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ASSE

or my pain ...

All Etienne, he likes football or not, or is completely indifferent to the activity described as sporty, has a sort of third eye for the scores of the weekend. He knows. It smells.

But what?

Long ago, in a country of anthrax and fat land of mountains and dark woods acids, where the sun even dared to venture, there lived a race of moles. Here, after a day or a night of exhausting work in the bowels of the world, all looked alike: They emerged black, exhausted and happy with their crop cock. Poor and isolated, they had little distraction in their little valley bristling with wells and covered with dust. He had only two things: hope and football. This gave the ASSE (that green, and it's a football team).

Each year, from August, the return of paid vacation, spent in the country just above the city, they said in a Loire Haute, beetles ( their name with another mole) brought back potatoes and moult predictions for the new season ahead. Not fall, as would the cyclical time, but the other cyclical time, the only one that went on in this remote corner of the world, the season's first division (yes at one time not so remote, the Ligue 1 s' called first division is for children requires make them a little history).

potato field, "said Colorado Field, renamed Stade Geoffroy Guichard in 1932

The prognosis was always the same: this year we will be champions. By 11 times already, they had managed the feat, which animated the hearts and warmed the body (with the help of a few drinks and a few songs though). And 6 times, they had the Cup, that of the revenge of the small and non-degrees on the great of this world (football that is).

Years passed, and like all older worlds, the valley of moles changed. The chimneys were silent, the streets were empty, people terrèrent in their homes and in their misfortune. They had closed the wells, and nobody had to work. Nobody was working, and idleness invited himself. Idleness invited himself, and shame settled.

Except Saturday evening, where hope and pride reborn as a phoenix from the woods, er of this city, ever green, ever more spikes, and the songs and cries, and victory!

Everyone struggled to once a week, the deep valley again, moles flocked from all the galleries, and even other, mountains or countryside, were added to whoop, they thought. Yet it was the swan song, that of Tchaikovsky, who died at the end of the day in a long heart-rending wail.

discord and defeat came by a simple object, stupid, an ordinary object that nobody could have suspected: a slush fund. The fall began to never end, and like an animal in agony Valley was taking twists and turns, the worm in the fruit, it began to rot.

Since then, no one dares to throw into the compost, and all the months of August, the return of paid vacation, spent in the sea near a king is said Grau, ducks bring their palms and moult forecasts for the start of the Ligue 1 ahead.

Predictions are always the same: we will continue this year. For 5 years now, they manage the feat, after several hypothermic cardiac arrest and shock. And waiting for better days, they to tell a story, always the same story, their history, that of a cup with square posts, that of a legendary man-panther came from foreign lands, that of an angel that was green. To find, perhaps, one day, hope and pride of a forgotten valley.

Elements archaeological evidence of the historical reality of some of the characters Conte Valley of moles , better known as the Green Legend.

That's the story, we arranged to put a lot of pathos, because the reality is even more cruel. So each Etienne, at the time the game will start, hope this time it will be less worse.

This year, it is certain that it is better not to have the radio, should be avoided whenever possible Vandroux Jacques, the Stage 2 and other Téléfoot are persona non grata (but they still exist emissions ), and that Saturday evening or Sunday afternoon, it is necessary even mandatory to have something very important to do.

Unfortunately, when Monday morning comes, and we're going on his hotmail box, it always falls on the news, and always at the forefront, before the wars, the Depression, the purchasing power of the blunders and the wanderings of Ministers of Our Beloved Sovereign, insolvency social, environmental, it was the result of the Ligue 1. Wholesale. Very very big. In too too big. Beaten 3-0 by PSG. The PSG! This team has the team name! That is what football is Alzheimer aging humans: the promise of perpetual boredom which we have absolutely conscience and not until death ensued, by shitting all over the world.

And then we remember that the last time the ASSE has won something, it was the League Cup 2, and PSG or anyone else, there is no What do the devil. Then Saturday, December 19, when the bells ring 21 strokes of midnight, while St Etienne, he likes football or not, or is completely indifferent to the activity described sports knows it is time. He thinks the epics of old warriors, think of it vaguely as Cinderella are always in rags with a pumpkin that she can always make au gratin, it is always to win, and curse the OM, because they have too much money, they are too Southern, they are the fart too and that's what these leaders there, strip Mafia!

And on Sunday or Monday, because changing the coach and the athletic trainer is not enough to make a non-team a team, we will be fine internet.

I bet for a draw: 1-1.

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TRIBULATIONS AN UNCERTAIN

Iain Levison / Tribulations of a precarious
A Working Stiff's Manifesto
Liana Levi - t: Fanchita Gonzalez Batlle

A kind of bedtime reading for those who are insecure, enquiller rotten jobs and poorly paid despite a degree or more, especially in areas where everybody cares, including yourself. Just think back to Down and Out in Paris and London, eventually recover quickly from the U.S. from the late twentieth century and the Europe of the 30s, well, there was as it were of improvement ... The great merit of Levison's book is still to come to make you laugh situtations that are very similar to yours, and you are Moderately day you esclaffer, jobs hopeless, colleagues from the moment that you see as a threat then you are just mouth-hole of the month, hours of "training" for a non-paid job which is the time of the so called training, scheduling and the insane number of hours that you agree (because right away you're not really able to negotiate) but remain invisible on the payroll, the urge to go 2:08 p.m. without warning and never go back , and every day, read and review offers constantly claims to lower your ... But in fact, what claims? It's like the Mikado is a hand to take a mindset to acquire, a stimulating experience to live.

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SONGS OF LOVE 2007-2009

2007. Theatrical release, leaving the dark room, is bathed in a sweet melancholy after a film that attempted to approach the complexity of human relationships and their hilarious imperfection. Love, grief, parents, children, commitment, sentimentality. It could have been a trifle these songs of love, if the characters do not spend their time to upset the tempo. As in

Demy, since the film calls them openly, taking the impossible and improbable traveling Genevieve and Guy in the streets of Cherbourg , the tracking shot that kills and contrasts with a serious moment in history, as in Demy therefore, the characters intersect, intertwine, are body, leaving, always fail to be Overall, say something and do the opposite, in short we get lost we like it, we're happy.

