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The limits of misfortune

I no longer have the desire or strength to write. I'm tired of pouring my false fictions, my little dream ends by pretending not to believe.

I write and think as I buy a tea machine in college, four yellow pieces to slide into the slot and one or two key presses: for months, the cup was there; it fills up, I expect the chirp feverishly and liberating. I want sugar, but I am afraid to burn their fingers and lips. I forgot Brewed color too and the taste of Ceylon. The last time was last winter and since that day I tried everything to keep my hands warm, sheltered from the cold . thrust into the pockets of my pea coat, mittens, gloves, mittens, fists connected against the warm breath of my mouth useless. Darjeeling, ginseng, mint, lemon. Nothing did. It is not my heart, my hands are cold, all red and cracked, to the wrist, up my watch too much. (You know, black.) Always right wrist. To think that I am deliberately leaving them out, my hands hanging and dead, that you take in the yours. Myself, I would never drag them in your pockets.

But it's too long to explain. Unless you take your afternoon, and you offer me tea.

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Negation of poetry

Greeks. Those damn Greeks.

'Seems to say yes, they shake their heads from right to left, to say no, it's up and down. And then a semicolon in them is a question mark here. It is not easy to get used to the contrary, move from black to white twinkling of an eye, perpetual culture shock and surprise over the job, huh.

Total incomprehension. They go for disturbed, the Greeks. And then, with their weird alphabet, signs and winding all broken, they make anyone laugh. They are pathetic and have names that never writes the right way the first time. They have a tone in their voice warm and nonchalant, which prints a mocking smile on the lips of another. Fatally. It's not their fault, of course. But God knows why, we do not take them seriously.

Their skin always feels the chalk of their islands, it is a little cloud of nostoi , you know what I mean? They look to the east, there, towards the blue and white, white and blue. You can see it right there in the whites of their eyes. As in the cartoons. Scratches in the iris, and a cross in the top left. Pile hair on the conjunctiva, hop. Are bizarre, the folks ...

Good. I am perhaps a bloody Greek, then.

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is where dreams evaporate into hundreds of thousands of gray lenses. There are times where the trouble comes fast, you know ... When you are when you do, when we ...

The moon is too faithful ally. It melts on my shoulders, sometimes, like Judah embracing Jesus, then it hits, resonates throughout the brain, in every corner of my mind. If once and for all eternity we could ... We liked ... But who is we?

This candle is perched on the windowsill - in my lonely window, the last bulwark against the hostilities night - look at me with his red wax lying on the floor, hands shot in the ceiling. No sound and I hear Sigur Ròs echoing from the depths of the ages unto the limits of the species. The heart and poumme Toumma, inaudible, just sensitive. Stay! ... And if we had taken the time to tell. Everything. Would have been different?

in the mood I regret with a passion extinguished and cold to my stomach knotted ridiculous. I would have been different, as much as you. It seems that the figures are changing because the world is reversible. The cat flies, gracious in her feline race, sensual, precious, the dog is drowning, but happy is against trains submarines, these miraculous banks tits gold and azure. In the middle do I find? In-between, always at the intersection of these roads that invisible force me bar. Sometimes you, sometimes me, sometimes that, and yet other days even the Other. Where am I?

If only the memories do not disappear in my memory dirty ... Polished by time, wind-rock, the scraps that are left cronies, and that the moon is a traitor, dissolve when I did not realize their impending absence. And that emptiness, the abyss, the abyss, the abbess, m'abaissent ceases ... of ... exist ... The time is greedy, gambling to be prevails straightforward, legally: too many words for the ills afflicting never apprehended do a little more.

Yet the vast wave that is beyond window, plains, valleys, basins, oceans, countries and continents across the world perhaps, invites me to live again, a little bit, told me that this place some disembodied await the gathering of men, and they will wait, even if it does not see it coming, then they die will say "I lived for nothing, for while I lived. "

Let us lose all the strongholds of our ancestors, do not keep our nose to closed cases, when everything vanishes by the heights of an infinite universe beyond us.

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And soon, you never know when the urge will point the tip of his nose!

Igrice Naruto I Saske

aujoud'hui bookstore, soon on the screens and on this blog: "True Grit"

"True Grit" - Mattie Ross

Christmas is past the year 2011 - I wish you very beautiful (it is never too late!) full of wonders and literary buffs, aesthetic - is already well underway and yet I still have not found a way to come back a little at least here ... The intention was there, the availability of mind a little less. But it's coming, yes yes!

to start with the great and wonderful novel by Charles Portis , "True Grit" in bookstores today, but I could devour A few weeks ago already, though I selfishly ...

also had the opportunity to see a sneak preview last Friday "True Grit" Cohen brothers. Wonderful, and yet I am demanding a spectator, I still have a little trouble with the film adaptations novels that I loved ... But I

hear about it soon, time to get back to my keyboard ...

Meanwhile, just to give you a little envy, I leave you with the film's trailer:

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January 14, 2011: Long live freedom

This blog has been censored in Tunisia on 06/05/2010. Since I've only published one article. I was desperate to find it blocked every time and having to maneuver to gain access. There has even a few days I intended to close permanently.

Since January 13, 2011, all blogs and websites censored in Tunisia are free. Since January 14, 2011, we became a free people:).

