1) The Book Thief (Marcus Zusak): at Valerie's suggestion (or rather, insistence!). I fell right into this book, almost against my will, and found the narrator unusual and compelling. Liesel was a superb character, and Rudy, and Max and Papa especially. They were full of depth, colour and breadth immediately. It's quite a feat I think to maintain strong character and nearly omniscient narration; one is often sacrificed for the other.  It was a journey. I loved the visual aspect of the book, and its typography too, and more than anything feel real relief that such an unusual book, with so many different components, can meet with real success. Like probably everyone else in the whole world, I wept all the way through the last 50 pages. I then passed it onto my sister-in-law. I could tell when she reached the same part, from her sniffing on the sunbed next to me...I was oddly disappointed by the ending, though, the very ending, as in the last couple of lines. They felt flat. Sorry to be so picky.

2) The Gathering (Anne Enright): Booker prize winner last year. I liked it alot. Can't say that I loved it, but I thought it very well written, extremely so, subtle, enticing, troubled and troubling. The narrator here is very particular, specific first person, and the play with time and memory was very, very effective. However: once again I found myself dissatisfied with the ending. I felt that it didn't quite hold up to the writing. The book was actually about elusive things, so it is no surprise that much of the book felt elusive... Yet, yet... I'd be curious to know what others think. I wonder if it never really, really got down to brass tacks? The constant veering away from subject by the narrator made the book feel veering away? Maybe. However, I am delighted that for once a rather slim volume, with a limited framework and canvas, made it to the Booker table. As a general rule, 'limited canvas' books are my favourites -- and not the British public's or Booker judges'. With John Banfield's book two (?) years ago, room for variation seems to have started with the Booker, for which I am relieved....

3) Engleby (Sebastian Faulks): well, a different order of book I thought. Almost French somehow, in its methodology. There is a fundamental mystery here, but the book is not a mystery book. There is a oddball character here, but the book is not about that either. Somehow. Somehow -- despite flagging a little, the narrative loosening in tension to the point of near collapse in the middle -- the book becomes about how certain minds work at the edges of certain worlds, certain points of extremis that few if any of us know or understand. Yet the character, caught in this, being this, is also compelling, human, and strangely sympathetic. The book achieves this balancing act through near technical acrobatics I thought. I can't give it away, but suffice to say that once a certain aspect of its creation is revealed -- the whole endeavour takes on a completely different and more complex and gripping quality and motive. It's impressive. It's also funny -- very dry, 'smart', almost cringingly so -- throughout. And unlike the previous two books, the rather anti-climactic ending didn't bother me. Where the other books I think are despite possible intentions dependent upon the narrative -- Engleby isn't. So I didn't feel its lack in the final pages.

4) Noughts and Crosses (Majorie Blackman): young adult book passed to me by E, who read it for eight hours straight, barely stopping to eat. This again was quite compelling reading, though for different reasons. Its premise is one of the world being 'reversed' in discrimination, e.g. people of colour being powerful ('crosses') and white people being powerless ('noughts'). It's a star-crossed lover tale at heart, with politics, money, parenting and growing up thrown into the pot. The interesting aspect of the book is that the characters' X or O status is rarely pointed up: there are few physical descriptions, and the world is close enough to ours such that as a white reader I had to remind myself many times of the 'reversal' of this imagined world. I was mortified and chastened time and again to realise that in my head I always imagined the people with power to be white -- and the people without power to be black. Of course, I am liberal enough to know and think I understand that we are all complicit in our society's racism. However, I have never read anything that so effectively brought me face to face with my own paradigms. The writing itself I felt was inconsistent -- some wonderful moments, but also some rather weak ones (lots of adverbs, point of view slippages etc). Plot-wise though I couldn't fault it. The writer set something up and followed it through, even if we didn't want to see it...

*

Of course the reading pile has no end. And much of what I read on holiday was just that -- good holiday reading. I find that I am always trying to balance 'keeping up' with 'reading off-centre'. Holiday time is where I do the former.

I'm now reading one of R's books, given to him by  student, and one he read on holiday: The Life of David Debrizzi (Paul Micou). So far, it's frankly hilarious.

And I'm desperate to read Sue Guiney's Tangled Roots. And a writer E is now reading, who I think is just superb from my snatched evening reads to him: Siobhan Dowd (Bog Child and The London Eye Mystery). AND I read Caroline Smailes' In Search of Adam some time ago and still haven't reviewed it here! Not fair! I WILL.

Janine quickly gets physical, but I'm still a little too upset with Air China to fully embrace the Olympic Mascot/Powerpuff Girl in Beijing's Terminal 3 Airport (more photos)

How do you say "Bird's Nest" in Chinese?

- Dave

Janine has a delightful little Marge Simpsonesque "Hrmmm" that she utters when vaguely disconcerted.

"Hrmmm," Janine uttered, looking at her watch as we taxied down the runway of Beijing's shiny new Terminal 3 airport after an uneventful red-eye flight from Delhi.

Well, uneventful for me anyway. Towards the end of our Madagascar trip, a friend had given me one of those traveller's sleeping blindfolds, generally sported only by supermodels and cast members of "Dynasty". As an incredibly macho guy, I'd initially been sceptical. But after secretly testing it (with feelings of misgiving similar to those of a man trying on silk panties), I'd discovered that it affected me in the same manner as a tranq dart in the arse of a grizzly bear. A little confusion, a violent leg wobble, one last roar of defiance and I was out like a light. Now I'd become a total convert, slipping on my little sky blue blinder during every long bus trip and airport layover, drooling off to dreamland with greater ease than I've ever experienced travelling before.

Janine thinks I look silly. But it's easy to ignore people making fun of you when you're in a mild coma.