At the time of Demy, Guy went to war in Algeria , Genevieve despair, while wearing his trenchcoat beige and black headband in her hair perfectly brushes, was the provincial France of the 60s, where women selling hats and the men were mechanics cars, they met, were making plans, it folded a few months, except: War, this crap.

In 2007 at Honore Julie wears a white coat and a gray scarf brush Jacques Dessange perfect, requires proof of love Ishmael, and yet they all make promises of love, Paris is France 2000s, where women and men lawyers are publishers, they are met long ago, have no real projects, and since it lasts eight years, the couple try to three, so this expression is an anomaly, except: Death, this crap.

As in Demy too, the characters go about town, from Bastille to Montparnasse, Montparnasse of to Chateau water through the Park Nursery, Genevieve would like Garage Guy's store and his mother dancing in the corner, or at Mr. Dubourg the jeweler. Where Demy described the premises by color (which has a card Cherbourg, Nantes or Rochefort top ?), Honore recites Paris neighborhoods as a kind of sums up our collective heritage and imagination. Very imaginative when it is known that Bastille, Montparnasse Chateau water is an unlikely path, except if it was the day ahead. As always in these films Capital, the characters take a taxi or travel by foot, it's film, we follow the boulevards, it leads to places under the gray sky of Paris, there is free his movements, the city is a character in itself. Besides the nightly journey of Ishmael and alcoholic all signs he meets him and guide him recall the possibility of love, the Breton Montparnasse to the apartment of the young and "small" Erwann , which he eventually surrender.


In 2007, Love Songs are voluble and seriously light.

2009. The opportunity to review the film, and the state of mind that can go with. The film, one before, going slowly to the door. Judgement on the details of the thousands of details that converse with the characters constantly and in 2007 were only contextual. Details surrounding the characters but does not concern them, they never mentioned it, they never n'interragissent , they are like a radio on his background and news. Means the Paris of 2007, which unfolds a story as old as the world, the accident scene as this trivial variations of love.

Paris 2007 is everywhere in Paris Winter-Spring 2007 is everywhere, as they say a collection of ready-to-wear, and the actors actually have the air of glossy mannequins, bohemian chic Parisian or Stripes Armor Lux province. During the parade, another Winter-Spring 2007 puts on a show, it will be remembered suddenly, we jump in the figure, that of presidential, and it's like a second bereavement that appears in more than Julie, a poster PS, another of a president who is not even the Chinese X , Paris Bastille still Strasbourg-Saint-Denis , the turning of a plane, a replica of the characters on the terrace of a cafe in the middle of winter, which kindles a vogue and you catch yourself saying "I am forced to stay outside, it is because of the animal," and indeed a few moments earlier, on the screen before the tragedy, we saw a concert in a smoky coffee completely .

So it's not so much the smoking ban in pubs and restaus amazes us, everything has been digested, integrated, health, cancer, passive smoking is a consensus, that amazes is a sense of aimlessness in full view of Paris before May 2007. It's raining and it's cold in the film, but this winter there seems comfortable and reassuring, it gives the desires of a better tomorrow, as everyone in the movie, cry, laugh, quarrel and reconcile, die and live again song.

Love Songs in 2009, they would have done without BO Without music, without any of that stuff is incredible that some notes interspersed with silence. They are a social chronicle, where there would be blah to cover the helplessness and defeat, lies and bad faith, everywhere in the media every day. The crisis would have gone there, Julie committed suicide, Erwann would have been beaten, Ishmael spent his path, and instead of the gray winter sky, it would have been entitled to the neon tube that illuminate the desires inflicted by 3 in 4: a holiday to Seychelles on credit devenirradin.com Carrefour prices even lower.

Jacques Demy said making films in singing, Honore we redid the scope of the cake with the daughter of Deneuve , Garrel with half lives sister of our first lady, like a loop perfectly curled. But like all the rehearsals, everything has changed in the meantime, love stories have faded into the background, the sweet melancholy least hope we have left in the gloom. In 2009, it is our lives we have sold off. It Gauchet that meets Demy and Honore came the time of disenchantment.

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Good morning, national identity century!

7:30, the radio talking about a little while, quite a lot of nothings, stories VAT restaurateurs, Camus at the Pantheon, anti-Obama cabal, rotten weather, labor qualification and shameful, rehashing the day after day the same themes: food, money, culture, politics, weather, and football. Nothing has changed under the sky of France hard to feel concerned: go to restaurants? The Hall of Fame? Reread Camus? Sympathize with the plight of Nobel laureate Obama by mankind and buried alive? Crying on the weather in the winter my poor lady? Dream a World Cup without the Blues?

And among all its old news, pub. But the public service commercials. That is to say the pub good feeling 100%, 100% politically correct, 100% for a better society because we are worth it.
In order, between 7:42 ET 7:57:
http://www.collectons.org/ for recycling and our countless foul waste
new rates even more attractive (even that he should 'they were one day, attractive) Prem's tickets TGV *
the Fondation de France for the home support for seniors.

What is more surprising are the findings advertisers to get involved in these fights, their grandiose ideas to challenge us in the morning, after waking up, you hang on.

