Pain In Front Of Thigh

2010

Red Dawn, you said from the beginning, since the great anger by which all began. Red dawn, static, reduced gradually to this tiny hole glittering, persistent, memory and present prohibited.
And so far, so far advanced by then, more and more away, you will see better and better. You still in the sensitive spot where you t'adosses a hill, legs stretched out before thee, the refuge of an acre of ice. You would understand distance. And whenever it seems you enter an element, or even several assembled, something screams and dies as not to understand that power. And a heart full mouth, the only refusal whose decision you notice, that is whining.
You feel it. As you feel your body have already rotten so many times, and unwashed, and always have rotten again, and smell it worse as expected that continues with the worst that stretches far further, too large, no circumstance, with the endless hordes of stunning horses which successively cover and discover the empire wet colors unstable.
Since when have you there. Slumped. With everything to mask the sinister bliss of being hit from across the world through this tiny glimmer that you be dependent as a happy spell. With the conquest of having supported the view from the beginning. And exhaustion of having lived. Can you imagine.
It does not get tired of having market. To have fought. To have spoken. High voice. On drinking and rebuted. To have enjoyed in bed without an address to the number drowned. To have thrown to the winds of joy naked, revolts without grain, slogans and poppies whole days wandering on the docks with the company that bird ironic.
It does not get tired of being left without return. To have to leave the fire barbarian who was gasping on her bed disfigured. To have been much trampled in first with a fist stubborn sparks fly and concealed. To have had the brambles. The inevitable unconsciousness. Other transformations. For closets closed learning. For curiosities sincere or deceitful. The sleepwalkers shells. It does not get tired of being dropped, of course. To have loved. To have betrayed. To have hated. To have been similar. Or singular. Mater for being in the mirror, cowardly, selfish, cheater. To have played. To have lost. Or won, sometimes. To have climbed the mountain and the summit, to have empty hope in the next to fill.
It does not get tired of losing. Searching. To search. To rob. Questioning. Neither of nothingness that mocks. We can still gorge on bright nails, dead roses, razor blades, anything that can scratch the throat in his response to his grin, to hear him gurgle as a siphon adjustment.
It does not get tired of surrendering. Or abandon. Abandonment. Remember : He hath given his hand and pressed against him. He said nothing and left you nothing to say. It helped you to sleep. He guided you through. He allowed it to take you, they bite you, they bleed you, lick you, and you do the same too. " It enabled you see the invisible. The soul of the tree and stone and ridicule unspeakable death of his coffin dressed in desert. It allowed you to learn the call of the animal which has not yet come. The sound of water amid a tumultuous sea of sand. The sound of fire in your hand burned. The complaint of your little bow on your Curve spine. He hath even learned some things that you do not know and whose only knowledge is to preserve the fatal secret.
It does not get tired of having felt the infinite. Where, who knows how to party fatally. Swimming blindly in books timeless. To fetch under legendary temples. To knock common sense falsified in maddening maze. Just maddening. Break screens to hydra properties. To flee. Bypass. Back. To turn away. To find virusses by an arcane beauty insoluble. Wear it like a wart or like a charm once again become anonymous.
It does not get tired of having angle under the passenger. Under the stealth. The inconsistent. To have endured mind if dusty days. To have suffered so much distortion of the distant cry from the bedroom window, and some noisy halls. Probably a few bits of memory. Or faces off. Celebrations faded. Houses. Roads. Travel. And some warm body to which you wanted t'arrimer more than any other.
One never tires that have gone nowhere. What
be going nowhere. And from nowhere, to be less and less. From
be reduced to this tiny light scarlet sizzles while there. Witnessed a small gray darkness. At the antipode of ice breakup in skiffs whose funerary face the option of rocking tide, and then away from each other.
Red Dawn. Red decoy. Poor little eye blood, petrified, bounded on the other end of the trail, and who never gets up to give birth. Quinquet stumbled whose punch without moving and you continue until you reach its respect for t'effleurer uneventful.
One never tires that have gone nowhere. Yes. Unique
horizon produce tides impassive to the mirage of a soft stay of hypothesis shrunk the territory of a drifting raft. A garden floating between the waves. A residual property. Little to pace to record the progression of numbness. Enough to occupy little bulky to liquidate. The stacks of departure and return dried. Orphans of you. Armchairs divorced. Boxes of books. The vintage knickknacks. The castles of maps. Launch ramps. Drinkers of rainwater. The agora and costumes.
Since you have yielded to the deception and raw deceive your blade with a piece of hell. Orpheus is unfortunate that both returned to ensure the evil eye does not disappear, it has been itself into stone. You turn into a human puppet, bloodless, the eyes prisoners, searching tirelessly, on your block to see the glowing tip you designate until the end like a clock that did not happen. One day removed from the calendar. A trajectory lifeless. A line charge of various activities.
Perhaps thou wilt, a time rehashing episodes, finding that there was a goal, a goal. A project. The worst is when you realize it's not about that. Go here, do not designate a place, a finish line, a completion, a house, a child, not more of a work or other success that order. Go means a state of self that grows. Which both lightens and thickens. Who lives in the flesh and the flesh off, either. Is to drink and sweat to write while walking. Is sleep talking. To think less of himself. It's forgotten more than the other. It agree to meet without the inexplicable intrigue to make an ornament for a response at best useless and at worst final. It's no longer belong to themselves as superfluous. Do not be for himself, wait and see. Since we're doomed to be free, at one time or another, it's going to learn to work a choice.
Fear not, when fatigue sufficiently devoured thee, thou shalt have no choice. There you must remain a lot of illusions. The dirty little pearl of blood dangling on the horizon where you came from will remain visible for some time. When you do see the more you will understand what is most trivial to understand. And if you knew them, then it is possible that you pray for the whim of endless hordes of stunning horses or magnanimous.

