Spoilt

Histoire vraie

Comme toute jeune fille qui se respecte je reve moi aussi d'une galopee chevalresque, de mon lot d'aventure qui vite laisse place a cette fin toride qui n'est en fait qu'un debut: "ils se marierent et eurent beaucoup d'enfants". Le prince (ne crapaud) et la princesse qui ont du se tapper 1001 emmerdes avant de se poser pepere, revendent les bijoux piques dans le puit de la mort, et s'achetent un bungalow en Corse. L'hiver la princesse tricote des pulls avec la laine pecho sur les moutons du coin, et le prince regarde son foot crispe sur sa biere. L'ete ils se dorent la pillule comme deux cons sans se poser de questions parceque, qu'on se le dise, ils l'ont bien merite.

Bref, une pendule a l'heure.

Vendredi a mon bureau Londonien, je m'attarde avec Estelle, une sorte de rayon de soleil vivant qui parle en riant ou qui rit en parlant, c'est selon.
Estelle me dit gloussante:
- J'en peux plus de Londres. Les anglais ne pensent qu'a deux choses - picoler et le credit de leur baraque.
Voila une analyse tout a fait pertinente.


Et le lien? Aucun. Aucun lien.

Il Cielo può essere mio?

On a discussion panel on Democracy in South East Asia, a European journalist is conversing with the editor of the Thai nation newspaper:

- Journalist: But isn't it intriguing that Singapore is doing much better economically than Thailand is? What conclusions do you draw from that?
- Editor: Well, I draw that Singapore is a small country, they have smarter people, no doubt about that.

On Manu Chao

Manu Chao's political beliefs, struggle, engagement are inherent to the person. To his art, to his words, to his moves. He is beautifully communist. Is it because he couldn't tell where his home is? Because he gives more than he is able to receive? Is it because he is lazy or lunatic or because he is utopic?

Well, yesterday, when he came to shake my hand - please, let me leave this sentence in this post - I understood what it was all about. He doesn't look the individual in the eye, he deosn't even know how to deal with him. Only the mass.

Manu Chao @ the Brixton Academy (London)

Alone

Today's enlightment. Rimbaud.

J'ai embrassé l'aube d'été...
I kissed the summer's dawn.

I did. I went to bed, as I often do, when my friends were slowly waking up. But although I tend to fear loneliness, tasting solitude in the early morning is an exquisite pleasure. So small, but so big in the world, the privilege of watching nature and deeply believing that you are the only one to sense that young light droping on your skin.

Rimbaud is a surrealist. He puts words together and he believes the sentence has a meaning. When he becomes suspicious he probably thinks: "they ought to mean something, otherwise those sentences that I make up couldn't caress so beautifully my ears". Maybe I share this feeling with him, which could explain why I resent on those who dare to tell me "you don't make sense".

But... sensitivity drives my speech, is this meaningless?

Alone, yes, alone. And surreal. Awake when people lay in the dark, and vice versa. Most of my friends and myself have reached the last stage of our lives - awareness. Obligations, duties mixed with pride and compromises. For what? For the quest for happiness, confort, power, all this converging into one official goal, balance, and one hidden fantasy, self-esteem. We are being dragged into a hole. So quickly. I am officially in the dark, just officially. Therefore alone. And if the majority defines what's dark, then I really am dans la merde.

There is a list of taboo questions in philosophy. One of them is "Why art?"
Artists question mimesis. Imitation. How close to nature do their work have to be?

Who is in the dark then?

- And when you're two?
- When I'm two in a pair of arms, I am alone, still.

Pink Water's stories

What is happening behind the horizon? I have been on holiday for two weeks, and I forgot everything!

Chapter 1

Man: I love you.
Woman: Do you?
Man: I’d die to spend one night by your side.
Woman: I want to sleep alone. Get out.
Man: …
Woman: I said - GET. OUT.

Past is past. Past is past. Past is past. Past is past.

Chapter 2

The French invented sociology and nudism.

Chapter 3

Nudism was born in the 6Os on the Côte d’Azur. Maybe it is linked to the invention of sociology – a century later, the French realised they were a nation of boring intellectuals, and needed to get themselves a more funky reputation. In the 70s, the authorities decided it was illegal (an action taken after too much thinking probably). Puis l'eau a coulé sous les ponts... Today, they have their own beaches. In some places like in the South East of France, they even have their own villages. They go to the supermarket dressed with a pair of flip-flops, walk down the streets with sunglasses too big for their nose, play ping-pong, cook, watch the sun set completely naked. I suppose this is kind of cool. But today when, after a long walk in the dunes, we ended up on a nudist beach, I couldn’t help feeling embarrassed for being a spectator of what I think is the other's intimacy. Also, I couldn’t help thinking “How can nudity be so un-sensual?”. Cold flesh flattened on the sand, walking around but never moving.

I wonder if they get dressed when they make love.


Chapter 4

The way people spread on the beach deserves some thinking. A sociological study on the clothes they wear according to their social and cultural background. The kind of noise they make – laugh, shout, talk loud, whisper talk, don’t make noise. The position – who are those who settle close to the rocks and those who stay right under the trendy bar. And what they eat. And what category of people will bother getting rid off the sand when leaving the beach. I’m sure you’ll learn a lot from your friends if you were going to the beach with them. You’ll learn about yourself. This year, I realised I was the most impatient woman on earth.

“Ok, I read my book, I swam, I played in the water. No, I don’t want to build a castle in the sand. Let’s get out of here shall we?”.

I reckon people think much more than I do. What else could they be doing when getting tanned?

Chapter 5

Talking about thinking...

Surfers are nothing without their boards. Even when there are no waves, they bring it to the beach, wash it under the shower, before and after… not using it. They look at the sea and count the waves. It goes like that:

“One… two… three… four… Ok, one series of four, then again – one… two… three… four.
Every fifteen seconds there’s a wave. Four waves per series. There are small waves, about 50cm high. So, the sea isn’t surfable today.”

Well, I didn’t need to sit and count to know that. Even for me, miserable surf ignorant, the sea is bathably boring.

Godship

Il y en a qui passent leur vie au bord de la mort.
En trois jours nous avons perdu trois dieux.