Vive les fautes d'orthographe !

"Aujourd'hui, ma journée a commencé de bonheur."

SMS envoyé par mon cousin. Merci cousin.

St Michel by night, 28/12/2011

Saint-Michel-Chef-Chef, coucher de soleil, 26/12/2011

« Gardez bien en vous ce trésor de gentillesse. Sachez donner sans retenue, perdre sans regret, acquérir sans mesquinerie. »


"Guard well within yourself that treasure, kindness. Know how to give without hesitation, how to lose without regret, how to acquire without meanness."


George Sand, nom de plume de / pen name of Amantine Aurore Lucile Dupin, écrivain / novelist (1804-1876)

Beauty is truth, truth beauty...is that all ye need to know?

“Imperfection is beauty, madness is genius and it's better to be absolutely ridiculous than absolutely boring.” 


Marilyn Monroe, actress, model, singer, film producer (1926-1962), Marilyn: Her Life in Her Own Words.

What was I thinking of on that day?

Something I unearthed from a long, long time ago. / Quelque chose de très, très vieux que je viens de déterrer.

Merry Christmas to you all. Joyeux Noël à toutes et à tous.

Strong gale at sunset

All pictures taken by the seaside, Saint-Michel-Chef-Chef, 23/12/11, around 6:30 pm

2011 already costliest year for natural disasters

Copied/pasted directly from MSNBC.com, which can be found here (there are pictures too, and the rest of the article). Their "share" options should have been better designed, there was no way I would post what they proposed to me.


By Miguel Llanos
Updated 7/12/11


Natural disasters across the globe have made 2011 the costliest on record in terms of property damage, and that's just six months in, according to a report released Tuesday by a leading insurer that tracks disasters.

Moreover, that record builds on a trend of recent costly years — which means more expensive insurance for consumers over the long haul.

The first six months saw $265 billion in economic losses, well above the previous record of $220 billion (adjusted for inflation) set for all of 2005 (the year Hurricane Katrina struck), according to Munich Re, a multinational that insures insurance companies.

Japan's earthquake and tsunami last March account for the biggest chunk ($210 billion), as well as most deaths (15,500 dead with 7,300 still counted as missing), but even without that cost factored in, overall losses still exceed the 10-year average, the company stated in its half-year review (PDF file).

After Japan, the costliest disasters so far this year were New Zealand's earthquake in February ($20 billion), the twister outbreak in the U.S. Southeast ($7.5 billion), and Australia's flooding in December-January ($7.3 billion).

2011 is "one for the record books," Bob Hartwig, head of the Insurance Information Institute, told reporters being briefed on the study. "We are rewriting the financial and economic history of disasters on a global scale."

The rest is to be found on the website.

Shades of grey and the things in between

 Ciel au-dessus de la baie de Bourgneuf, Saint-Michel-Chef-Chef, le 21/12/11, fin d'après-midi.

  Baie de Bourgneuf, vue du port de Saint-Michel-Chef-Chef, le 22/12/11, fin d'après-midi.

 Pin parasol, rue du port, Saint-Michel-Chef-Chef, le 22/12/11, soir.

 Chenal du nord, vu de Saint-Marc-sur-mer, le 23/12/11, matin.

 Chenal du nord, vu de Saint-Marc-sur-mer, le 23/12/11, matin.

 

Rare lenticular clouds over West Yorkshire

Here's the link to the pictures. Enjoy!

A NEW PARTICLE!

Here's the link to this short article describing the discovery of a new subatomic particle thanks to the Large Hadron Collider (LHC) in Geneva. Here's the latest BBC article on the topic.

Still no news of the Higgs boson...*sigh*...

UPDATE: Reuters' article on the subject.

Shakespeare and I

As unexpected as this may sound, my Master's thesis has been published by the Editions Universitaires Européennes. Here is the link!

Aussi inattendu que cela puisse paraître, mon mémoire de DEA vient d'être édité par les Editions Universitaires Européennes. Voici le lien !