Funny Fake Illnesses Names

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(Page torn)

Of names of all kinds. Names everywhere. The sounds of their statements clumsy, tone full, banging the windows on the other side where the planes are filled and emptied. Lobby of the Miami airport. Return destination. Names in English, English, German, French, Italian. Names of people expected, late, lost, lost, become important as their surnames sound throughout the hall and beyond, due to an empty seat in the device, a name on a list that was unable to check. The cardinal virtue of security has come over all points, his crazed reign weathervane above all horizons. Reserved and somewhat shy, there is not a passenger who says anything against it and the aircraft is fragile. We searched the luggage without our knowledge. We remind you to ask you for your identification. The melody cold and short electronic notes that warn of a further appeal to anyone. Takes this one, that's three times at least one advertisement. Still nothing apparently. We begin to know the name. According to the sounding vaguely we invent a physical. With one or two calls for more we come to think of an embryo of history. Then we will question. A mystery creep among travelers on the same flight. Gradually this is akin in this case we have to surprise anyone who wears it, and who is there in the middle of an area which is imperceptibly away, circumventing, before a service order or organize neutralization of the perimeter, the object appears so monstrous he can hold the potential, as it is ridiculous that it contains ultimately, as we finally open it, having found no explosives in principle: the shirts, pants, underpants, socks, a toilet, a bath towel "Mickey Parade", a box of condoms. And
images: to wait before boarding: rows of monitors connected to CNN. Bush made his circus: the more you see, the more one knows that it is him, the U.S. President, the more you listen, the more one observes, his gestures, his poses, his bluster, the more we hard to believe that this is possible under representation of this kind that this country is governed. This has the advantage of being regularly convince that its role will very soon be over. And the disadvantage of being able to think that if he could get it put it where it is grotesque and stupidissime individual, it is not possible to exclude that maintains it there. With the same means; borrowed the worst practices of a banana republic which would have the cynicism a Soviet empire.
In the days that I spent in this town of nothing, I saw the front pages of newspapers: it ranges from those who are killed, as acts of war, to those cut into pieces. Video support. We went, following the logical course which could be expected, the dead in the fighting prisoners tortured. All this is
image. We could iron bands to infinity almost. Tarantino is not this time: it's direct live: the blade will cut into the flesh of the neck tissues, one after the other, the blood will flow very quickly, it looks simple. But we guess it must have to handle a well-defined for doing the act. Do not half measures. The hand holding the sufferer must be as strong as the one that wields the knife. As in the halls of the Abu Ghraib prison, one must have tempered the members in an imperturbable certainty of a right above all else to torture prisoners of this prison as those were. Like those of all prisons. Of all the abuses. All authorities in the plan. Including democratic rigged.
We know this for a long time. Many legacies left us evidence of what is more or less complete. The hearings are far from over.
Maybe not yet images like this : Where it relates to such a potential to be all that again, either we accept that everyone must have a way to free himself, is not confirmation that the universal way is to leave us always thank you these horrors.
Bush: this individual does not exist. It's a decoder that sends us the message of another form of power that exceeds course, and now leads more surely than any other leader of this state or another, has never governed. If revolutions s'originent and organized from the rupture between the peoples and their leaders, we see indeed, as in Europe too, and in many other places, which is being prepared, in a time that is uncertain, but for a term which is almost inevitable. So it was
Miami city anything. A friend. An invitation. A week that nothing in the Land of palms, businessmen, beaches, sun. A luxury residence. The Lyncoln Avenue and bustling cafes. The comfort of consciousness wanderings in the warm evening. Groups sprawled in the seats wide. Other tightened around sonos indifferent. Everyone is nice. There are no clashes. No aggression. We'd like it appeared implicitly in the artificial amber halo the evening that manufacturing was necessary. Ocean Drive is the uproar over to cover this expense further dummy mood vitalist. The facades clinquance flashing, colorful, outrageously colored and illuminated. Solicitation multisexe: each, each is the whore of the other. This is not an eroticism that comes from the eyes. It's a pornography that oozes from the body. It is a time consuming and do nothing. Love still less than everything. An illusion of more to crush the sweet. The softer. The so soft. That of simple lips brush against the neck to the bite. That of a body slowly makes two. The smell forever. Mesh wire so attached to the burr under the dawn of the dead.
