placed upon it, then the tea or infusion of a mixture of bergamot, and Yunnan. For once, I decided to answer honestly and tell him about the fact that I had done what we had just seen one floor above. We sat in the great cafeteria of the Circulo de Bellas Artes after visiting an exhibition of photography of the twentieth century, filled with photographs of the most famous of the time.

you remember, I said, one of the first pictures we saw up there? That of August Sander, three farmers on the banks of a muddy road? She remembered, of course. I do not know, "I continued, so I explained that there is an American writer whose first book was born out of fascination on his mind by this picture. Without waiting for an answer, I related the anecdote. Legend has it that in the early '80s, Richard Powers, then computer scientist, visited the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston and saw this picture. The shock was such that the following Monday, he resigned his job and began to floor on a novel that would tell both the story of three men and that of an American bewitched by the photo. I saw her look she had already heard it and was awaiting the result with a strange mixture of indifference and interest caused by the possibility of a surprise lost somewhere in the middle of my soliloquy . So I continued. When I found myself in front of Sander's work, I told myself " it was this! "And even if I did not feel that Powers had felt, I somehow knew what had hit him and then motivated. Then I started thinking about this idea of creative shock that gives you the impetus to leave everything and dedicate yourself to the construction of a building individual artistic. Realizing the pomposity of the sentence I just said, I broke off, just to see if I could read any reaction on his face. Mistaking this abrupt stop, she was kind enough to revive me by asking me for clarification. Do not really have to give, I tried to correct the situation: no, I do not mean that I have something to say about what motivates such a sudden change of direction in a personal journey, I was thinking that Perhaps I was, too, feel a similar sentiment from another photo of the show and I would put my resignation on Monday to dedicate myself to a great novel for the next two years. In fact, I stated, and it will not surprise you, secretly hoping that my lack of imagination is offset by the strength of the image of any photographer, it opens me dimension hitherto unknown by me and put me on the trail of the story which I sorely needed. I'm not sure that watching a series of works are also aware of the purpose of this contemplation is the ideal to reach my goal and shameful secret, but you know me: I went right into the game and does I managed to watch over it all for the aesthetic qualities but rather looks like a virgin girls: wondering if he could that one of them ... I made a second break here, waiting for the question that would follow especially for me and revive me prove it had followed me and I do not bullshit. Of course, it came, although I saw that she already suspected the answer would of course not. In fact, I replied, I was impressed by the picture of an elegant man, absolutely gruesome mine, alone in an empty street. For some moments I thought about the possibilities it opened my mind but unfortunately I hit a wall far too strong for me and now my total proverbial lack of imagination. I would have had at least a few more details of this guy and this street to find a trail that other than on a train umpteenth repetition of "I Am Legend," a variation on the theme of the last man. Once again, I paused, this time longer. It was time to serve tea. It was an Earl Grey's English of a company whose name I do not want to remember, but like, without being at Whittard of Chelsea. The mixture was mediocre but ultimately quite satisfactory, provided that one keeps in mind the real difficulty in finding good tea in Spain. While I drank my first sip, she informed me that two tables away, was a relatively well known TV presenter, with a strange name. After I twisted my neck to see what he looked like and had swallowed another mouthful, I decided, without asking her opinion, to pick up where I left my explanations. In addition, I say so, this picture of the last man in the city was, too, signed August Sander. Can you imagine how little originality there would be the second to leave his job and started writing because one of his works? No, this is not possible, so I had to my great regret, believe me, abandon the idea. A little later, I stumbled on something more exciting. It was, I think the cover of a French book of the '30s on women. A naked body, the upper chest at the beginning of the pubic hair. I tried to give a clinical description does not see the trouble experienced with the vision of these few hairs as we would like to try to wrap around her little finger, these breasts, of course, rather small but the perfect form, which we wish to approach both hands to ensure their good health and, finally, above all, the most moving, with the center of the belly of a whole navel which becomes the focal point of our desire, passenger receptacle of beauty in the world. I was not speaking of it and clutch very quickly on the opportunity to leave everything and go inside a world purely for two years just because of this photo. Myriad avenues were open to me. The young woman, daughter of a White Russian who lost his fortune in exile, pays its courses in painting and posing naked in common, much to the anger of his father, Vallejo and Aragon. The story would end in June 1940, on a steamer to the United States where, sixty years later, an elderly woman recalls her wild youth. We could also take a more gloomy, perversion and decay, that of a barely pubescent teenager and already in the hands of depraved men, or a new version of a Long Engagement or a love story simple and so beautiful all or why not, a meditation on the body, a novel that is not one - the best! - Including the atlas narrative is confined to the epidermis reproduced on the cover of this book, it talks thrill, sense, sensation, moisture, heat, and creepy, it tu the universe, no less, from so little. But now, I realized right away, I sighed, it was not possible, it would lead nowhere, it was all the cliché that it had nothing to do with imagination, it There was nothing in there that seemed to put me on the way to change life on the path of a priesthood whose only luxury is a keyboard and on the white surface of the screen, a dark line blinks we scare because we have learned to see. Already there as a story that we do not yet know but will become essential. Oh, no!, I almost cried, vertigo was not there. Perhaps, I continued, head down, maybe I should admit that I have nothing that allows me hope to keep Powers ... I raised my head slightly to look over my glasses. His look said "no, do not think that, my love" but she was careful not to open his mouth, what I was grateful I needed to be comforted, but I did hear the words of comfort. To not finish this pathetic note, I decided to find a rapid conclusion. I came suddenly convinced that everything I had said was false, pathetic comedy whose purpose was to receive any evidence of tenderness and that the real reason to abandon this picture was different, was the nature of the photograph of this woman naked. Almost in a state of excitement but while trying to control my voice and rhythm, I spoke one last time. Most importantly, I began a photo like that, what's it about? It's about sex. And sex, everyone is already talking. Not only most of the writers, whose novels, we often feel, is precisely to go between the kidneys is a sex drive that they control by running the ink of their fountain pen, but in how many billions of people have already changed life for a merry, leaving overnight work and family for a woman to a man? What happened, I concluded, finally, the look in their eyes is that I have no desire to find my revelation somewhere where everyone finds it every day and that, whatever the image quality, the fact that I realize that what I had found was the poor and common in me made me abandon the idea as quickly as it came. And at the same time, the prospect of following Powers took off too. It is followed by a short silence, time to realize that my cup was empty, his, as usual, filled the third and cold. I left my pocket for some coins to pay the bill.

