The Last Day of a Condemned

This morning, dawn. Capital Punishment. "Let us call it by the name which, for lack of any other nobility, will at least give the nobility of truth, and let us recognize it for what it is essentially: a revenge" - Albert Camus

Saddam's last steps to the scaffold were filmed. They shot him til he was hung. If human justice is about satisfying the winners, what kind of justice is it? Mr Bush said that killing Saddam will help establishing democracy - quite a syllogism.

Fear. Small. Man. Society must avenge itself, society must punish. Like beasts. No transparency. Lack of justice. Souls' poverty.

Link the Birds

When I imagine the ideal music label, I see a pantheon of my favorite artists, a bunch of boys and girls who come from different countries, musical backgrounds and atmospheres. In real life, they've never met, but in my cd book, they're on the first page, looking deeply into each other's eyes/music. Then I imagine the most unexpected duets, mixing harmonies and cultures: Manu Chao meets Cake, The White Stripes shout while Charlotte Gainsbourg whispears, Jack Johnson giggles with Tribalistas, Seu Jorge cheers Shivaree up, Regina Spektor tries to make her voice bigger than Youssou N'Dours', Souad Massi and Ben Harper fall in love.

In my room, Emily Loizeau and Andrew Bird live on the same shelf, and I like them both the same way: a lot - even more. Suddenly, "Planes at night protect us from flowers" meets "I watched waterbugs skate memories, like mohair sweaters". But this time, it's not only a distraction of the mind, it's real! Andrew came along with his violin when Emily recorded her first album. And now, she comes along with her piano when he is touring in Europe.

Then I got interested in Fargo, that dreamed label that actually exists - they signed both Emily and Andie, that's why... I met all their kiddos, from Neal Casal to Alamo Race Track, Shearwater and Clem Side. Loizeau and Bird remain the most accomplished it's true: I've always been impressed by the way some musicians manage to frame their sweet madness, making it reachable and adorable.

'luck birdies.

Il est presque né le divin enfant...

... pendant que nous restons desespéremment humains.

Dans quelques journaux européens, le 24 décembre 2006. L'Iran bien sûr qui doit cesser d'agiter son uranium sous l'oeil inquiet de l'assemblée des représentants de l'ONU. Le Monde parle de "provocations iraniennes" et d'une ONU décridibilisée, critiquée par la Chine, la Russie et par les Etats-Unis qui à l'inverse des deux précédents trouvent la sanction insuffisante. Quant à l'Iran, elle dénonce une mesure illégale. De toute évidence, une menace à l'entente diplomatique mondiale. Sur le même sujet, le Guardian demeure plus mesuré "it should be seen as an interim step towards a full travel ban if Iran fails to comply" et fait allusion aux risques courus par Israel à la suite de cette résolution.

Dans El Pais, on parle de José Luis García Sabrido, chirurgien en chef de l'hôpital public de Gregorio Marañón de Madrid, parti jeudi dernier au chevet de Fidel Castro. Guettons le gaiement?

Une image pieuse dans La Reppublica, Benoit XVI les bras levés mais pas pour le Christ. Une autre sorte de martyre, Piergiorgio Welby. Atteint de dystrophie musculaire et enchaîné à son lit depuis 1997, il avait demandé le droit de mourrir, un recours jugé irrecevable. Dimanche dernier, on l'a débranché à sa demande. L'Eglise lui refuse des osèques religieuses alors les hommes se sont réunis pour le fêter eux mêmes, paiens, aujourd'hui dimanche 24 décembre, le jour de la naissance du "sauveur". Ce soir Benoit XVI dans son bénédicité, demandera la paix.

JOYEUX NOEL!