Here everything is done so that nothing dies. Let nothing be great enough to die. But I have not seen other neighborhoods like those everywhere, in cities of this country and other countries, other cities, many, where they piled up, is stored, the raw material of all productivist society: wage labor to tap.
Just a getaway out of area to Key West: nothing to do with a key or west. The first Spaniards to have addressed this long hook of land on edge of water for Florida in case the ysthme cede the Panama - and he has transferred from one channel but not the hook been helpful - these first English, then, have found on these pieces of land that remains: Key West is a complex and slow deformation of a word in English meaning bones. Key West: the idea of a possible arrangement despite the importance of highly visible gay community. The wooden houses and the danger of flooding. A I do not know what to say more honest in the proposed person to be there. A quiet buzz. Soft colors. A safeguard clause on a stall turquoise.
Reminder, hesitant yet concrete enough, the city where I had spent the previous week: Syracuse. Eye of Sicily oriented. Eastward. On a boat moored to the old town, isolated from the mainland shortly. The skipper had the same tastes as you for Berlusconi to Bush: the taste of murder. I remember.
Aeolus and his company of Olympus are a little lazy, or capricious. Three days in any browser. Technical and exhilarating. Vesperal arrivals in ports where the tiny little concern with the fact mingling arrangements cost around ancient wonders. We discover in jewelry boxes of concrete. Farther inland, old Baroque cities defend their treasures, a little Italian, without really seeming to care, but Ultimately without yielding to the assaults optimizers. Ragusa, Noto, or sense of theater to live day by day. Any ragazzo, ragazza any, exchanged declarations in tympanum of a church where they were to hear an anachronistic Callas singing the Elixir of Love. Any love could melt through their lips by protecting them from a balcony two griffins beautiful. Any lover has been left alone on the immense staircase of a palace tan and pink, his head in his hands, helpless. It is formed when Prince was born in these cities.
I have long languished in Syracuse. On this stage there too. Superimposed ancient city of beauty, and the inevitable grime that any city in the south, or is it the mediterranean sea, or is it Latin, more or less paints itself as a mature woman paints itself with its powders, worried her charms and anxious shadows that come with age, and respond more positively to the sun before.
I'm in this summer, amid the steam bath and clarity. With two strides of seasons where I wanted to give up what we are, I remember, sometimes close to talk to us, and we feel we look, we understand sometimes. Finally with nothing and I mean that without the project take a little sand in the palm of my hand and let it slip through my fingers in the screen of yours and so on, until a residue, traces of silicate on our palms. Proof of anything. No way to know which beach we would have had time to shake all the sand. I've never been able to get into the habit it has ceased. I know many find the taste and pleasure to repeat these actions. And to put into words.
But Syracuse was in the spring. I love Italian. It's beautiful as the French and the more it sings. It was always an ass and it's called an ass. Yet it can complain as a ceiling covered with gold. The route of a boat on the flood una furtiva lagrima predictable, the edge of being funny, was the sincerity of silence then concealed. Opera modest. Italy has an eternity. Like France. Who ignores descends into the dungeons of civilization. Makes you look at Syracuse. Federico, our host, told me that it is because in a city like Syracuse, it knows all and all more or less, then one that matt or that which crosses to see if we can identify with. It is frequently the case, but where, when, sometimes it is remote, we hear about it, it takes time, whether it also takes a drink, we mark a mutual friend, takes we'll call it, we'll drink other drinks, so come and eat pasta at home is a big family, so great to be together, we forget that everyone is crying, Una furtiva lagrima, in the throat of the waves, in echoes of the golden stone. Living in solitude. And I must not omit mention of this group of street cats, five or six, under a porch in an alley, trying to devour all round, a big plate of spaghetti with tomato sauce. It is unique. And nothing in the world would have disturbed: just one regret: I do not remember their names.