In any event, within 7 minutes of taking our seat on the 3 a.m. flight out of sweltering Delhi, I was snoring away to visions of the horses and steppe that we would soon see in Mongolia. So I failed to notice that we took off 45 minutes late. WIth only an hour scheduled between our arrival in Beijing and our connecting flight to Ulan Bataar, that posed a problem.

"I'm sure they'll hold the flight for us," I told Janine confidently, wiping the sleep from my eyes and rummaging through Air China's version of a continental breakfast - a miniature Dove chocolate bar, a juice box and something looking like a cellophane-wrapped squash ball.

Still, we hustled to make the flight. After successfully miming our tight schedule to a Chinese speaking flight attendant (we're really getting good at miming), we were whisked off the plane before the other passengers and ushered into the sparkling confines of Terminal 3 - one of Beijing's newly-opened showpieces for the games. Like everything else in this city, it's massive, modern and designed to impress. "We'll have to admire it on our way back to Delhi," I huffed fatefully to Janine as we jogged down the sparkling concourses, a little surprised at how empty the place was for day 2 of the world's biggest party. Flatscreen televisions blared the Olympics from seemingly every corner. Good luck reading a book or catching a nap in this place (unless you have a sleeping blindfold of course).

Security for the games being what it was, we passed through two searches before making our gate. While waiting for my hiking boots to come through the security scanner at one stop, I finally had time to ask a Chinese official the question that had been bugging me all morning.

"What the hell is this?" I said, holding up the breakfast squash ball.

The red-clad security woman looked at the black ball and then me suspiciously. "It's an egg," she said, politely leaving out the word "stupid", which I could tell she wanted to append to the end of her response.

I looked at the black ball acutely, searching for any sign of eggdom. I was not convinced.

"Is it an egg from a bird?" I followed up.

She looked at me again and nodded patiently.

"Is it an egg you can eat?" 

She nodded again, maybe a little more curtly this time.

"Would you eat it?" I offered her the ball.

She smiled and said no. With Janine tugging more forcefully on my forearm with each question,  I collected my boots, exited security before the search got any more personal and deposited the squash ball in the next garbage bin. The final dash to our departure gate was on.

Last call my ass.

"We made it!" Janine puffed triumphantly, jogging to a halt at departure desk, above which another large flat screen television bore our flight information and a flashing "Last Call" boarding sign. Outside the gate, a bus with 6 or 7 other passengers waited to whisk us over to our plane. Four other passengers waited in line ahead of us with more coming up behind us by the second.

"I'm going to take a picture of the 'Last Call' sign! Great souvenir!" Janine said happily, reaching for her camera bag. For once, my Murphy's Lawdar relaxed and I consented to this fingering of fate.

The first couple at the check-in counter were handed their boarding cards and hopped on the bus. Then, I kid you not, with another couple ahead of us and 4 more people behind, the boarding agent pressed a button and the flashing "Last Call" sign changed to a "Gate Closed" sign. The bus closed its door and drove away.

This is a family friendly blog so I won't list all the expletives that escaped the remaining passengers' lips and headed in the general direction of the boarding agent. But the general tone of it all was, "I hope you can explain yourself within 4 seconds because that's how long it's going to take for us to get around this desk and strangle you."

A manager arrived in sufficient time to prevent bloodshed, explaining that due to our Delhi flight's delay, all the passengers on it had been removed from the connecting flight to Ulaan Baatar. Apparently, thanks to Terminal 3's slow baggage transfer times (which we would get very familiar with later) our bags would never have made the connection anyway. Rather than fly us to Mongolia luggage-less and simply send our bags on the next flight, Air China preferred to put 8 people up in a hotel for the night, leave those seats on the current flight empty and fly us out the next day. 

Remind me why so many airlines have trouble making money?

***

The Chinese symbol for "crisis" contains within it the word "opportunity".  I found myself pondering this idea after I'd finished cursing Air China, about 45 minutes after our connecting flight left. We had been excited to reach Mongolia and the manner in which we'd missed our connection had been frustrating in the extreme. But if we could not catch a flight until the following day, that meant that the Chinese would have to give us a 24 hour visa. The very visa that had, until now, alluded us until we'd given up hope of visiting China altogether.

Standing in one of the many lines that Air China was to make us stand in over the next 3 hours, I turned to Dave and Valerie, a delightful couple from South Africa and France respectively, who'd also been shafted on the Ulan Bataar connection and with whom we were fast becoming friends.

"If Passport Control will stamp my passport," I whispered to them confidentially, as if the Chinese secret police could swoop down on us any second for even suggesting it, "I'm going to the Olympics tonight."

Dave bore the tired look of a man who'd been on a 7 hour red-eye flight, missed his connection and was now stuck in an airport for a hazy period of time. But his eyes suddenly brightened. "Really?" he said, leaning in and sharing the conspiracy. After a quick look across our huddle at Valerie he looked back at me. "Let's split the cab."

I was delighted. With a European and a South African joining us, we'd now have at least 3 embassies to call if arrested for violating Chinese immigration laws.

***

Air China must have sensed our excitement at the prospect of a free night in the Olympic city. Immediately after giving us our visas, it directed us to a featureless room of the airport to await our baggage.

We waited for two hours.  As the afternoon faded, I saw my Olympic dream fading with it.

Two pretty Air China attendants had been assigned to see us all get our bags and reach our hotel. Every time I asked them how much longer it would take for our bags to arrive, they told me "20 minutes". Now, after sitting on a baggage cart long enough to have acquired a second arse crack, I approached them once more.

"Do you know the Fleetwood Mac song 'Tell me Lies'?" I asked them.

They stared at me blankly; boredly.

"It's been three hours since we landed in Beijing," I said. "Please get our bags. Please don't tell me it's going to be another 20 minutes. If you do, I'm going to have to start singing this song to you."