Radio Ad first - Ecology and Sustainable Development, Recycling, consumer empowerment deal with an exponential production of waste: an old TV speaks with a soft voice, she says, and looks like a tease of first choice, which offers a last flick before being put into touch, since it can not fight against the competition, namely small Teenagers and other flat panel LCD, then asks to be treated well when she is cast. ... ?

second Radio Ad - TGV, jewel of the French Transportation Industry, Paris-Marseille in 3 hours, public transit as Gate Hi, the SNCF, which made its entry into modernity, as what he n is never too late: a Prem's ticket ** speaks to us, telling us that he suffered a liposuction new, we opened it to suck its excess cost, and has become even thinner, its price. Personally, I would rather propose the placement of gastric bands, but hey I am not Doctor of Prem's tickets ***. Radio Advertising

Third - Fondation de France, his concern for the well-being of the Company (France, therefore), and in particular those of advanced age: a young woman speaks to us and said that when she commits to something, she prefers it to work (really? I prefer it completely fair), and when she committed to the old, she prefers them to stay home with home help, rather they are sent into retirement homes (really? I prefer them to go into a hospice, where can finally leave them in their poop for hours, give them meat very hard so that they can not chew it, they die faster, it's less pension liabilities, that the shower once a month , if you have time, let them get to know, among Alzheimer's patients, they should get lost, and then Sunday on TV y 'Mass and evening y' questions for a champion and noon, there's motus, and at four o'clock, there's numbers and letters, and then the fires of love for the ladies, because the very old, it's the ladies).

So what can we retain the 20-minute daily morning radio?
it will not pretty today. That
loves people, but mostly dead (Camus, Old, Obama, same thing).
That is not tomorrow that we can afford the restoration.
What are the young ladies who look after old ladies.
What the Blues, it's been 11 years that swamp us with.
And meantime, we must recycle, take public transit and assist the elderly. But we must also
kiss (like TV), to be thin (such as the ticket) and give its sub (like any good person who cares for elderly, disabled, sick, poor, etc.).

In 20 minutes of radio, a subliminal definition of national identity was attempting to break through. The French

- must think about the VAT
- Pantheon is clear from all that mess and usually passes within range, a dead writer, football players to retirement, an American president bad beginning to look the next days, months, years, centuries
- should complain
time - must have concern for the environment
- to kiss, or at least think
- must be thin or at least wish
- must worry about his next through donation and / or volunteer

The moment P as paranoia past, the day can begin.

* non-exchangeable, non refundable, purchasable 6 months in advance
** non-exchangeable, non refundable, purchasable 6 months in advance
*** non-exchangeable, non refundable, buyable 6 months in advance

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Under the spell ...

I fell in love with the text Bashir Lazhar , Evelyne Pearson Education Canada, required reading in a required course. To my amazement, it was really good. The monologue of the Algerian uprooted, replacing a Grade 6 class in Montreal, moved me. The twenty-five pages of documents filed past me at full speed.

But tonight mausus I had no desire to leave my house to go see the play at the theater. I even called the ticket office, where my ticket is refundable. Which was of course not. I took the bus, hidden in my scarf, Louise Attaque loudly in my ears. I thought it would be over quickly, the play does in an hour and a half. And then, Periscope, the seats are not reserved. First come, first served. I'm late, I'm told that it was perfect. I would take a seat at the back in a corner, and I was sleeping.

I left the bus, I put Salaberry. In front of the theater on the sidewalk, a shiny caught my attention. A huge oak leaf, golden under the light of the lamppost. I am the appropriate. She sparkled. Even inside the theater, when the neon lights have given him his brownish color of dead leaves, he remained as a flash, a reflection of visible gold at a certain angle. I laid on a table, hoping that someone else notices her beauty. I did not want to keep it and run the risk of throwing it away.

I then lined up until the doors opened. To my surprise, I was in the twenty first arrived. I read the Manual de Zoologia fantastica Borges during those few minutes of waiting and I was charmed by these short texts so vivid, so intense! Chimeras, centaurs and other mermaids lived under my eyes. I left already the real world, to open my imagination. Already, my fatigue of the evening flew.

When the doors opened, another surprise (to me who had never been to Periscope): no scene. The actor plays on the floor where the first row of seats. I changed my strategy: rather than seeking a dark corner or take a nap in peace, I decided to get me to be careful and I'm stuck in the middle of the first row. For my feet on the ground, move to the rhythm of not acting. To experience the play without disturbing heads before me.

The play is Bashir Lazhar speaking. Mostly, he talks to his class. He is behind his desk or in front of the table, and is open to the sea of students before him. Ie, us. He asks questions to her students and the public for not holding up your hand and try to answer them. Few laughs.

But this is not a funny piece, despite the many opportunities it offers us guffaw. It is a deep and intelligent text on justice, society, violence. And the actor makes the character wonderfully soft and dreamy and idealistic Bashir Lazhar. His eyes sparkle, his mouth wrinkles or stretches some bosses for his trouble and his smiles. And ours too. Mine too, anyway. Sitting a few paces from him, without hindrance, I become the mirror of his emotions. And it's good Bieu wriggling in my belly, all emotions that!

For an hour and a half, he speaks, he speaks, he is silent, filled with silences in Arabic music, reports on the war, testimonies of immigrants. He turns the pages of a big black book, a blackboard you can erase and which offers the possibility again, not like the nights that end but never does again.

And when he turns the last page, after sent home from school, after the fable of the little girl who drowned in the ocean, according to the testimony of a child that Bashir has managed to touch when on the last page, appears the word "end" when everyone gets up in one movement to applaud, standing magnificent performance which has just been delivered, I cry. I feel my crooked smile, my teeth biting my lip to keep it from trembling, my eyes crinkle and try to smile to thank Mr. Denis Gavereaux for offering us this cultural melting pot of emotions, but all my body wants is to cry in peace. Cry long. Give a tip to the actor who We thank bowing to us as it is we who should bow our heads.

I look back and I still cry.

My god it was beautiful.