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Simone de Beauvoir - Memoirs of a Dutiful Daughter

What I exactly a Dutiful Daughter? Not much, I think. And yet, here I am again struck in reading the memoirs of Simone de Beauvoir: I find strange similarities, the paths of reason and common thought.
I was particularly struck by this passage, reproduced below, where she talks about her expectations of "love" or rather, his anticipation of future hypothetical relationship with a spouse. I felt a little hurt and ridicule of his sincerity to the admission of what she describes, and I must admit having long regarded as an ideal: the need for greater joint .

Although I think I always (always, and even before my coming-out pseudo-feminist) advocated such a desire, read it in black and white made me realize the significance it had long had, until very recently.
Denying this desire of superiority (Even more since, reading books such as male domination would amount to admit that I am an average woman reproducing without critical consciousness, or recognizing and desiring persistent inequality between the sexes) I never really took the time to wonder about why such a desire.

Reasons Simone I agree in part, as I often say, it will always took more effort and perseverance of a woman to achieve a valued social position whatsoever, and the relative ease with dispose men are equal is that, by Of necessity, a superior. A similar top and I am also touched by the concept of sharing and similarity suggests that, because I see it, and it still things this way, although more widely: it is not without a lasting relationship strong fundamental base and common. I am no longer a long-standing supporter of "love fell from the sky." Besides, I do not consider this to be applicable only to the couple "in love" but the prerequisite for any intense relationship, and I said, sustainable.

This explanation grabbed me by its simplicity, telling me my total lack of reflection about it. That said, I do not think my relationship with my parents have influenced in the same manner as she described the intimate thoughts and this differentiated genesis seems to be even more meaningful: even though there is nothing concrete , a tangible sign of gender difference in education and family background, we all - I do not think this is just Simone and me - a profound intuition of this persistent inequality, and we are living with this always to some extent, even when we revolt.

Finally, if I tell myself recently emancipated This vision, this is not that I've adjusted more, is that I was forced to reconsider ways of relating socially available. And understand that the couple was something very small, very far from the ideal relationship, necessarily vague, that I see as a desperate search, but permanent. And therefore also the notion of superiority / inferiority which remains attached to this model binary and heterosexual. And also because I learned, gradually, that nobody is above or below, when a certain popular moves close really between people.

But anyway, Simone remains a sacred discovery each time.

"I wanted that between husband and wife everything was pooled and each was to perform in front of another, exact role of witness that I once attributed to God. This excluded that we liked someone different : I do not get married unless I meet, the more accomplished than me, like my double.