Chronique déambulatoire

Je gare souvent ma voiture villa Borghese, c'est plus pratique pour aller dans le centre, car c'est ingarrable. I don't know what that means. What is the point? Una sopa di verdura per favore... Qu'est-ce que c'est? J'ai pas peur du noir. I think I miss London. I miss London. I miss London. I'm cold but it's not that cold. Une fontaine. Elle n'a pas de tête la statue. Qui c'est? Who is it? Quien es? Mama was queen of the mambo. Oi...er... ciao...er... voce fala ingles? Nao nao nao.... Per favore, parla francese? Spagnolo? Niente? Parla, no? It's not a bad idea to rent a car, but then I'm gonna be advertising those silly things on my car. What if I don't agree? What if it's totally uncool? Do people se sacrifie when they do this kind of choses? Piazza delle Muse, dove si trova? Dove si trova la piaza delle muse? Lawrence, Valentina, Louis, Viola, Matan, Cecilia, Audrey est tombée amoureuse d'un Italien de Rome. Principesa, caffé principesa? I know I shouldn't be wearing my hat, it's not that cold, yesterday it was 18 degrees in Roma. Roma, Roma, Roma! Cazzo. Caffé. Pyramide ce soir, concert de jazz. Trop fatigée. Every monkey'd like to be in my place instead of me. Je veux retrouver la librairie pres de la piazza venezia je crois. What do I buy? I want to buy a book? Should I ask him what book I can buy? Piazza del Popolo, what other name? You smeel people, do you smell it? The floor and the spontanéité des gens. De l'air narquois, qui vole, qui vibre. Spontanéité. Spontanéité. Indifférence. Beau, Beautiful, Bellissimo. I'm tired. I think. A glass of water, oh yes, a glass of water. Two. Three. O'clock rock. I'm going to stand there and watch. I'm sitting in front of the Gallerie delle arti. I'm smoking a cigarette. I'm free now. I'm free and a little low, because it often goes together. Free is lonely, lonely is low? Low is..? Rome how do they not get lost? I don't know. The streets are so tournicotantes. Aix, tu te souviens? C'était pareil, j'étais always lost in the streets. I'm too bad. Nobody knows fortunately.

In Bristol

Calais Sands at Low Water, Turner.
As alcohol was still poisoning my veins, I stopped in different places of the city, watching people going down the streets with their Christmas bags. Waiting there for time to die.

At 4.30pm I was in a pub reading The Girl who Plays Go by Shan Sa . I saw those letters put together:

"Yes, soul's vanity is death"

It is always a shock to see someone else writing for you something you would never be able to even think of. Your hell is the one of others.

Almost definitely the beginning of an end

2006, not a year for dictators. It smells like it's the end of a certain world. Some are truely affected, some just see it as a headline of a newspaper. Some know that it's a big deal, but yet don't realise it. I'm thinking of Mr. Hernandez, my Spanish teacher from Cuba.

I was running in this pool of... shit. At the bottom, were lying corpses and I knew that my friend was among them. I couldn't find him. The smell was so horrible it would make me give up on him. This is how he won, the dictator. Stronger than me, stronger than all the rest. Full of cleverness and cruelty. He got us all. You would never win. You would be able to get a better life, escaping to Miami, and me to Paris. But you wouldn't win. You would be a coward. To fight a dictator, you've got to be one.

I suppose the end will only be completed when these generations of cowards stop living with their guilt. That is to say when they are all gone, back to the center of the earth, where it all began. One day, in a few centuries, the dictator will be forgotten. Then only he will stop winning.

2 pairs of eyes in the London Tornado

At 2.30 pm yesterday, P and I were in Kensal Rise, London, after the tornado hit the area.

Gathering with the press, the well dressed journos, we tried our best to be taken seriously, shouting everywhere we could "French Press! French Press! AFP!" - my favorite lie - and it worked quite well until P started to feel guilty and admitted we were students. Because we both look like we're 12 years old, press officers, policemen, witnesses, a woman who was in one of the damaged houses, the lib dem leader of Brent council pitied us and agreed to be interviewed. For one of the interview, other journos gathered around us and our minusculus tripod to film our man. That was pride! The group manager also agreed to take us on a private tour to one of the damaged houses.

One funny story was when we attended the press conference. We managed to set our equipment right in front of the stage, close to the big TV crews. Our mini tripod + videocam felt like some old and proud veteran standing by those giant cameras. P left to call the French TV and I was on my own dealing with the mic issues... The other journos had put their big hairy ones on the table and we just had the little clip mic. So I had no choice... I discretely plugged our one-million-kilometer-long cable into the camera, then to the mini mic (what was the most ridiculous, the cable or the mic??) and stepped towards the table to drop it delicately on one of those gigantic mics... I thank the other journos for a/ Not laughing at me b/ Pretending that it was common practise c/ Pretending that they hadn't seen anything!

We ended our evening in the Royal British legion where the people living in the damaged houses had been relocated. Most of the press had their vans nearby and journos were wearing ties and tuxedos. We arrived there after a long and cold walk, getting lost three times before meeting the holly stable.

It was a great experience, and (not surprisingly) we learnt more in one day than in 3 months. Working in a rush, worrying about the footages. Making phone calls and trying to sell our story abroad was also a bit of a challenge, and we found out how NOT to do it!