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PHILIPPE VAL DAY OR BECAME A veal stew

After the departure of Jean-Marc Sylvestre slice of 7am-9am, its unfathomable analysis écomico-depressive-autoritaro in bad faith, capitalist-slave, only on Friday remained a sad day on the long waves of the round house. Yet on Friday is a day conveniently located in the sacro-secular week, one where you can relax the toe at work, where we share a drink in the evening to meet at dawn on the main square to watch the sun sunrise on the beautiful Marianne, even in the subway, we manage to persuade the world has begun the slow motion and is less mouth. Because on Friday, whatever has to be done, regardless of the urgency in our little lives we wish flawless on Friday, it is too late to change that. That day is a highlight, as they say in music, a sort of indefinite waiting, always too long and jubilant that closes the staccato of my prestissimo 5 working days for us to share in the Adagio amoroso week end, we will ring the bell soon, and a number of which has already begun in a requiem tenuto without any surprise and government. Rigor is a way to deceive when you lack imagination. Tenuto ma non animato. Correct but soulless.
Friday then, and Mr. Val to command a column from dawn well into, 7:53, France is standing for a long time what anyone says, as his colleagues in turn Guillon and M. Porte, each excelling in their field, sometimes at odds but impossible to compare, so stop the comparisons sterile. But on Friday
So therefore Mr Val. Like Mr. Val for his most human: the paradox assumed, the complex profile, background inimitable, and that he probably had dared to imagine in the morning by cutting. He is a man, a true, which it does not count, which came in middle age and who has finished the pranks and jokes for schoolboys. Nothing more scary that these people who serve you the same speech, the first rumblings of spring in their final squirt of saliva when the hour of agony winter is coming. Thank you Mr. Val to be the real man and not a bronze statue, also known as bronze, which in slang franchouillard all, reminds us that it can flow, like everything else that comes to the throne. Laws of gravity, the splendor and grandeur, which always end in water coil or any access to sewerage. Humans are perishable, and without great ideas, which they are slightly less unfortunately. But on Friday
So therefore Mr Val, the most human of men then. I do not like Mr. Val for his most human: the misplaced pride, vindictiveness binary discourse opportunist, that he himself would have scoffed at night, humming. He is a man, a truth which we knead moral view from the crew to jump out of bed in the guise of taking bold positions. Nothing more scary than the people who reactivate the chimera of Dorian Gray, who in the guise of leading man who wants to have a beautiful old soul who no longer stale. Sine, the Elysées, France Inte, apple, details of the story.
You can not blame a man for employees separating from divergent points of view or sense ethical and moral, since this word would summarize all of this conversion.
You can not blame a man to listen to the sirens when they come within range of his hearing, he made a long journey, it goes a rest, and perhaps even construct does it's cozy cabin on the shore, even if the surroundings are full of sharks.
You can not blame a human editor, newspaper proprietor, 'ACTUALS', singer, writer in one way or another, to accept a position as director of one of the most listened to public radio, and thereby accept the challenges and excitement that such an appointment should generate.
You can not blame a man newly appointed director to make changes in its workforce, it is estimated that some are not in place and they would be much better elsewhere.
You can not blame a man to follow his path, but his way is always exposed to criticism. Criticism and censorship are two words that Mr. Val range does seem it not in the same drawer as it does not support one, while by posing as the last opponent on the other. To listen, and try to understand his rhetorical conservative sisi I stress, only some elected officials may administer a valid argument against him, and on any other subject, the rest is inaudible miasma of jealousy aggressive Internet-borne Satan, who maliciously try to get a hearing on his back. Paranoia when you hold us. Sufficiency when you we live. When we take it you delirious.
Mr. Val has this property that was the word for him, the background of high school most efficient manner, the "I did everything alone, do not bother me, but But above all, Mr. Val has this rather widespread, which makes him look like any average person when she drank and some hacker fasting: it Truth, or foul, it does or says is good, and always at the end that old Bush-fallacy, which is public speech that the lump is in the bechamel sauce on Sunday afternoon, everyone felt it was disgusting, but everyone pours himself by saying it tastes great, so now he replies to anyone who will listen this already-old Moon, "I, the undersigned Axis of Good, fighting so fiercely against They, or more commonly Axis of Evil states that if you're not with me you are against Me. " 40 years of school life and work experience for that, honestly, what a dream of a destiny to Captain Cook, eaten by cannibals on the Sandwich Islands. At least it's funny.
Then Mr. Val, who lay then on Friday morning, what happened? Why humor he deserted your brain? What is this seriousness that never left you? Each story has its unsavory is that it fell on you.
The right to caricature the Islamic danger, the threat of gauchos (no pun intended) from Latin America, the necessary wars in Afghanistan, Iraq and formerly in Kosovo, the rampant anti-Semitism of French medium and part of his class public especially on the left and of course the extreme right, say so quickly do simple doubling of pro-Arabism on the one hand of them (yes stop here the association between extreme left and extreme right , the object of hatred differs from a man the other, since we hate that your speech is rooted). Any position you have advocated, and much to your honor, a man of the press became increasingly public, makes no bones about the convolutions of his mind Spinoza, ah! good old Spinoza, which you claim, surely you've read, once again hats off! , His first name Benedictus, which recalls the way you preach and distill your absolution as a country priest of the 50s, very IV republic, but also remind the Dutch origin of Sieur de Espinosa, who could explain that you might try the big difference between smoking weed and protesting rigid: you do not have a monopoly on the stereotype Easy easy, it is so simple and still impress your guests, it is a universal sport.
So Spinoza, Mr. Val., Prince of philosophers, as Robin Hood of souls, flying to the rescue of our contemporary thought at half-down, the total drift. Ethics of happiness and freedom, God is nature, determinism first vintage, initiating a orthoathéisme, which became in later centuries a religion like any other, you claim that you could flawless.
What happened to Mr. Val that you inflict this? You inflict it? Because basically, what you do, what you're saying is you it now hires. Us, it amazes us, that we are dumbfounded, that we scalds, it shuts us (not long), that leaves us on the ass, it makes us shit, and finally no, it does not surprise us, it does not surprise us Moreover, nothing surprises us. We saw this coming for a decade, it was obvious he was not only the WTC that had taken two planes in the head in twenty minutes on September 11.
In fact, many people have abandoned the murky waters where you have undertaken gradually. We would have liked to follow you, believe them, as in the Horde Brace, darken behind our tracer to cross new and successful Lapsana, which nobody was never returned so far.
There would be a form of courage in your obstinacy, he was so vain as sadly proud. The path has already been repeatedly opened and not of compromise or betrayal, as you portrayed today, no, these are just common cowardice which we all succumb. Track as the cramped, do ring and strawberry think Tartuffe in theatrical tradition, think of ospreys cry of outraged virtue, consider the arrival of paunchy satisfied, consider blare of 14 July, under the Bastille: blood, consider democracy to Dad that you're one of the flaming-Tontons Macoutes, consider general anesthesia with refusal of resuscitation. Soon you'll have 80 years, and like any person of 80 years, you'll be within your rights, at an age when our words and our actions coincide with a nice nostalgic porridge, the only one that ever managed to swallow that make the Bousquet and Papon other escape justice, that make history and its eternal cycle beyond belief that enlightened men as smart as you, who make you definitely hit a sister Anne of blindness, three in a monstrous, Robespierre, Danton and louix XVI at once, using his voice to get statements from the edge of zinc for the informed and critical thinking.
It's always strange to see the intelligence of the man in the service of a misguided ethics, ideas all made, judgments of truth Assen and confident. You are a symptom, one more if he had, in our society such as those having a nightmare that emerged after the Great Chow 68: born capitalist, forging a good conscience and a background in activism schoolboy audience left, and stupidly back only to the rules he has never known, understood and followed, and unfortunately, never exceeded. It was in the old pots that the only receive heads you know.