Why I claimed that I was superior? I do not believe at all that I sought him as a substitute My father and I wanted my independence; My profession, I would write, I have a personal life, I do not m'envisageai as the companion of a man we would be two companions. However, the idea that I had of our relationship was indirectly influenced by the feelings that I brought to my father. My education, my culture, and vision of society, as it was, convinced me that women belong to a lower caste (...); prestige father had fortified this view: it is partly about her that I melted my requirement. Member of a preferred species, enjoying the start of a big lead, though in absolute terms was not worth a man older than me, I would consider that, relatively, it was worth less: to recognize it as my equal, he would have me dépassât ".

Practikar Bayonet To Nikon Mount

Ah ...

... there are so many thoughts, menus messy stuff, thoughts interspersed with sounds and lights flash past sordid hopes, doubts and hesitations in my mind.
It must say that when it comes to emotion, I do not control most things, I tend more towards nothing and ... hey, I'm so not alone! What crucial lack of originality.
Thinking that I am, 2:37 p.m. this afternoon (around) on a country road that takes me back from work listening to France Inter (and a writer who uses a speech terribly boring, hackneyed, on couple relationships etc. .): Why do people even a little intelligent have any problem they pay in written self-analysis? What a lack of originality.
We are all here, a diary, leaflets without a name, a blog delivered food to the blogosphere and so on, looking for support to tell our lives and we like to indulge in thinking we might be interested ... who?

Who could it well be interested to read the disappointments and proudly displayed maladaptive poor deeper who think they are? Well, similar. Others are busy tweaking the brain at once beautiful sentences incomprehensible (it is safer to do good when it disposes of the meaning) of dead fish hooks.
Just remember, Librisme, this pool of people with problems happy to meet them and itches their wounds, to see how we are alike, you think, is that your suffering could be stuck with mine, and where an immensely fragile puzzle pieces cramped badly, I love you, moi non plus, yes you, but ... vogue and the time and phases of excessive joy, and mass destruction ...
Via words and oh venerable virtual media.

And to think that this could be so beautiful ... but people are people with problems skimpy reluctant to ask the necessary questions when it is time. Better to ask any, any overlap, balancing force of crutches wavering until the day when everything collapses and where we thought he should have started at the other end. And we begin again? Ah, my fellow! We do not drown them enough.

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Colette - Wheat grass

A big favorite in the strong sense: a book in which we plunge so deeply, who wakes up for no reason - no real identification, not pieces of past disorder refers to - the emotions deep but fragile, it seems difficult to say anything of consequence, and which break near the magical and ephemeral interview - just as we feared to misrepresent your dreams trying to tell, This, surely, comes ...

A book that you share between the desire to share, like all beautiful things so require, and the desire to keep for itself a pleasure jealous of purity appears vulnerable to any attempt of expression, because inevitably awkward. So what about the wheat grass? A novel about love, obviously. On the feeling of love in its intensity, its weaknesses, its contradictions and suffering collateral. A novel about adolescence, the transitional period necessarily where you must endeavor to become , whatever the subject complement. A social novel, then? Watermark, certainly. An outline of pre-drawn paths of everyone's life, and some gray areas where left is the possibility, always present, to think outside the box. But not completely, an image of revolt against the poor state of affairs, and an image of resignation, no less wise and ultimately no less honorable.

I should hate this book, certainly, if only for the excessive references to "male" and "feminine" (especially), without discussion, a line of writing would seem he is to exasperate me. Why not? I would say that consciousness, although disillusioned, in the background, the unnatural nature of these differences as yet learned real - without denying them recognition transgression. There are several things to emerge from the youthful passion that leads Philippe and Vinca. The end of childhood does not mean only the end of a certain "innocence" and the transition to adult life properly codified, it also means a shared path, relatively undifferentiated, which splits to make room for two lanes radically different that they must follow regardless Philippe became a man, Vinca become a woman, with all the constraints socially assigned roles to each of these non-negotiable.