Etude en deux temps, quatre mouvements

Évariste-Vital Luminais (1821 – 1896) – qui, au passage, porte le même prénom qu'un de mes héros de la science, Évariste Gallois – était au moins aussi lumineux que son patronyme. J'ai découvert il y a peu cet artiste, qu'on m'a présenté comme méconnu, alors que ce monsieur a été décoré à de très nombreuses reprises, notamment de la Légion d'honneur (du temps où celle-ci représentait encore quelque chose...).

La plupart de ses œuvres sont dispersées au quatre coins de France et de Navarre : Nantes, Rennes, Quimper, Dunkerque, Carcassonne, Paris (Orsay), Rouen, Moulins, Sydney (si, si !), avec une plus forte représentation dans les trois premières ville citées.

Je me suis intéressé à son œuvre la moins méconnue – Les Énervés de Jumièges (j'en vois tout de suite qui se disent : « Ah, oui...les, les quoi ? »), tout en sachant que si vous allez à la Bourse de Commerce de Paris, vous pourrez admirer son immense coupole (quelque chose comme 1500m2) représentant l'histoire du commerce sur tous les continents, peinte en partie par ce Luminais (qui s'est coltiné l'Amérique). L'histoire des énervés de Jumièges, ou plutôt la légende, pour faire court, donne ceci :

Vers le milieu du VII ème siècle, Clovis II entreprend un pèlerinage en Terre Sainte. Son fils aîné reprend le royaume, avec l'aide de sa môman, la reine Bathilde (peut-être Mathilde avec un gros rhube). Le fils prend la mère en grippe (^^) et décide de fomenter un p'tit complot avec son frère aîné contre papa/maman cum roi/reine. Cloclo reçoit un fax cum pigeon voyageur et rentre au bercail mater ses rejetons.

La punition du papa est temporisée par l'amour de la maman (merci Sigmund) : plutôt que de les passer à la potence, on va leur brûler les nerfs des jambes, histoire de leur apprendre les bonnes manières. D'où le terme « énervé », à prendre littéralement. D'ailleurs, en aparté, je peux comprendre un terme comme « dératé ». Dans la Grèce antique, on pensait que le fameux point de côté survenant en pleine course était causé par la rate. Avec force décoctions de prêles, ils tentèrent de dérater les athlètes. La rate nettoie le sang d'une partie de ses impuretés en stockant temporairement une partie de ces déchets. Sans cet organe, une personne voit sa quantité d'hématies, aka globules rouges, augmenter. Les hématies transportent l’oxygène dans l’organisme. Donc plus il y en a, plus l’oxygénation est importante. Une personne dératée a donc théoriquement un taux d’oxygène dans le sang plus élevé, et donc de meilleures capacités cardiaques, et peut-être sportives, qu'une personne ratée (la bonne blague). Ergo, courir comme un dératé. Cependant, ne tentez pas la splénectomie (ablation de la rate), vous pourriez finir complètement raté. Ergo, tout ceci restant théorique, ne vous passez pas la rate au court-bouillon et faites avec le point de côté.

Autant je ne comprends pas comment un terme comme « énervé » a pu désigner quelqu'un, dans son usage moderne, d'irrité ou dans un état d'excitation inhabituel, donc quelqu'un de nerveux, alors qu'a contrario, le terme désignait quelqu'un ayant subi le supplice de l'énervation (et pas de l'énervement, celui-là nous le connaissons tous) et donc d'apathique. Aparté terminé.

Les deux frangins, du coup un peu handicapés, demandent à être placés en monastère (la DDASS n'existait pas encore). Bathilde, qui a sûrement d'autres chats à fouetter, les balourde à bord d'un radeau sur la Seine (pas la scène). Blablabla les deux énervés, un peu écœurés, arrivent à Jumièges où ils sont reçus comme des papes par un Saint et les voilà moines. Cloclo et Baba reçoivent un mail de l'Abbaye disant qu'elle a accueilli les deux rejetons et que le nerf de la guerre, c'est l'argent et que les temps sont durs. Visite des parents, pleurs, repentance, dons, blablabla en avant Simone, c'est moi qui conduit, c'est toi qui klaxonne.

Comme toutes les légendes, quand l'histoire s'en mêle, on se rend compte qu'on a été mené en bateau. Clovis II est mort trop jeune pour que ses fils soient en âge de se rebeller contre lui, autre qu'en lui balançant leurs jouets en bois à travers la tronche. Il n'a pas non plus vu la queue de la Terre Sainte.