Graaaal The National Identity by Philippe Val (with Clos de Vougeot Grand Cru)

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TIME (MINUTE, THIS TIME) OF TRUTH

Because some people would disguise the truth, hide it, deny it, do not accept, even those who say that all truth is not good to say, even as the truth comes out of the mouths of children, these innocent little beings, it is time to tell them their four truths , teach the truth, let them hear the truth, even forcing the truth or embellish, so that finally they see the truth in the face, we'll tell them the truth, it does cover the more we will establish the truth, lest they alienate them more, we're going to utter truths that they betray nor the silenced, we'll force the truth to all those who are below, and even far-side of truth, we meditate with them until their truth or false according to our real truth, and finally they swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, because there are truths that angry, but only the very ones of those who distort it, the dress, disfigure, we will lead them to approach the truth so they finally recognize it, the truth lies probably in the bottom of a well, because the truth hurts, but in these times of darkness, we will not tolerate any challenge to our beautiful truth, nor truth-cons, because it is the pure, the whole truth that we must achieve, and few matter that the truth scares people, the truth will emerge, it burst, it will spring, it will triumph sooner or later. In truth I tell you THE TRUTH IS UP!

Multiple truths facing the advocates of truth trying desperately to get out of the well

Truth out of the well

Painting by Edouard Debat-Ponsan, Museum of the Town of Amboise, deposit the Musée d'Orsay © City of Amboise

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The end of the RMI

Tuesday, October 27, I learned that I go into the device RSA, in addition to my salary of part-time worker. Much the end of an era, my era Rmiste a short era in terms of physical time that has seen the big bang or the seventh day of Genesis (yes, no person froissons), dinosaurs, the glacial period, the end of the Neanderthal man, civilizations Aztec, Inca, Chinese, Egyptian, Greek, Roman, Ottoman, Visigoth, European, Western, rechinoise. Physical time is long that takes us shortcuts and anachronisms. But time is also long for the inactive man, or rather served to justify its attribute of "inactive" wide its silly little life. We watch the planes go by one day English course by saying that life will never be as boring as this moment. It may be hard, it may be unfair, it may lead to death, but it will not be so deadly boredom of high school student who watches the world move without him through the window. Did not count on the fact of not finding work. Even the Knights of the Round Table and their quest for the Grail had another idea in mind: to honor, camaraderie, glory, God, be the wife of his friend, traveling the world ... Look for work, and its consequence of "being in RMI "is more like a Beckett play, waiting in a hurry, wait-stress, an entry in a world that is the paradox and boredom, which is defined as another's absurdity.
So how to break the vicious circle of those who seek a little, a lot, passionately, to madness, and most of all? How to store an identity claim in the world of active, smooth and efficient, when the day is to build a system opaque and uncertain for the sole purpose of reaching the end of the day, week, month?
Looking for a job and not finding it is the end of belonging to a society what it is: it pays us to accept that no longer take part. You do not become second-class citizen, it "is" simply in the moment and there 'is not "primarily.

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apology and a history

My audience wants me! And how to resist him when he sends a messenger like the prettiest girl he could admire himself in sunny Farnham! Yes, I've neglected much, dear readers!

If I was still very small (because being a child at heart, it's cool, but with an adult body, the people we are stamped when one acts a baby. That is unfortunate.), I would justify whining and pointing the finger at the head of nothingness bloguistique saddens us as: "Blame it on Facebook! "

Yeah, Facebook and over again. It's so easy to blame him for everything! "I got divorced because of Facebook. "My best friend does not speak to me because of Facebook. "My boss fired me because of Facebook. "I could not study or do my homework because of Facebook. "Vicious creative than this, which all show - sometimes a little too quickly - their every emotional ...

short, but for Facebook, you could read a delightful article by extolling the joys of family activities outdoors, with a few photos of the adventures of my sister and myself at the Parc de la Jacques Cartier. But the pictures of our walk in the woods, I had the silly habit of spreading it, shamelessly, on the site where everyone is. And it has deprived me tell you a taste of our day, because a picture is worth a thousand words and with 117 photos, I would have to write at least 117 000 words to compensate. And I had neither the time nor the courage. It's long, 117 000 words. Just to give you an idea, then I'm just made to 291.

I need to find another text to throw you into pasture. History to calm down. And I feel good.