They stared at me blankly; boredly.

"Tell me lies, tell me sweet little lies. Yeah tell me lies (Tell me! Tell me lies!). Oh no, no-o-o you can't disguise..."

We had our bags 5 minutes later.

***

I'm convinced I could have dominated the 40kg Body Building category if I'd only qualified. Thanks a lot rigged stool sample!

The imaginatively-named Beijing Central Airport Hotel was the nicest hotel we'd stayed in since, well, actually, it was the nicest hotel we'd stayed in since leaving home. Our room had a big t.v., a shower with water pressure, beds with mattresses and sheets you didn't mind sleeping in without a full suit of clothes on.

We couldn't wait to leave.

With a thrill of naughtiness (reinsert "man in panties" allusion here), we met Dave and Valerie in the hotel lobby. While I took out yuan from an ATM, Dave pored over a city tourist map with the hotel receptionist and tried to figure out how to tell our taxi driver what Olympic venues we'd like to visit. A few minutes later, we were in a cab and driving down Beijing's broad, deserted boulevards, a strict air-pollution control effort keeping what must be most of the city's motorists off the streets. The centre of the world's attention seemed more than half-empty. Combined with a steadily driving rain, it was a rather eerie introduction to China's capital.

But the excitement of seeing the Olympic Stadium changed all that. At our first view of the famous Bird's Nest, all the morbid thoughts, all the fatigue, even all the strains of "Tell Me Lies", which had been on a constant loop in my head for the past 5 hours, vanished. 

We were at the Olympics.

Or at least, we were near the Olympics. A heavily-patrolled security fence ringed the Olympic grounds and kept the unwashed and unticketed masses a kilometer away from the venues.  But the buildings were large and magnificent enough to mostly make up for that. In the grey evening light, the Olympic flame flickered above the steel basket-weavery of the Bird's Nest while the "Water Cube" shimmered a brilliant blue alongside. Chinese couples and families strolled hand in hand beside the fence, admiring their country's architectural achievements and snapping pictures on cell-phones. Despite their contentment, I couldn't help but feel a little sad for these people. Beijingers had obviously worked so hard and sacrificed so much for these games and now most were being excluded from them. Even a pedestrian bridge over a nearby highway which would have afforded a lovely view of the Olympic buildings had been purposely covered in "Beijing 2008" banners, leaving people peeping through tiny gaps in the posters for a good look at the games.

The rain intensified after an hour. Even full of Olympic Spirit, we started to get tired. Finishing our circuit of the security fence, we dove inside a cab and confronted its slightly bewildered-looking driver. "Tiananmen Square please!"

The driver continued to look bewildered. I considered using my miming prowess to re-enact a tank rolling towards a lone protester but then thought better of it and remembered the tourist map Dave had gotten from the hotel. With this, some frenzied pointing and a few thumb's up signals, we were soon motoring towards Beijing's best known and most controversial landmark.

Just when we thought it couldn't pelt any harder, the rain started pelting our taxi even harder. After 15 minutes of driving which saw the streets turn into glistening black rivers, our driver pulled over on a dark side street and looked at us with a silent nod. "Tiananmien," he said.

We looked out the streaming windows. "I don't see anything," Janine said.

"I don't know if I want to see anything," I said, enjoying the dryness of the cab. "It looks friggin' terrible out there." Dave and Valerie nodded agreement. One chance in a lifetime be damned. No one wanted to walk around in this weather.

I turned back to our driver. "Ummm, I don't suppose you could just drive us around Tiananmien square a bit then take us home?" I combined this incomprehensible gibberish with the miming of hands on a steering wheel, a down-the-drain twirling motion, a happy face and a thumb's up.

The driver looked at me stonefaced for a minute and then started the car again.

We must have been parked close to the square, because rounding the next shadowy corner, it seemed we were suddenly thrust into the bright middle of the square in all its glory. Through the furious window wipers, we could see the monuments, the imperial compounds, the stark communist-era buildings, and over it all, the great portrait of Chairman Mao gazing sternly through the rain. Once again, we were buoyed and gave a spontaneous cheer. This caught our driver off guard for a moment. But then he regained himself, smiled and nodded vigorously.

"Yeah!" he said thickly with a thumbs up sign, "Tiananmien!"

Mao through the windshield

***

Something about that moment changed our driver. He finally seemed to grasp the concept of a sight-seeing trip. With a palpable energy, he started detouring and pointing out the wonders of the new Beijing, smiling happily each time we oohed and awed at the newly minted skyscrapers and innovatively designed buildings which seemed to be sprouting from every corner of the landscape. By the time we got back to the hotel, I felt a combination of awe, puzzlement and perhaps some vague disconcertion towards this great, empty, sparkling metropolis.

Had I been Janine or Marge Simpson, I might have uttered a happy but tired "hrmmm" about the whole thing. Instead, I fell silently, exhausted and a little damp into my fluffy bed. With a quick prayer of thanks to the travel gods for another unforgettable day, I fell asleep on the instant, blindfoldless, dreaming of exciting and enigmatic Beijing.

Mes pieds se mettent un devant l’autre, c’est fascinant, j’avance! C’est mardi matin, et j’avance, effectivement, Saez dans mes oreilles comme s’il s’agissant de la bande sonore de ma triomphante vie. Souvent, je m’imagine. Je m’imagine dans un film, que ma vie est présentée sur grand écran et je prends plaisir à choisir quelle chanson accompagnerait bien tel moment. C’est fou comme tout à coup, tout devient un peu moins dramatique. Étant le personnage de ma propre comédie dramatique, je m’imagine faire rire les autres.