Not that they are discovering in their new flesh adult beginners, they experience the love for one another, that they their now need to love each other, love each other a little bit as outsiders, add to the feeling born long this new dimension of inequality: the transformation to be able to cope, each in his place, while for so long acted as he did to advance slowly, side by side, and confident the indestructibility of such a relationship. There is now a whole world between Vinca and Philip, who digs a ditch in the middle of one they had built without really noticing. wheat grass, not only the idea that it is never too early to love, but especially that of the necessary pain of love between human beings summoned to be apprehended as foreigners, not even a little.

Facing this new reality and obscure auspices she suggests, is not to flee or attempt to go against, in summer ending that wraps the Brittany coast, the two heroes trying, groping, a favorable outcome to their respective torments - he must be content to know: happiness is already past, and wheat grass is a time.

"They felt a bitter and consent to the same distance, the first words of their conversation, the common ground of the quarrel and deceit. It is the heroes, comedians and children, feel at home on a high plane. These children foolishly hoped to pain that might arise from the noble love. " (My favorite part ...)

Denis Milani Streaming

Leaving (behind?)

Today, when longing to share, and no frills, eminently a time, objectively nostalgic departure.
So now, two years have passed, we advance, and to paraphrase my friend Souchon, "was not enough gas to make the journey in the opposite direction", so at the end of an era Well, go, you're going, to nest under other skies. Without knowing which also ...

The end of an era is this strange moment where what was the most mundane daily, the accessible and "always at hand," is preparing to plunge into the past. To enter a very specific chronology, the narrative of our own existence, what makes it unique. Bordeaux now will not be where I am studying, "yeah, it's far, 6am train, but it is a nice city, I love", but a step defined by my path, which I will come to speak under several labels: years of master, or, when I lived in Bordeaux, or the period-Science Po ... Yes, what was the general atmosphere, the constant of twenty months, will close such a large bracket.

It never leaves a definite place, let alone the people who are associated, for example, I know I'll come back next week in the summer, a month in September and will keep contact with people encountered significant here, and we have many opportunities to meet again in different circumstances ... and yet there are times when one feels that "one part", it's for real. That moment when we feel powerless break the "it's over." Why now and not next time? What is lost is precisely that moment? What determines this feeling confused?

What we lose, they are neither the friends nor the house and the room we occupied: it is a lifestyle that is abandoned. A self associated with this environment that will never really like any other part of the changes that we are known, there will always be linked. We give up one of these little lives that make great, and because it seems necessary to go without saying, it does so without much difficulty. With perhaps a back imperceptible we its wing think we do "not carry". Perhaps because that would make things much harder.

So, bye-bye Bordeaux ... rain rugby, the corridors of the IEP courses Darbon, the indoor climbing Villenave d'Ornon and courses Dominique Hall on Thursday evening, the evening discussing with roommates in the frame of the door of my room, post-its on the fridge, up the stairs to the apartment of Joel and mataba, shopping spree to catch the tram, smaller neighbors who squeal and their parents shouting at each other, stupidity college students coming and going, the games of badminton. And all these elements form a system for a while. A transient configuration the center of which, however small it is, I had my place.

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Little things

Tonight I just wanted to say stupid things without knowing to whom to say really. Who cares? Who is affected? That would be (good) height? The little things are fragile, they do not survive well in contempt, they do not survive well the great difficulties of life we are experiencing, we believe, valiantly. The little things are there for the eyes that see them by searching the horizon for idle thoughts that crawl from tree to tree looking for a little bit of what merry.
Tonight I ran into the park, there was the smell of wet grass, flower petals and white crushed into the sand of the road and the water dark and shimmering this kind of pond, disturbed occasionally by the circles of fish coming to drink air. And the sun was a little on my face, and leaves of this tree form so strange and so clear, so green. A maple tree?

I like the obliquity of the evening sun, and the texture of plastic when fresh grass tangled his fingers along the stems. I like having the feeling of escape time - I like being able to succumb to the illusion. Walk in swinging his arm leaving a lot to the side and watch his shadow flicker on the curb. Small things look all stupid when they are stacked; likely to live and do say very little. But they share and for a moment I felt really sad to be alone to collect them.