I, this session, a course entitled "Writing Fiction I: novel." Each week, we added about 500 words to what became, at the end of the session a "solid" start of the novel. Novel that will continue in the winter, with the course "Writing Project . A nice thing seriously. Full pleasure.

My first novel was born of some simple short stories written during my trip this summer in Grand Manan Island. So I thought making this blog a literary trick, and give you the first to read this news, I wrote one evening mist on the ferry that links Blacks Harbour and Grand Manan. Standing in the cold wind, soaked by the spray, I scribbled for over half an hour, until my frozen fingers begging for mercy. It gave it. When you read my novel (!), You'll see the influence.

Each time the horn sounded, she loses the thread of his thoughts and turned away reluctantly from the horizon obscured by fog. Frowning, she contemplates the white waves formed by the passage of the boat, brooding in his thoughts, before his gaze did not refer to the east, thoughtfully.

Ann was eight years old when his father, adventure guide, had considered old enough to accompany an expedition sea kayaking off the coast of Nova Scotia. They were seven, she understood. Heaven was veiled, but tourists were full of enthusiasm: they had the word "whale " in the mouth. And then just at the very moment when his father proposed to clap on kayaks to warn cetaceans of their presence, a huge head sprang from the waves a few feet of their craft. Ann knew what it was like a whale. Baleen trained to two meters of it made her mute terror. She peed in her pants. In the kayak neighbor, a woman vomits with fear. The large black plunged into the waves as she had quietly emerged. The guide had to return earlier than expected the tourists reeling.

The call of the foghorn rips the air a long time. The look deep in the foam of the waves, the woman thinks about this incident, his last sea trip She had however moved to Grand Manan Island, a few meters from the beach. The crossing by boat to the island had been demanding. She had moved to a table in the bar, sunglasses over his eyes despite the darkness, and had dared to cast any glance at the ocean during hour and a half had lasted the journey. Ann hated being on the water. But she loved her house just steps from the ocean, this source of infinite love and uncontrollable terror. She never left home.

is the fault of Bill, she said to herself while trying to pierce the skyline. The threat is the second hurricane of the season led to the evacuation of the islands in its path. Twelve years after moving to Castalia, she returned to the mainland for the first time under duress. And standing on the bridge of the ship, now that the spell on the ocean. The waters are living below the belly rumbling of the huge white ferry.

The foghorn sounds again, it jumps. A sailor who was passing stopped.

- You 'all right, ma'am?

Without answering, she plants her gaze in his. Tell him how she feels robbed of his body through this ocean too vast, and chilled to the bone, and frightened at the prospect of perhaps seeing a whale rise of the water, afraid to be marble, or worse then, afraid to feel invaded by a monstrous love, too, that the possibility of love burning in her throat, she needs the wind blowing around her to remember to breathe, and he suddenly so young and beautiful and arrogant, his body muscular and bronzed cast in a T-shirt despite the cold, she wants to cling to his arm tattooed like a lifeline. But now, the foghorn bellowing again, she trembles, her heart beats a little too much, she chokes and turns away from the sailor who looks always, uncertain half-smile at the corner of his mouth. Then he goes his way, the sailor in the bow, he says he will be inside and it should not hesitate if she needs anything. The spell is broken, she shook her head absently, his eyes again fixed on the horizon guess it, fearing to see rise to the surface of the waves back a glossy, and dreading even more, perhaps, of do not see, does not notice this black back, mistaking for a movement of the sea Or maybe, finally, is she afraid to believe finally see a whale, and that this is finally the wave lying and disappointed to see his error, which would teach him beyond a doubt that she is not afraid of the sea, but she is well and truly in love.

And the fog horn blows again, and Ann jump again, then, like a sleepwalker, she staggers, advancing despite the wave of increasingly violent toward the front of the ferry, from whence comes the Appeal to the ship blind dark and foggy. And there, staring straight ahead, she guesses the land beyond the fog and drizzle. A flurry of hits in the face, his hair wet being pressed on her cheeks and neck, hiding her eyes, mingle with the wind.

The foghorn will sound in his ears, thousands of decibels, Ann eardrums explode, as she screams, pain, door hands to his ears, his eyes close on uncontrollable tears.

She does not arise waves, languid, back along the quiet night color humpback whale.

Sentinel Cplus Dongle Emulator

Confession of a melting pot écririen

A écririen is someone who believes himself a writer. Or who wants to be. Here: desire. A verb, not action. It stops there: no realization on the part of écririen. A écririen, then that person, rather than to start writing now, he said: "When I am retired, I'm a writer! ". Synonym: an idiot. A coward. A show-off. But it's also someone (and I do, I think) who knows have a certain talent and have already proved, but which is not always (or even not often) inhabited by the urgency to write, and that result does not write. "It becomes a writer by writing that" we always told my teacher ( I have already mentioned, but what do you, we too will the fact is that many times in class). So it is not writing that one becomes écririen, I added here to support my scholarly definition.
Do not take my inaction literary and creative for a lack of good will! Every day, I dragged my bag in a very nice malleable blue book, whose cover rubber covered with little hearts and blue pages devoid of boring lines have everything to please the aspiring writer. That is certainly something to give a good kick in the ass écririen in me, I said to myself by paying the few dollars required. My romantic mind had said, then surely the inspiration hit harder (bang!) if I blithely scribbled pages azure rather than typing on a keyboard stupidly cold and white screen by setting a sizzling (for exaggeration example, the screen of my mac is really all there is more stable and sexy).
But precisely, this blue book everything tidy which was to come my hello, it scared me. As if I was unworthy to sully my inking uncertain. That fact that I deliberately defaced, want to make it look less new, less ... arrogant. It was, in a sense, the expected result: I do not feel bad to write nonsense. Predictable but unfortunate consequence: I am writing, in fact, nonsense. Thus, imagining, ashamed of the toes to ears, reread my lines clumsy, I write more. This summer, I am a écririen chip. I'm a "writing vain."