Ce mardi matin donc, dans le métro, je suis le Christ. Un ange est venu me voir, me sortir de mes rêves. Poser sa main sur ma bouche, y déposer ses lèvres. Tendrement, contre mon cœur, il m’a parlé de toi. Il m’a dit que tu allais bien, que tu ne reviendras pas. D’un signe des ailes blanches qui dit qu’il faut partir. Quand moi, j’étais que sanglots, il m’a fait un sourire. De jour en jour, chaque soir, faut que le soleil se couche. Toutes les plus belles choses au monde ne valent pas ta bouche. Je suis le Christ, et toi tu es ma croix. Et ça fait rire tout Rome. Je suis le Christ, juste un con planté là. D’avoir trop aimé, les autres.

___

Un soir, j’avais rendez-vous avec un ancien amant. Cinq ans qu’on ne s’était pas vus. Et quand il m’a ouvert la porte, j’avais à nouveau 23 ans. Rien n’avait changé. J’y allais pour oublier, pour embrasser et pour me faire baiser. On va dire les vraies affaires. Et je me suis mise à boire et lui racontant toute l’histoire, toute mon histoire. J’ai fumé cigarette sur cigarette. J’ai même pleuré, en remettant en question le mariage de mes parents. Pathétique est un peu fort, je dirais brisée. Oui, c’est cela, complètement brisée. Il m’a demandé de le prendre dans mes bras. Que moi, je le prenne, dans mes bras. Je me suis mordue la lèvre. Cette douleur intérieure devait trouver son chemin vers l’extérieur. Il voulait que je le prenne dans mes bras. Jamais une demande ne m’a parue si égoïste. Jamais le temps s’est figé comme au moment où il a prononcé : Prends-moi dans tes bras. Pourquoi, une fois dans ma vie, je n’aurais pas le droit de passer mon tour? De me répandre sur le plancher? D'être complètement paumée, perdue? De faire couler mon mascara? Pourquoi, une fois dans ma vie, on ne me carresserait pas les cheveux, on ne me regarderait pas comme si j’avais besoin de quelque chose, moi aussi? Je ne peux plus être forte, c’est fini, je veux ma part, je veux la moitié de la place, je ne veux plus prendre personne dans mes bras avant d’enfin faire comprendre que moi aussi, j’en ai besoin.

L’appartement s’est mis à tourner. Tourner, tourner, il n’arrêtait plus de tourner. Je me suis endormie, comme ça. À jeun de tendresse. Acte manqué. Mon homme me revenait deux jours plus tard, pour me laisser tomber, encore une fois, quelques semaines plus tard.

And here is my page.

I love these cute pictures. My girlfriend, Beth (ehensl) took these photos of Nik blowing bubbles on our driveway last May. Thank you, Beth!! I love that something as simple as a bottle of bubbles can bring out the biggest smiles in a child. It never fails to produce instant fun, guaranteed. Wish everything in life was that easy!

This page came together very quickly with the help of Valerie's clean-lined, simple sketch. I used My Mind's Eye patterned paper and a border sticker layered over a sheet of Bazzill cardstock for the basis of this page. I ran the border sticker through my Fiskars Threading Water punch and then decided to accent the punched holes in the scallop with small brown brads for a more detailed look. Love the nail head appearance that gave to the piece. Also ran the page through my sewing machine. That is always one of my favorite ways to add detailing to my pages for next to no cost. The title is made up of a combo of stamped letters from Hero Arts and glittered chipboard letters by Lil' Davis. I used some date prompt journaling stickers by Melissa Frances underneath the title letters and for my journaling strips. One journaling spot by K&Co cut in half and used both under the title and next to my journaling take on the roll of the embellishments shown in Valerie's sketch. Buttons, brads, felt flowers, and silk leaves round out the rest of the embellishment line up.

So glad I got the chance to contribute this week. I hope you all check out the blog if you haven't had a chance to yet. Link me up if you play along!

Have a great day everyone!

Rita Dravucz, Hungary

For Hungary, model turned water polo player Rita Dravucz is the name that needs no further introduction. Rita has been a part of National Hungarian team since she was 17.

Her tall slender form seems more suited for a model, than an athlete.  Having missed the Athens Olympics in 2007 due to her finger injury and broken hand bone, this time Rita Dravucz is more than happy to be going to the Beijing Olympic with the Hungary water polo team. The strength she brings and the enjoyment she takes in playing water polo also shows in her modeling career. Apart from hard work she puts in both form she gives ample credit to the special medication which helped her a lot to gain perfect body suitable for water polo as well as modeling.

Alexandra Orlando, Canada

Alexandria Orlando, born in Toronto, Canada has seen both triumph and tragedy in rhythmic Gymnastics. Rated high in the list of sexiest athletes, Orlando is a darling of rhythmic gymnastics. Having missed the Athens Olympic by one spot, she was delighted to have the opportunity to compete in Beijing Olympic. This 21-year-old athlete is one of the only four athletes to win six gold medals at a single commonwealth games. During the off-season, she keeps herself busy in attending the University of Toronto, studying commerce and training in Ritmika RG club.

Alona Bondereko, Ukraine

It seems tennis players are widely known for their looks and killer instinct attitude! Alona Bondereko is an awesome tennis player who has gained huge popularity in the tennis world. With her parents and younger sisters, Kateryna and Valerie in the tennis world, it is easy to see that tennis runs in the blood of the Bondereko family.

This year’s Beijing Olympic is very important to her as she has never been to Olympics before. Although she made her debut in Australian open, the world saw her rise and success in 2006 through the ranks into the top 100 and close to top 50.