Leaving the Circulo de Bellas Artes, yet we saw that they announced on Monday following a performance of the sonata for piano and violin Janáček . Perhaps we would be doing ourselves. We ascended the Gran Via I watched an hour before. Taxis raced down the still and in the dusk that combined the artificial lights flicker and the speed red stripes adorning them made me think, inexplicably, Peru. It was time to go buy shoes.

Fred Meyer Apllication Online

For a rainy day

Or How did we get here?

It was raining that day. I do not remember much, but it's the only explanation. Usually we prefer to play in the garden, with gravel drives and four red expanses of lawns. Each had its usefulness. In the background there were planted the son for hanging clothes, but it was obviously not what interested us. No, what we liked, it was the wood of conifers where you could play at the Battle of the Bulge, and the pile that had formed at the place where, year after year, they threw the herbs harvested after mowing. This, we were told, had been found at the end of the war a German grenade. Finally, this parcel was where we played the least, especially since it was the only place where the fence was low enough that we can see the neighbors - and especially to conflict with their kids. The rest of the garden, away, we thought, looks, was much more pleasant: one would forget as we wanted. There was also the part of the lawn swing. It was used very often goal to football games that I played sometimes alone, sometimes with my brother. On the right, was the sacred lawn, one where we had planted a chestnut tree, more or less at the time of my birth. I was proud to see him grow, but a little jealous to see him still so small compared to the huge basswood. I particularly regret not knowing what became of the last eight years. The most exciting part of the garden was actually the one who was right hand when it came down from the terrace. After a few meters of grassy area, there was a mini-grove that we seemed to have the size of a deep forest. There, it was possible to dig holes, build huts, climbing trees, taking guns and helmets and observe the Boche in the street without they see us. It would spend whole afternoons in ambush, even drinking from the bottle and making sure that the enemy will never penetrate the perimeter with guard our responsibility. The only way to work this out, it was on the stroke of five, calling us to take tea. Once the cup and the tea drunk swallowed up, we rushed outside, already regretting having left his position, ready to sacrifice our lives if the enemy had treacherously introduced by making holes in the fence that we wanted to call barbed wire. But the worst opponent we could meet always appeared in the guise of our parents, who came in the early evening trying to rescue us from our stronghold and let us go home. The greatest misfortune? They always won. It was almost as if the stay of the week in Stalag was essential to our military escapades of the weekend.