M Jak Milosc Odc792 Online

summer

Oh la la ... I want you as entertainer of beautiful and exciting long messages-slash-literary! You dream over the words ... Post funny pictures where my face is not to his advantage ... I feel like writing! I quote my teacher: "In writing that one learns to write." Exactly ... is of novels, short stories that I want to write you. I have lots of ideas!

I see a man walking on the desert campus. He limps a funny way. It takes me a desire to describe his approach very carefully, in a page. Not easy.

I think an erotic novel, and I poetizes. I create images: the girl's mouth as deep as the night. It's almost beautiful.

At the hotel where I am replacing, I prepare a book of short stories involving scabrous receptionists and maids: one wears an arm torn and sutured, and a pretext for aggression dog. Yet the window of the basement is broken and the injury to his arm does not look like a bite. Another daughter is schizophrenic and nymphomaniac. It brings the guys at the hotel and sleep with them in empty rooms, and then again without changing the bed sheets covered sperm. Two women hate about a shady history involving a client, and each has a very different story: that belief?

Me not steal my ideas here! I can show you the brain-stormer consistently. Because my notes to me are pretty chaotic ...

***

I'm gone spend four days in St-Armand. We happily got out of Quebec under a beautiful sun, and it is with sadness that we left the Montérégie in the rain. Weather morale, say Facebook. Chez Papa-Maman, a French course occupies in my room. That fact that Tom and I were dealing that of Jobe. Jobe and inherited the futon in the living room. Those who know my house know that sleeping in the middle of our show is as funny as sleeping without a tent in the middle of a freeway, mosquitoes bonus. Fortunately for Jobe was that for one night, we set off again the day after his arrival.

***

It's summer! I have a stack of a dozen books waiting to be read for my sake. I had time to read two before my teacher sent me to the work plan for my summer courses. The holiday will not last long ... tomorrow, I plunge into the Franco-Acadian literature. In Program: 9 to read novels, three movies to see, four reflections of 3 pages, 10 pages of analysis, and an oral presentation. Mouaip ... Fortunately, that job is pretty dead (no pun flat) and I have time to read ...

***

And then you people? How are you? (This is probably my most ugly conclusion to life ...)

Wireing Outside Temature Switch Mondeo

A life in end-session

I was rereading some old publications of this blog and said to myself: "Calm down, it is time to revive this place words!" Because Facebook is still cool for photos, but it's not where I want to tell you my life.

My life ... In the final session, these words take a funny turn. "My Life" is a mix of procrastination useful (clean up the bathroom and classification of t-shirts by color along a gradient extensively studied), procrastination useless (see Facebook) and pitchage on Word for Word have A +, crossing fingers and hoping that magic exists.

And then, I want to welcome my little sister. His friends had gone to Peru, and not her. That fact that it has made his own trip to Quebec City. In the final session, to be visited by a Shopaholic is not always

ideal. And for bed is hard: after enjoying the sleep of the beast on the makeshift cot to finally work on an analysis of the figure of the woman in A hunter god, I slip in bed ready to enjoy a long night of recovery. But in the wee hours of the not-yet dawn, Shick decides she can not sleep. And it would really be better with me, to take all the room in my bed. And, besides, when I had the audacity to switch sides back to the vacuum and thus find myself sleeping face to face with Shick, I got a friendly "Get you, you stink the mouth " from the intruder. Ye.

And then ... The same charming, after getting me that we dined at the restaurant, asked to get a tan. The prom is coming. So we will sit under fluorescent lights, feeling hot and nice to relax at the end of the session, I thought. Result: sunburn crak in the breast. Pleasant. "Honey, no contact for a few days, stp ..." And then that evening, we decided to watch a movie, even if it does not finish before Shick and goes to bed early so I can return to the opposition between men and women in the novel Soucy. Except that, at 23h, when I want to stop the movie, there's baby who cries: "NO! It's the best movie I've seen in my life, stop the paaaaas!". And to diss shit '.

Well, then, in another vein ... y 'was launched Camels! Our baby journal, in gestation for two years, has finally emerged! Yay! We did a launch party at Fu Bar in Quebec City, and what a success! The Dean and his wife were there, along with three other teachers who support us fully. The wine was good, the music also, copies of the magazine went as hotcakes (well, they are not sold, it was free ... it has probably contributed to their success!). Finally, we could return to our concerns and quit school to read and proofread and review each piece to make sure everything is ok before you print ... And then there was even interviouvé! Text here: http://www.aufil.ulaval.ca/articles/dos-chameaux-16351.html

And on the picture: Me, Julie, Jeanne and Nicolas Elise, parents founders Camels (in Besides my love, Tom, who was not there for the photo).

I also want to start the invitation: the next issue, whose theme will be "a journey in and through literature" due out this fall. Feel free to submit texts or reflexive creations!

And then ... the session ends in joy and enthusiasm general! Tuesday, everything will be finished. Not the bacc ', of course: I have three courses to complete literature, and I have a certificate in creative writing to at the same time, but it will be okay.

Good end of the session, good spring, enjoy the sunshine and good weather!

Images Of Oral Warts On Lips

I eat and eat soft warm

Sometimes things do not go quite as planned. Especially when we had not really planned anything ...

It started with a strange semi-awakening in the night. The feeling of having something on the tongue. Sleepy attempt to spit. I did the opposite and I swallowed. Swallowed What? I know. I was asleep. Maybe I dreamed.

The same week, I had pain behind my last molar. Wisdom tooth growing. 1 Sofia, wiser than I am. Bobo still ... Naturally, I spend my time walking my tongue in that corner, to follow the development of my tooth. In the last molar tooth brushing, I feel like a hole, with sharp edges. It bothers me, I think, and I call to my dentist.

- Hello! I have a wisdom tooth that grows, and the molar next door looks to be holed ... c'peut you think I lost a filling? Can you check my record if I have been filling the tooth? ("No" surprise me with all that I put in to fix my teeth, I could pay a few round-trip between France and Quebec).