Amanda Beard, United States

United States breeds some hot attractive swimmers. Some pretty hot swimmers have come from down under and Amanda, the darling of U.S swimming is one of them. Amanda Beard, the athlete, swimmer model on the cover of Sports Illustrated, ‘Swimsuit Edition’ has a lot going for her. This sexy model swimmer and model is back for her fourth Olympic appearance by finishing second in the Olympic trials. Like most other, this 26 year old athlete rose to stardom at the age of 14. With lots of expectations and pressure, Amada went through a rebellious stage that just happened to coincide with a growth spurt. Due to some personal problems, Amada kept herself out of water for a while, but now she is back in the swimming arena with a bang.

Yelena Isinbayeva, Russia

Yelena, the tall Russian gymnastic beauty is a talented pole vault competitor who has done her country proud through her flexible talents. Isinbayeva will be attending her second Olympic games this year in Beijing and she stands as the favorite in women’s pole vault. This five-foot nine-inch beauty has never looked back ever since she took to pole vaulting. She has proved herself as one of the most successful athletes of her generation.

Like the dance song Call on me by the DJ Eric Prydz in 2004?  Well he got it from Valerie sang by Steve Winwood in 1982.  Winwood liked Prydz's version and re-recorded vocals for him.  Well this is just a little tidbit I was interested in. Both versions are great.  Call on me came from the chorus in Valerie so its a remix on a small section of the song.

Kagehime

(Friday August 15, 2008 03:48 PM)

Noel Gallagher has hit out at uber-producer Mark Ronson and troubled singer Amy Winehouse.

The Oasis star, 41, recently caused a stir by saying rapper Jay-Z should not be headlining Glastonbury.

And he compared Brit award-winner Winehouse, 24, to a "destitute horse".

Of Ronson, 32, who remixed The Zutons' track Valerie for Winehouse and the Kaiser Chiefs' tune Oh My God for Lily Allen, he said: "He wants to write his own tunes instead of ruining everyone else's.

"Mark Ronson needs to learn three chords on the guitar and write a tune."

Gallagher described Scouting For Girls as "Scouting For Idiots" and had a go at the Kaiser Chiefs, saying: "The Monkees haven't split up, they're just going under the name of the Kaiser Chiefs."

He told the Chris Moyles' breakfast show: "I did drugs for 18 years and I never got that bad as to say, 'You know what? I think the Kaiser Chiefs are brilliant'."

Meanwhile, Oasis announced dates for their UK tour, beginning in October.

Sachant que Koh Lanta passe à la TV, je me décide d'aller télécharger les épisodes, illégalement comme un véritable truand, un hors la loi, un bandit, un violeur de grands-mères, etc…
Sans trop de surprises, premier épisode, tout le monde est sympa, la bonne ambiance, c’est toujours le vieux con de la bande qui fait son chef, dans trois épisodes on aura droit à des crises de nerfs et à de la mauvaise ambiance, classique donc, on retrouvera toujours les mêmes conneries.

Mais je dois avouer que le premier épisode m’a beaucoup fait rire, c’est vraiment vache, c’est dégueulasse, bref, c’est du bon.

« Tu sais comment on fait toi qui est d’origine du Mali ? Comment on fait ? On épluche comment ? »
Il y a des préjugés vraiment risible, celui-ci n’en fait pas exceptions, je me suis juste écroulé de rire devant mon écran, cette participante est vraiment excellente, des situations de ce genre j’en veux encore une dizaine !

__

Et si le bonheur résidait en une tasse de café au lait, sur une terrasse, par un jeudi de vacances ensoleillé? Et si le bonheur résidait en moi et non pas en quelqu’un d’autre? Pourquoi suis-je si persuadée que sans la présence d’un homme à côté, je suis forcément destinée à être malheureuse? Ce n’est qu’une autre personne. Un autre être humain. Pourquoi cette douleur d’en être séparée? Cette propension à tout dramatiser parce qu’il mène sa vie sans moi? Je me déteste d’avoir encore le cafard alors qu’il me reste deux jours de vacances et qu’il fait si beau. Toute cette énergie dépensée inutilement. Toutes ces pensées négatives que j’envoie et qui me reviennent, tel un boomerang. Je les sens se jeter sur moi, je les entends presque arriver, ces mauvaises ondes.

__

À force de me répéter que 2008, c’est de la merde, 2008 restera de la merde. Le temps me coule entre les doigts, je vieillis, j’épaissis, et je les vois ces minuscules rides qui s’installent et ces quelques sourcils blancs. Je vous vois, ne vous inquiétez pas. Le pire, c’est que je sais bien qu’à quarante ans, je me détesterai d’avoir pensé ça alors que j’en avais vingt-huit.

The Joker, the film’s magnificent central villain, espouses Chaos as the only fair way to live in the world. Harvey Dent, its impeccable hero fallen from grace, prefers Blind Chance. Neither truly exists in an unadulterated version in our world due to manipulation from the powerful elite in our society, who “make their own luck”. (Chaos negates a powerful elite, but remember that power vacuums are only temporary, and must eventually be filled).

That said Chaos, pure or contained, is the order of our existence, and Chaos is here to stay. In light of this, can life truly have any meaning? Because Chaos negates any true Meaning, the highest worldly calling is to reign in Chaos, which is where peace officers, aid workers and (allegedly) governments come in. Bruce Wayne is all of this in one, answering to a higher calling – the meting out of ‘Justice’ and ‘Order’ and serving the Public Good – than few of us will ever realize. This gives him Purpose, the only true Purpose in life with any concrete meaning: Self-Sacrifice. But what makes his special is scale; he truly lives for it, and if his methods are questionable, his impact is not.

Who else can have such significant or lasting impact on society at large? World leaders are quickly relegated to history books or celebrity fodder when their tenure expires, except when they serve in times of unmitigated Chaos, or – worse – when they cause unmitigated Chaos. It’s hard to swallow – but impossible to dismiss – that leaders or regimes like Hitler, Stalin, Pinochet, or the Khmer Rouge have stronger Purpose, greater impact (and by extension more Meaning) than well-meaning ones like Clinton or Carter or even Kennedy (himself magnified by tragedy).