No, that's for sure, it was raining so we are not outside. If it snowed, we would have been trying to make a snowman - try is the word in my memory we have never been beautiful. It was raining and having a bicycle race on TV. Because it's true, deprived of TV all week at home, visiting the weekend could prompt us to abandon our outpost for the comfort of a sofa lazily watch the best series in the history of world. I remember that at that time there, not always aware of the realities television, I was sure that if the presenter looked into my eyes, she saw me really. I was paralyzed, not knowing what to do. I could not scratch my nose, I could not watch anything other than the screen, I could not even change channels as I was afraid to see the look of shame on the person in front of me. I never talked about it to anyone, because even back then, although I caught the idiocy of this belief and was no more ready to suffer the ridicule that would follow inevitably these revelations to abandon it completely. To stay in the area of confessions, it is precisely this belief that I owe my first emotion, or at least my first memory of sexual excitement. I was alone I do not know why, and I watched music videos on RTL I think. And this song of Mecano is passed, the tube was the moment, the classic: "A woman with a woman." I could not understand the lyrics, and I do not see at all how was the clip - I did not want to see him, but I remember that Ana Torroja upset me completely. I well should have realized it was happening something not normal and ashamed, because when I heard a car passing in the street, I rushed to the living room window. It was my grandparents who were returning. I immediately turned off the television, despite the air of both reproach and sadness that I could clearly see the beautiful face of Ana and myself grabbed a toy to make believe I was busy all Another thing that this disorder who had seized my brain.

No, there must be one of those racing cyclists during which my grandfather monopolized the TV, otherwise it's in the living room that we would have been. Now the mystery remains: why did not play with plastic soldiers in our room? There was a small farmhouse in which we could place the soldiers would defend themselves or else they unknowingly reinvented the war of position among the animals that went with the farm. My brother had the Americans, me, of course, was the English. The Nazis, we'll deal with both, the important thing is that they lose in the end. We could also be playing the gardener, or hide and seek hide and seek or even the Cowboy wrestling on the beds. I still remember the WWF programming on RTL radio Saturday night before we could see the football on the RTBF only if we were nice. We loved, of course, Hulk Hogan. Not without perversity, Big Boss Man we liked too.

No, it should be a day of cycling, because if I was on the second floor, it was certainly to get on the bike and take me to Greg LeMond or Stephen Roche. It does was not often on the second floor. It was far, it seemed the end of the world, and once there, we were not greeted by the reassuring but bearing surface through a glass door through which we saw drop. It was uncomfortable at the time of opening, since he was still on the stairs, and stairs, I thought that from the moment they stopped rising, they were sure fall. It was therefore necessary to rely on the handle, but even that did not reassure because then the door creaked, and then once inside, should be closed so the cat does not climb the glass and then made a noise that seemed unbearable, not only because he was announcing our presence as surely as a barking dog that when we do not even know if we had really the right we find, but also because it meant that we were alone, cut off from the world in this strange room where nobody ever seemed to come so it was a house in the house. Because on the right, there was the kitchen, but it was a strange kitchen, as if there was an old fridge, cupboards and sink, there was as a pot, hammers, cutlery, nails, cans, paint cans, food, white spirit. Next to the kitchen, bathroom. Oh God, this bathroom. Narrow and dark, really scary, how stupid could well await us? We were returning there ever. At left, a bedroom with wardrobes and more or less empty bed in which nobody ever slept - now there's something strange, even if it does not scare. Little wonder then, that before these oddities, the only way was straight ahead to enter the two adjoining rooms, which corresponded in size and location, exactly to the two rooms on the first and the living room and dining room on the ground floor. There he had the bike. But before we get there, there was the astonishing spectacle of a long wooden table littered with papers and boxes and shelves sagging under the documents, books, etc.. It was not surprising in the home of a university professor, dean of the Faculty of Philosophy and NEWSLETTEROFTHECOMMIT, but it was still a shock to us to face this chaos Absolute, representative, I thought Then, a mass of paper larger than the children's library we attended once or twice a month.

Yes, I would probably go on this bike green, black seat, with his speedometer. I wonder still why my attention was diverted by this mysterious door that led nowhere. I had already seen plenty of times, in other rainy Sunday when there was a bicycle race on TV, I knew she did not in closets of the room next door, I knew that 'There were no holes for passing a man, I knew without a doubt it also concealed a shelf full of books. I knew it, and yet I opened the door and saw all these books. And I do not know why, rather than just settle for the confirmation of my knowledge and close the door and get on this bike, I observed more closely. And I realized, thinking to be seeing things beginning with astonishment that these books were all the same. Or rather, they were all different but they were three names that I did not reorder. The author could be Adolphe Benjamin Constant, Adolphe Benjamin Constant, Benjamin Constant Adolphe, it should be that, because books explain how to outward appearances as different, but all with the same name? After a moment of perplexity, the truth came upon me: it was thousands of copies of the same book, and they were marked with the name of my brother Benjamin, clear proof that he was the favorite ...