Reste qu'en art on se fout de l'histoire, sauf si elle croustille autant, voire plus, que la légende. Voici donc les quatre versions des énervés de Jumièges, dont on pourrait parler pendant des heures, mais comme les images parlent d'elles-mêmes, on ne fera que remarquer en silence la beauté des gestes.

Première pensée (circa 1880), huile sur toile, 

41 x 32 cm,

Musée des beaux-arts de Rouen

Etude pour les énervés de Jumièges ; figure au revers (circa 1880)

Huile sur carton, 36,5 cm x 48,5 cm,

Musée des beaux-arts de Rouen

 

Les fils de Clovis II (circa 1880),

huile sur toile, dimensions non trouvées,

Nouvelle-Galles du Sud, Sydney.

Les Énervés de Jumièges (après 1880),

huile sur toile, 1,97 m × 1,76 m,

Musée des beaux-arts de Rouen

First time I'm quoting Faulkner...

...who is one of my favourite writers. What took me so long?


"A writer needs three things, experience, observation, and imagination, any two of which, at times any one of which, can supply the lack of the others."


William Faulkner, novelist (1897-1962) 

Broken panorama

Can anyone help me fix this picture? I don't know how to cut the left part to paste it on the right of the right part, where it belongs....HELP!

Here is the version fixed and delivered by Chab! Many thanks!

Sunset with a broken lens

Beckett quotes

Just because I quoted him to a friend of mine reminded me of his sombre genius. Here is a bunch of quotes from the master of the absurd, collected here and there from the Internet (yes, I know that some of them already feature on this blog...whatever).


"In the landscape of extinction, precision is next to godliness."



"Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try Again. Fail again. Fail better."


"Dublin university contains the cream of Ireland: Rich and thick."


"Estragon: What about hanging ourselves?
Vladimir: Hmm. It'd give us an erection."


"We spend our life, it's ours, trying to bring together in the same instant a ray of sunshine and a free bench."


"Don't wait to be hunted to hide."


"Estragon: People are bloody ignorant apes."


"Estragon: Je suis comme ça. Ou j'oublie tout de suite ou je n'oublie jamais." "I'm like that. Either I forget right away, or I never forget."


"Go on failing. Go on. Only next time, try to fail better."



"No, I regret nothing, all I regret is having been born, dying is such a long tiresome business I always found."



and one of the best (for me):


"What do I know of man's destiny? I could tell you more about radishes."

D'une pierre deux coups

 

Bonjour à tous !

Je tiens à vous faire partager un très, très bon site qui raconte les aventures et les réflexions d'un jeune couple (alors ça doit être des amis d'un ami d'une amie) parti vivre et travailler un an au Japon.

Leur site recèle d'une foultitude de renseignements, d'anecdotes très drôles et d'aspects du Japon auxquels peu s'attardent.

Prenez le temps de le lire et de le regarder - il y a beaucoup de très bonnes illustrations.

Here comes.......Issekinicho !

 

Hymne à Saint Jean-Baptiste et autres paires de fesses

Ut queant laxis

Resonare fibris

Mira gestorum

Famuli tuorum

Solve polluti

Labii reatum

Sancte Iohannes

Paul Diacre, moine bénédictin, historien et poète Lombard d'expression latine - merci Wiki - (circa 720/730 - 797/799)

Jacassant par une nuit sombre et venteuse avec mon ami Guillaume, puissant esthète et grand musicien devant l'Éternel, un verre d'une quelconque substance légèrement alcoolisée dans chaque main, ma curiosité fut piquée au vif par sa connaissance intarissable du monde musical. Il s'embarqua alors dans l'explication historique de l'origine du nom des notes de musique. Le dialogue ci-dessous est fidèlement reproduit de mémoire.

"Bah mon p'tit père, tu vois, un jour de printemps vers le onzième siècle, un moine du nom de Guido d'Arezzo décide de recycler un vieux poème d'un autre moine pour nommer les notes de musique. Je vais pas te refaire l'histoire par le menu, mais il a pris les premières lettres de chaque vers et les a associées à une position sur l'hexacorde."