Bruce Wayne’s tortured quest as Batman may give him Purpose, but it doesn’t really give him Meaning, which is why Harvey Dent surmises that Batman can’t want his job forever. Wayne’s hope for Meaning lies in a much more attainable (or not, depending on your outlook) source: Love.

A pivotal moment: he agrees to turn himself in to stop the Joker, and there’s a sense of relief as he asks Rachel if they can now be together. Her response is a telling one:

“Bruce, don’t let me be your last chance at a normal life.”

She is his Love, but she’s also his oldest friend, and understands his heart the way Alfred understands his logical and philosophical machinations.

So it is that I propose the only way to can glean any sense of personal Meaning in this haphazard, chaotic existence is the fulfillment we can only gain from those we love, and those that love us back.

Mind you, I do believe in a Greater Plan, but also accept that on ground level it can only look like Chaos to our untrained eyes. And only in God can we find true peace and fulfillment. My point is that, as a Christian, it’s necessary to care for the overall betterment of people – a quest the Realist in me knows is fundamentally impossible. No matter what we do or believe, bad things will happen to good people, and at times like that, when Meaning and Purpose seem hollow, do we need the fortitude of those we love.

I believe this is why I fell in love, and as my outlook on the Human Condition grows bleaker and bleaker, I become more entrenched in my feelings, desperate for a crutch to lend me stability and guidance. The fact that it hasn’t been requited in a while hasn’t stopped the slide, or the growing ache that has accompanied it. It only makes sense, I suppose – if anything can provide an existence with Meaning, it shouldn’t be easily attainable if at all; that would cheapen the Meaning. I mean, can you seriously see Bruce Wayne quitting cape and cowl to live Happily Ever After with Rachel?

Christians know true Meaning can only be attained through true communion with God, something I’ve found myself woefully short on for years now. Valerie, the appointed LOML, is a devoted, inspiring but humanly flawed Catholic herself, which was perfect: through a Meaningful relationship with her, I’d find a Meaningful relationship with God – a rather reckless notion: Now I was burdening Valerie with the task to literally Save me – my sanity, my spirituality, my sense of being. It’s naïve and unfair – how do you tell someone that? There’s no way she can let you down easy.

Bruce doesn’t voice it, but Rachel senses it, and lets him down – easy. As hard as her loss was on him, it is the impetus to throw himself more blindly into his calling, so Purpose will consume a lack of true Meaning. For me, I’ll admit that my goal of writing and filmmaking are nowhere near as noble or high a calling, but I hope it can be every bit as consuming, to keep me functioning in this existence I am shackled to.

When I opted to kill myself on July 8th, 2008, thinking instead of the impending Dark Knight made me realize something: as Meaningless as life often felt, death was even more so by a landslide. And nothing drove home that point like Heath Ledger.

A promising career, a father and thoughtful soul, cut down in literal prime. Sure, he’s immortalized on screen like few others – his Joker is a vibrant, affecting portrait of sheer genius. There will be accolades, maybe even an Oscar, but so what? It doesn’t change the fact that he’s gone, forever separated from the adulation that he would’ve surely, despite himself, gladly – and deservedly – basked in.

‘Achievements’ are no measure of Meaning. Maybe Love is an oversimplification, but oversimplification could be what’s needed to attack such a large concept. I personally have never felt anything so strong, as to be unbearable – insomnia, anorexia, depression – and because I’ve so mangled it, never want to feel it again. Yes – even if I’ve got Purpose with no Meaning. Better than me have resigned themselves to such a fate.

The last lesson lies in Ledger: for all his very intelligent use of a God-given talent, from where I sit all I see is tragic waste. And from my personal vantage point, Life on Earth as we know it is one frenzied, frenetic activity devoid of Meaning, and then you die.

Apesar de seus escândalos, problemas, loucuras ela mantêm sua pose e continua na parada de sucesso. Nada de sua vida profissional atrapalha a qualidade de sua música, digo... MÚSICA, e não apresentações (que fique claro!). Não posso esquecer do vexame do Rock in Rio no começo do ano, da cocaína no meio de um show, por aí vai! Enfim, ao meio de todos esses causos e reportagens nos principais sites e jornais do mundo, a cantora recebeu uma homenagem... se é que podemos chamar dessa forma, mas tenho quase certeza que ela levará para o lado positivo! rsrsrs...

Um game, onde a cantora é controlada e tem o objetivo de sair da clínica de recuperação e resgatar seu marido Blake que está na prisão, está rolando por aí (eu, particularmente, vi pelo Blue Bus). Nele, a cantora deve enfrentar loiras armadas e monstros verdes, para conseguir escapar ilesa, mas ÓBVIO que não está só... ela tem a ajuda de seringa (vc define qual o líquido dentro dela!), bebidas e algumas coisitas mais (que acredito fazerem parte do cotidiano da estrela).  O que acontece no final? Ahhh, fica no ar, assim vocês prestigiam os detalhes desse game divertidíssimo...

So I have to sit with her. It is good that the weather was not that cruel today. Few cars had passed in front of us. We didn't bother. I was watching Episode 15 of One Tree Hill season 5 and while doing that, Valerie stretched her legs and laid down next to me.

We got tired, so we went home. Mom cooked something special. Fried chicken. Hmmmm..My favorite. Who doesn't?

I had shower and decided to take some nap. (nahhh....i changed my mind) I sat in front of my notebook. I went through my files. My hard drive was in a mess. I was pissed. I don't even know where to start. And if I don't start now....soon it will be full and it will be more screwed.

My movies and music are already in bulk. They are not quite organized. I have to buy another drive to accommodate all of them. I guess 1TB is not even enough to keep space for them.