- Dr. Anick is on vacation this week, she returns next week. Wednesday, this would suit you? 11h?

- Ok!

And I hang up, and when I hang up, I realize that I'm not at all "was answered" that I wanted and not me, go!

Good. At least the dentist will be able to tell me, if I lost a filling or not. Meanwhile, I brush my teeth very well.

I go to my appointment this morning in the waiting room I am revising for an exam film at 12:30. My turn comes, I am asked to remove all my jewelry take the pan. "Koss?" I ask. "Ben is going to take a radio to see your wisdom tooth. The last radio was in 2006, she has been good." Really. I just want to know what it is my fillings, but if it makes you happy ...

then I sit on the couch, and it takes only half a second to the dentist to tell me hallucinating and there is no problem with my tooth. But I can polish it so that it bothers me less. "Ok!" I say. It fact, it took 13 seconds total, and I'm about to get up and go to my movie review. Except that, the dentist leaves his stuff kind of torture syringe and clamps. "Huh?" I ask. "Well, we will remove your wisdom tooth, it is enough and she pulls out your molar. The other is not left out, it can wait," replied my dentist.

I had not pentoute butcher me, me ... I protest weakly, "Oh I reviewed earlier, I want to be right, flies in my last wisdom tooth I fainted, then ..." Interrupts the dentist: it's a tooth on top, full easy to extract, I'm almost not frozen, it will take two minutes. I have no time to reply in less than two I was frozen, butchered and stitched. And was removed $ 170 from my account.

All because one night I woke with the feeling of having swallowed a seal.

The best way to clear his head before an exam stress: change the wrong place. Radical, mais ça marche.

Aneling Temperature Calculator

Freeze Frame

few "pictures" of the holiday season ...

26 December: the sun slowly begins to fall toward the horizon, it is increasingly bleak. In the snowy forest on a small mound, the outline of a log cabin stands out against the thin trees. We are nine sisters, friends, relatives and cousins, lit only by the flickering light of three oil lamps, warmed by a mighty roaring wood stove, and we play all together, some crazy games of "Werewolf" at dusk. The wind blowing against the windows.

December 30: it's dark, I'm drowsy driving. Back from work, at 22h, I stopped at a red light. A green arrow appears to allow right turns, but unfortunately I'm going straight. I see the car behind me flashing on the right. Imagining the ire of the driver blocks the I way, I look anxiously in the rearview mirror. My eyes linger a moment on the long and tender kiss exchanged between the driver and his passenger. I smiled: they are in no hurry.

December 31: "Ok gang it is almost midnight!" It is activated, some work to take a small fire in the woodstove, we piled on the sofa laughing. No TV or radio to follow the countdown. Everyone looks at his watch or his cell phone. "There is one minute!" Someone shouts. Nobody has the same time. Suddenly, a voice rises: "Well I do not want to break the party, but on my cell since it is midnight already two minutes ... "Chaos. We may have celebrated the New Year too early or too late. We will never know.

January 1: the gates of the IMAX theater, waiting with Thomas and his parents for (finally) see U2 3D show digitized vaunted. My eye catches a furtive movement in the room, near a wall at the edge of my field of vision. I lift my eyes a cute critter wandered naked in the dirty, scampering away with looking for popcorn. And mine employees knowledgeable vexed by customers fearful, rodents still lurks ...

January 3: according to The Weather Network, with the help of wind chill, temperatures approaching 25 degrees below zero tonight. I come from a leisurely dinner with my sister and I have to stop suddenly to let my car run two cars coming in opposite directions. I am committed while in the left lane in direction-cons, to bypass the "obstacle" to walk before me, at speed, a guy ... rollerblades! For winter sports, I tip my hat (my hat).

January 5: Josée behind the wheel, Thomas to his side, behind me. We drove at speed towards St-Armand-les-Vents, visit express la familia. We chose to make a detour of more than thirty minutes to stop in Granby, Saucissier , enjoy a good history of sausage-sauerkraut. We talked throughout the trip, for an excellent snack. Finally parked, we press toward the door of the beloved restaurant. "On vacation, back on January 18. Happy Holidays."

January 9: At the supermarket, Jobe and I spend at the checkout, cheerfully. My purchases totaled $ 63 and pennies. Promotion of the week: "With every purchase of $ 60, get a free cantaloupe. "Last week," said Jobe, it was a broccoli, promotion. "Sometimes, I find that marketing strategies are really funny!

January 9 yet: Arrive at race at work at 3:58 p.m., I have just enough time to take off my boots that already, the phone rings. It looks to me that I answer something like "company name, hello" or "Company Name, Sophie Benoit, how can I help you? ", but not too too much in the beat again, I'll me a brassy and confused:" Sophie Benoit hello! "Yes, I got several pairs of large eyes fixed on me. Gaffe. And it was not all.

January 9, 1 minute after 4 lines flashing on the phone, waiting anxiously I deign to look after their honorable gentleman-in-the-other-end. I try to explain to someone the way to go to one of our lounges. I know where is located the show, and I know very well the path to get there by car, bike, bus or snowshoes ... The man at the other end does not believe me. "Good. Wait a minute, sir, I'll be back," I said. I put the call on hold, time to find a plan map-quest to my disbelief. "Caline, why-s-What not believe me, him? I KNOW the damn ...", ch'min I mumbled, the microphone headset properly directed towards my mouth. Slight noise in my ears. Downtime. My heart missed one (or two) beats. "Sir?" I hesitated. "Yes?" He answers, the tone of the one we have not really put on hold and heard everything ... No, really, it was not my night.

And this concludes this brief burst of images summarizing my holidays, which was also very gay. Fun, friends, gifts and alcohol by weight, a well-filled months of respite before school starts on Monday! To those who return to class (or have already started), I wish my best best wishes and a Happy New Year to all!