"L'hexaquoi?"

"L'hexacorde, quand t'as six notes ensemble."

"Ah, une portée quoi."

"Bah non, une portée mon p'tit bonhomme, ça n'a rien à voir. Mais on va dire, qu'au vu de ton état ce soir, c'est pareil. Donc le Guido, il te chope les premières lettres : Ut queant laxis, Resonare fibris, Michezplusquoi, Fa, Sol, La et pour la dernière il combine la première lettre de St Jean - Sancte Iohannes - Si. Rémifasollasi. Le Ut sera remplacé par le do de Domine. Capisce?"

"Bafoui, mais il en manque un p'tit peu des notes, là. Au passage, je r'prendrais bien un p'tit godet."

"Ça donne soif d'écouter, t'as raison. Je sais qu'il en manque, mais tu chercheras le reste sur Google parce qu'on va pas y passer la nuit. Souviens-toi seulement que le système anglophone commence à C pour do, D pour ré etc. C'est facile de se souvenir que le G équivaut au sol, parce que la clef de sol est un 'g' stylisé."

"Aaaaaaaaaaah. Pas con (burp). Mais pourquoi -"

"Oh regarde les Miss France !"

La suite est confuse, toutes mes excuses. Loin de nous l'idée de nous extasier devant ces demoiselles défilant, comme dans certains comices, devant un panel de personnes censées les jauger et les juger en environ 8 secondes chacune. Je me demande bien ce qu'on note quand même, si ce n'est notre propre stupidité. Tout ça pour dire que nous n'avons pas regardé l'élection - qui ressemble plus à une longue série d'évictions - mais que nous avons quand même zappé pour voir où ils en étaient. Shame on us. Or not. Nous avons préféré émailler nos conversations de thermodynamique, de théorie du Big Bang, des différents accents dans le nord de l'Angleterre, de dimanches sanglants et, une fois dans le froid mordant du bord de mer et dans la chaleur des bars, de considérations vestimentaires, de réflexions licencieuses et continentes et beaucoup, beaucoup plus tard, d'apostilles avinées concernant le manque de civisme des gens qui ne s'arrêtent même pas pour un jeune homme poussant un autre moins jeune homme en fauteuil roulant à cinq heures et demi du matin sur le front de mer. 13 402 107 personnes ont vu Intouchables en six semaines d'exploitation (au 15 décembre 2011), et pas une bagnole ne s'arrête.

Bref. Maintenant, je sais d'où vient le nom des notes de musique. Ne me reste plus qu'à apprendre à les lire, à les reconnaître, à les entendre, à les reproduire sur une guitare dont je n'ai pas encore la moindre idée de comment un tel engin fonctionne. Et encore, je suis certain d'oublier une ou deux étapes bien cruciales. Une broutille. But Sheldon Cooper's with me now.

Nota Bene : Mon petit Guillaume, si tu lis ces lignes, il n'y a que toi et moi qui sachions que cela ne s'est pas passé comme cela. Good Looooord!

Rooting

 

"Each blade of grass has its spot on earth whence it draws its life, its strength; and so is man rooted to the land from which he draws his faith together with his life."

Joseph Conrad, Lord Jim (1900)

 

Nouvelles / News

Vous avez sûrement remarqué un déclin certain dans les publications ces derniers temps. La raison est à la fois simple et complexe : je mets la dernière patte à mon roman. Pas mon premier roman écrit, mais peut-être le premier roman publié. À grands coups de théières fumantes, je traque les espaces en trop, les virgules qui se sont fait la malle et autres redondances. Ensuite, je vais devoir m'attaquer à la structure de la première partie qui pose problème. Il y aura une énième relecture, peut-être une autre soumission à de fidèl(e)s lecteurs(trices) -  que je salue au passage. Ce n'est qu'après tout ceci que je pourrais enfin l'imprimer et l'envoyer aux diverses maisons d'éditions que j'ai pris soin de sélectionner. En parallèle, je travaille sur un recueil de poèmes et un autre de nouvelles (tout ces travaux sont en français).
Voilà pourquoi vous voudrez bien excuser l'absence de constance dans les posts...en espérant pouvoir vous annoncer une bonne nouvelle prochainement !
Prenez soin de vous et à très bientôt.