I publish here a text that I wrote while returning from the demonstration on 14 January. This Tunisian revolution which we are all proud. Text or mingled pride, hope and fear, unfortunately. A real belief in me says that this fear will dissipate soon.

And finally, I am:)

Today January 14, 2011 will be remembered. We descended into the streets. Thousands of Tunisian shouted slogans and raised banners that nobody imagined. Today we called freedom, victory, we applauded the departure of those who have stolen and won. Any Tunisia rose with one voice, with one call, a Democrat Tunisia, tunisia a Free, No to oppression No to Corruption.

That same evening of 14 January, we unfortunately scared. We could not live our victory, we are unable to show our joy. Tonight, it is stolen, rob and plunder. The fear is that our doors are smashed at any moment. All families are grouped in a single room. Alerted the senses, nerves awake. Many of us can not sleep for more than a week. On this day we do not want to sleep because you're afraid of being nipped in our sleep.

On January 14, we got freedom of expression, we give our opinion spontaneously, all the media filming us and we sent our voice, loud and louder than ever. On the other hand, it has never been so steeped in insecurity. It has never been so scared for our lives, for our own.

At or write these words, helicopters sweep the sky of my city, looters go in the 404 sheeted clotted with threatening glances. All the stores around are emptied of their contents. The night we got our freedom, we do not know what tomorrow will bring, but a feeling tells me have hope and be confident. We recovered our dignity, we are more than ever proud to be Tunisian, more than ever proud to have achieved what we want at the price of blood indeed, but dignity is priceless.

Right now, there's looters are moving in the surrounding streets. All men and women are out, careful to defend what is left to defend. There is more strength in order to protect us, we must protect ourselves with our hands, our voices ...

If we continue on foot tomorrow, we need to think about rebuilding what was destroyed, to remove the traces of what has been burnt. Now is not that one can judge the guilty, but until the priority is to reorganize and return to order. Order we must also impose ourselves by dint of shouting and sacrifice.

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From loneliness to solitude life

And the perfect blue sky shakes his scars. Aircraft. They pierce through and through. I see you and you go, my eyes looking for you.

I see you and you go: you're next door and you think about me taking off. You ask a tea hostess. It is not even pretty, not even hot tea. The pilot has a horrible accent Bavarian you a giggle and coughs as well as possible. Your neighbor speaks Turkish in his sleep.

I see you and you go: you forget to put your seatbelt for landing, you wanted to finish your first chapter. The aircraft is indeed the only means of transport where you can read without nausea. The hostess just now hands you a lemon candy for not the ears become clogged. You roll the sweet realm beneath the waves of your tongue, you take out banging against your front teeth. The window you get lost in cotton.

Your lips stretch into a smile. you return home.

I see you and you go ... But saying you do not want to stay a little longer ... ?

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Seasons

Lord, I'm in the neighborhood of good thieves,

Vagabonds, of bare-feet, receivers of stolen goods.

I think the two thieves who were with you to the gallows,

I know you deign to smile upon their misfortune.

Lord, one would like a rope with a knot at the end,

But it is not for free, rope, it costs twenty cents.

He reasoned like a philosopher, that old scoundrel.

I gave him opium for him to go faster in paradise.

I also think the street musicians, the violinist

blind, the penguin who turns the barrel organ,

A singer in a straw hat with pink paper;

I know they are the ones who sing throughout eternity.

Lord, let them alms, other than the glow of gas lamps,

Lord, let them alms big money down here.

Lord, when you died, the curtain was torn,

What we saw behind, nobody said it.

The street is in the night like a tear

Full of gold and blood, fire and peelings. Those

you from the temple with your whip, flog

passers of a handful of misdeeds.

L'Etoile, which disappeared when the tabernacle,

Burns on the walls in the harsh light shows.

Lord, the Bank is illuminated as a safe,

Where did the coagulated blood of your death.

The streets are deserted and become darker.

I reel like a drunken man on the sidewalk.

I'm afraid of large swathes of shade houses project.

I'm afraid. Someone is following me. I dare not turn his head. A

not limping jumps closer and closer.

I'm afraid. I have vertigo. And I stopped on purpose. A fearful

looked at me funny

Acute and spent, bad like a dagger.

Lord, nothing has changed since you no longer king.

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Nights

" - I bring you my best wishes. - Thanks, I'll try to do something. " (J. Fox)

And subwoofers vibrate the air, alcohol and disappointment flow freely. A box of cigarillos raisin sits atop the coffee table. A couple made love in the next room: the voice hoarse Springsteen does not cover noise from the bed that moves. Clara smokes on the balcony, it is 0:02, it is already tomorrow. Behind her are heard loud voices, we are throwing good year healthy slam and kisses on the cheeks reddened. Under her in the street, cars are parked and honking occasionally.

The cat is rubbing his legs, purring. Clara hardly noticeable. Well Well, two thousand eleven: what does it change? This year I either do not write good resolutions. Obstinate in the winter. Clara throws her cigarette over the parapet of stone. Yeah, what good ?

She slid and slammed the door-window: one looks, one would expect. She uncapped a beer while trying to ignore all this little world that watches. She turns around with tears in her eyes, broken voice. Bon bah, eh good year. Nobody replied, turning the head, we find it so miserable. Clara then grabs his duffle coat, pulls on his Brandenburg cursing everyone and descends in the poorly lit street.

Go to hell with all your good year, "she grumbles, salty lips in his wool scarf.