I have to shift so many files from my notebook to the drive. I have to do it now.

Actually, I started it already. I am waiting for it to get over.

Hmmmmmmm....Tomorrow is Saturday and once again it's going to be a busy day for me. I have to go to the bank tomorrow and settle some formalities with my account.

Have to go. I have to rush. My mom and my sis decided to stroll Mercato Mall. I have to drive them there.

Gossip 1: So I was talking to the big "G" in the morning. She had a date last night. A date which I am not so in favor. The truth is that I am happy to see her dating other men. I want her to do that. Move on and live life the way I want her to be. Of course, she is still the driver. I just didn't like the chosen one. Oh. I promised her that I will be good. I wanted to spill out something but I have to keep it in my private posts. She deserves the privacy after all. So let's just give it to her. The gilr got her period today! (*winks*)

Gossip 2: I had a flirty badminton schedule in the afternoon. Even if it's so hot. Still I attended. Of course, it's flirt mode. Who would miss that.? The details? I won't tell you now, i don't want to jinx it. I'll spill it out soon.

XoXo

B

Si je trace le portrait, c’est que je commence à l’oublier.

____

Faut être fou pour avoir envie de moi. Se confronter à quelqu’un qui n’a qu’une façade à offrir, et quelques gémissements, çà et là. Rien de bien sincère en plus. Les trucs d’usage, les trucs de base. Les «continue», les «c’est bon», les «t’arrêtes pas», les «je vais jouir», les «embrasse-moi», les «regarde-moi», les «t’en vas pas», les «j’attendrai que tu m’appelles». La vraie vie quoi! La vie, dans ce qu’elle a de plus ordinaire, de plus banale, de plus grise. La vie, avec toutes ses vergetures, sa cellulite, ses poils, ses plis, ses boutons. La vraie vie.

Ma psy m’aide beaucoup à me rencontrer. Elle me dit que je suis extraordinaire et je la crois. Je resors de son bureau crinquée au max, une vraie boule de confiance en moi. Je regarde tout le monde dans les yeux, je leur sers mon regard de tueuse, je n’ai peur de personne, surtout pas de moi. Puis, les heures passent et ce vide en moi reprend tout l’espace. Il n’y a rien à faire, cette petite fille mal dans sa peau, plate comme une planche à repasser, sans conversation, ennuyante et pas particulièrement avenante semble là pour rester.

Quand je serai grande, je me foutrai de mes cheveux, de la position de mon corps assis sur cette chaise droite. De mon mauvais profil, de mes sourcils toujours en désordre. Quand je serai grande, je ne me mettrai plus de baume sur les lèvres à toutes les cinq minutes, je ne prendrai pas personnel tout ce qu’on dira sur moi. Je rirai, même quand la blague me sera destinée. Je dormirai la nuit. Je ne courberai pas le dos parce que j’ai une tête de plus que ce garçon, qui me regarde, souriant. Je ne me fermerai pas comme une huître quand je ne saisirai pas complètement ce qu’on me raconte. Je tâcherai de tenir bon, même si le risque de me péter la gueule est grand. Je n’abandonnerai pas aussi facilement. Quand je serai grande, on m’aimera comme je suis parce que, eh bien parce qu’il doit être possible de m’aimer comme je suis.

I don't really know if I am a good writer but all I know is that I am loving every word that comes from my mind. I was inspire by Lucas Scott. I wish I can be as good as him.

Today is July 31, 2008. Me, F3, Lara and Gemma are going to the beach. Yippeeee. Wait! I forgot somebody. Valerie, my darling, my sweetheart, my baby will be joining us too. Mina can't join us today. It's her business partner's birthday. It could have been much better if Mina and Allen was there.

Destination: Undecided. (supposed to be somewhere in ajman)

I woke up at 6:00 in the morning. I thought I can't. I have to prepare Valerie's stuff also known as "The Pink Kit". I have to remind lara and gemma as well. I am pretty sure that 6:00 am was too early for them. And I was right.

But it was cool. At least it was not so hot yet. Everybody is in a beach attire with their fabulous and festive moods. As for me...I was cute! Hihihi.... Valerie, Oh My God she is in her favorite blue shirt and her favorite collar and tag with her name engraved on it.

Everybody is excited. It was a half an hour drive from Dubai. When we reached Ajman, we were confused where to go. The place was lovely though. I love the palms built around the seaside (of course, as usual they are all fake)

Another 30 minutes is gone. Still we are not able to find a place. So we roam around once again. We weren't finding a specific place though....until we found Kempinski hotel. We decided to find another place because we felt that the price wasn't so practical and I have a feeling that we can still find something more better and economical.

My feeling was right. Next to Kempinski is Ajman Beach Hotel. It was 30 bucks per person. Not bad. Sharing the same beach with Kempinski is fair enough I guess. From 140 bucks to 30 bucks. Remember..I have to save money. I am broke!

The place was good as we were expecting. I mean for 30 bucks? It is a very good place. The sun started to hit our skins. Valerie started to show her long tongue already, it means she's starting to feel exhausted. Few minutes after, we started taking pictures...Of course with the camera queen Gemma. (photos to upload soon.)

F3 is loving the sun. In contrary to that...I wasn't. I guess the heat wasn't so normal. It was literally hot. I can even feel it till the bottom of my butt.

I swam...swam like a mermaid. Of course. don't forget the fact that also dreamt of becoming one. I love the water. At least it was cold. The waves are ferocious. It was celebrating with us. After a couple of swimming back and forth, I decided to sleep in the adjustable bed. With few minutes of sun tanning and sleeping, I suddenly realized that I am in the same color as the wood next to me...."Dark Brown".