I do not know what I did afterwards. The first thing I think is that I forgot the story of my brother-on-favorite because too improbable: I was nicer, prettier and smarter. I would never breathe a word of my discovery, that's for sure, because it would put funny ideas in his head. So maybe I'm finally on the bike, fighting with my brother instead, or are we down to get away from this floor just too strange to play soldiers or we sit on the chair next to our grandfather to watch the race. I do not know. Maybe I wanted to acquire at this precise moment, all the best in the world of vampire stories, because it seemed fair, it seemed the best way to make a work that you gave so much a little love, a little attention. The only thing I am certain that I did not tell anyone about this strange experience. Yet, it never left me, and I probably, looking back almost twenty years later, seeing the birth of fetishism which I suffer daily, who, from hand contact with the paper creates sheer ecstasy.

Orn Star With Butterfly Tatoo

Dear G.

Dear G.

Almost a year ago, you asked me, puzzled, why the hell I was reading so many books? Que cojones there I found exactly? And I, equally puzzled, to answer you that I did nothing but damn I would think. A few weeks later in a bar in Brussels, we talked again. I seem to remember thee then expressed my difficulties in finding even the smallest piece of the answer. I thought that put me in front of a blank page to write rather than say it would release perhaps something would put me on the track, command me ideas. And then I've promised a text in the weeks that were follow.

I finished the paper the first week of May. The idea was put online on Tabula Rasa . It will never be the case. There are no answers, only tracks. Regardless, it can be interesting, the problem lies elsewhere: I was unable to really finish it. I should say: I finished miserably, because it is the truth. The conclusion is void and I will not publish this. I can not write it either, I have no strength: the game is not worth the candle, the question Finally, do not disturb me enough. By cons, try to answer your questions gave me a revealing anecdote in mind (maybe) of my childhood. An epiphany - I know you do not like Joyce, a madeleine I know, you do not like Proust, who led me to write three pages on what would have happened that day. For that alone, I owe your thanks. Self-fission is the perfect space for self-publishing this kind of thing.

A month ago, you said, I quote, "rather than ink smudging his fingers cool, would it not Time to get serious? "To this day I still have no idea what you mean by" serious stuff "and I keep smudging ink fingers with great joy. It should not however believe that your comment does not abstruse trots me not in the head. It is, in truth, the element that convinced me to open this blog after long delays. It is an idea that I was working, and I still do not know, now that I took the leap, whether it is good. Anyway, I owe you more thanks. If I could make a dedication, it would be "to G. "Although it surprised if you find anything here that you like.

But now I realize that I did not say clearly what I intended to make this space. As you know, we've already discussed there are indeed two years in a Chilean restaurant, I sometimes write like that, as a dilettante. I can go six months without putting myself or find myself in a state of excitement during a scriptural weekend. For some time, I told myself that I needed motivation to write more regularly. That's what to serve self-fission house all these things I do too but that would not find their place on Tabula Rasa and encourage me to put me to work to live blog with all the same, a certain regularity. To me now not to let the thing become an empty shell more. To avoid this disastrous fate, everything is possible. I have old texts that eventually could be saved. I have three (or four, I do not know) serious projects that revolve endlessly in my head without really convince me to get started. This is an opportunity. I also hope to help readers - if I find faithful - who can always suggest one or the other exercise, one or the other theme.

Waiting to see what comes of it, but for the moment I am still forced to rely on the failure. Not to fall too high. This is one of the reasons I did so immediately. The other, and I'm a little ashamed to admit it, is the fear of what will disappoint my initial readership. I imagine that in fact the first to discover this blog are regular readers of Tabula Rasa, including some of my colleagues and comrades, and especially those among them, also write and publish the results of their delusions here or there. I think another G., P., O., C., A., T., L., U. These people, you see, do what they do very well, but the more I found in their words, their rhythm in their play, a bit of what makes the beauty of the authors we love together. They might expect to find the same kind of thing here, go to my mill staff. They could expect a little adventure, a little game, funny phrases. And yet, F. the reader and F. the writing is not quite the same people. I stick, I fear, to a certain classicism little original. The risk of not interest those who are most likely to spread the word is there and have me time from going forward with the act. I know it's silly and a spirit as strong as yours do this would not block it. You're right, and that's why I'll start.

I'll stop here and leave you alone. I hope this little letter finds you fit and awake, in the absence of passion, a little bit of kindness for this project. I seemed important to point out to you the role you have played there. Besides, if you see him before me also thank our friend B. which, last spring, had directed me to move her ass. He had even half-seriously suggested that he write a monologue for her acting classes. I did, needless to say, nothing.

Although you,

Francis

PS: the blog name? Do not give it more meaning than Tabula Rasa.

Can You Get Herpes From Tight Pants

Auto-fission

"A fragment of the novel of my life in which everything is true because it is invented, as ultimately, an autobiographical narrative is a fiction among many other possibilities. "

" I fear that self-fission was invented by Dante. "