Moving on. We all got starved. So we decided to have our lunch. There is this one restaurant next to the beach that offers buffet lunch. We sat and started seeing the place. I am so lovvvvvinggggg it. Valerie is welcomed everywhere. Of course, she is the darling of the crowd. I guess everyone thought that she was a mouse.

The lunch was excellent. We had a couple of drinks and decided to pack up. The girls, specially lara is feeling so sleepy already. I guess she slept at around 4 am. Why? As her new MAC book.

Gemma on the other hand was still "wet" beautiful. She looks stunning but......I have to say. She looks thinner. She hates me when I say that. Forgive me gem. You know that I love you...but i just have to say it.

So what happened to Valerie? She is just loving every single minute of the adventure. The full time, she was just stretching her legs in the sand...tongue down. I am afraid that she might have heat stroke. But I guess not. She is just enjoying it. Lara told me that it is their form of sweating.  Everyone who passes by can't miss to see how lovely she is. With a little bit of sand in her nose. So cute. I love that finally I was able to spend time with her. She needs that and she loves it also.

So we packed up and drove ourselves back home. Of course I have to send the company back to their places. We had a great day. It was fun. I can't wait to do it again. Specially now that we just knew a good place to stay. Maybe by next time we can occupy a room.

Valerie got tired. She slept on my lap while I was driving back. Actually all of us. HIHIHI..What can I do? I have to focus myself unto driving.

What a very good day to spend our holiday and extended weekend.

It was great. It was indeed the right definition of "fun". With such wonderful friends joining you. I am sure you will love every moment of it.

God is great

I have to post this before the clock strikes 12:00 am.

I love you all. I have to sleep. Such a tiring yet unforgettable day.

cheers!

b

My very, very good friend, who I was (am/will be; who knows?) in love with – despite that phase of our relationship being over for some years now – sent me a text just before the closing credits, so I called her up. We’d been a wee bit on the outs, considering that I had earlier pointed out to her that she was – as all people invariably are to differing degrees – a tad racist, citing her admitted fear of black men among other things. Plus there was my tactless marriage proposal 10 days earlier, following Germany’s devastating loss to Spain in Euro ’08 (Blog Post: Pain Is So Close To Pleasure).

Well we talked, a little tentatively and awkwardly, with her apologizing for a non-existent argument over said proposal. It didn’t stop her from divulging a secret to me that damn near fractured my fragile little mind – all with the casualness of an invite to a Sunday school picnic. Now, I’m not one to kiss and tell (seeing that I do none of the former and too much of the latter); suffice it to say that it’s the very last thing you need to hear from someone you’re so in love with you proposed to her even though you knew you’d get turned down and wind up with egg on your face.

So there I am, on the bus and trying to string together coherent sentences as she talks away and I’m dying on the inside – yet it’s like deja vu, seeing how something identical had occurred 5½ years ago. But it was so much worse this time – and the timing couldn’t be more – how shall I put this delicately? – fucked up. So I broke down and made up my mind even before she’d hung up (she somehow caught on that I wasn’t very talkative) to finally take matters into my own hands and end this debacle of an existence before fate conjured up even more colorful ways to mock my very being.

Unfortunately I was heading across town to meet a good friend who’d driven all the way from Fredericton, so I had to stay my hand. I didn’t get to his place until well after 11pm, but fate was smiling (albeit morbidly) on me this time as there just happened to be a Shoppers Drug Mart on the corner of his street. I promptly helped myself to an OTC (Over The Counter) bottle of sleep meds, before opting for 2 in case the one didn’t quite pan out. I had long figured that slashing the wrists was a girlie cry for help, while mouthing a shotgun – Hemmingway style – was the man’s way to go. Having neither the weapon nor the compunction to use it, I settled on a fair halfway point.

I was at my friend’s for over an hour, and by the time he kindly drove me back I was so drowsy it seemed like I’d popped half the pills already. I got back, left a message for my boss at work that I wouldn’t be coming in anymore and wishing him all the best of luck and shit like that, and then popped a fistful of pills.

And promptly threw them up. Don’t get me wrong – not like I gagged or choked or anything. But a series of very strong and interconnected thoughts crossed through my mind with such clarity, all almost at once. For starters, I realized why I’d chosen sleep meds – because they were, in part, responsible for Heath Ledger’s death, an actor I admired even before he was cast in The Dark Knight. I had mourned him for weeks, and the indelible image of him cut down in his prime had stayed with me subconsciously.

But his was an unfortunate accident; he fully expected to awake later that day, which made it all the more tragic. By willfully offing myself this way, I was committing sacrilege to his memory, and mocking such a monumental loss.

Secondly, and much more selfishly, I realized that I was killing myself 10 days before The Dark Knight was due to open. Considering I had never anticipated any film like that in all my days, it seemed like a fucking stupid thing to do at the time. I imagined how awesome that film would be, how blown away and enraptured I would be by it – or not, since I’d be fucking freezing on a coroner’s slab with a belly full of pills and a roomful of mocking spectators. Dweeb, they’d say. He could’ve at least stuck around for the midnight screenings of The Dark Knight. Most awesome film EVER. Then they’d leave the scalpel in my midsection as they rush to catch a screening before it’s sold out. And my cold dead ass would envy them from the grave.

And, with those thoughts racing through the fractured microchips of my mind, I regurgitated the pills I’d mouthed, caught in two minds about the validity of my decision either way.

And I of course have not regretted that decision. The Dark Knight is the most rousing piece of entertainment I can recall, easily my favorite and most indelible theatrical experience ever. I shall see it anywhere between 7 and 15 more times, and only ‘til I am full sated will I even consider finishing what I started on Tuesday July 8, 2008 - precisely 3 weeks ago today.

Until then, I adhere by more words of wisdom from The Joker; for I believe whatever doesn’t kill you simply makes you…stranger.