You must have noticed a certain decline in the recent publications. The reason is both simple and complex: I am finishing my novel. it is not the first novel I wrote, but perhaps it will be the first novel I'll publish. Propped by steaming pots of tea, I am on the hunt for double spaces, for on-the-loose commas and other redundancies. Then I will have to tackle the structure of the first part which is problematic. An umpteenth reading shall be done, perhaps another submission to trusted (proof)readers - whom I thank in passing. Only then shall I be in the capacity to print it out and send it to the publishers I have carefully selected. I am also working on a collection of poems and another of short stories (all of the above is in French).
This is why you'll have to be kind enough to excuse the absence of regularity in the posts...I hope I can announce something good in the near future!
Take care and see you very soon.

γνῶθι σεαυτόν

γνῶθι σεαυτόν (gnōthi seauton)


Nosce te ipsum


Connais-toi toi-même


Know thyself


Conócete a ti mismo


Conosci te stesso


Erkenne dich selbst


汝自身を知れ




I live by a handful of axioms, this is one of them. Back in the days, this aphorism was sometimes used to warn people who boasted unnecessarily and not to pay heed to the opinion of other people. It was written on the forecourt of the Temple of Apollo in Delphi, Greece, according to Pausanias, the great traveller. I take it now as a maieutic process (the giving birth concept developed by Socrates, without the irony) that enables me to walk further down the road. Socrates also 'said' (all of these via Plato): ἓν οἶδα ὅτι οὐδὲν οἶδα. I don't know the translation in Roman alphabet, but it reads: "I know that I know nothing." The road is long and winding, and crossroads abound. Better be humble considering the task to be done. And learn, always. From your achievements as much as from your mistakes. From others, great and small.


I don't quite know why I am posting this, what triggered this sudden outburst. I am not giving any lesson, far from me the idea of giving lessons. I'd rather prefer saying that I'm giving my point of view.

Nietzsche-bis!

"One must pay dearly for immortality; one has to die several times while still alive."


Friedrich Nietzsche, philosopher (1844-1900) 


Quoting Nietzsche twice in a month...Is it viral?

Words

Words are timeless. You should utter them or write them with a knowledge of their timelessness.


Kahlil Gibran, mystic, poet, artist (1883-1931)

Un p'tit site

Je sais que j'ai déjà fait la pub, mais parce qu'une piquouze de rappel fait toujours du bien et parce que le talent, et quand y'en a autant, ben on se doit de le diffuser à autant de monde que possible, voici le site de ma grande amie Chabada.

Elle dessine et peint plein de trucs bien, prend des commandes et vous fait du sur-mesure, de pied en cap et du sol au plafond. En plus, elle est gentille. Et pis, avec un peu de chance, on pourrait même finir notre projet d'album jeunesse (humhum)...même si c'est juste pour le fun !

Bon visionnage à tou(te)s !

Gabriel Cornelius Ritter von Max (1840-1915)

The Anatomist - Der Anatom (1869)

Gustav-Adolf Mossa (1883-1971)

Tout le monde ne le connaît pas. Et c'est bien dommage. Un jour, il y a peu, je suis tombé sur ce tableau.

Here's someone who isn't so famous. Shame. One day, not so long ago, I stumbled across this painting.

J'ai eu un choc. Voilà quelqu'un qui a compris quelque chose à la nature humaine. Pas étonnant, me diraient certains. Mossa était un peintre (d'origine Niçoise) inscrit dans la mouvance symboliste, mais très influencé par Baudelaire, Huysmans, les Préraphaélites, Mallarmé, l'Art Nouveau entre autres. Ses peintures et ses écrits sont imprégnés de ses lectures et de sa vision assez lucide de l'art de son époque.
Voici un lien qui regroupe un nombre certain de ses oeuvres picturales.

I had a shock. Here was someone who understood something about human nature. This isn't surprising, some may tell me. Mossa was a French Symbolist painter from Nice who was clearly influenced by Baudelaire, Huysmans, the Preraphaelites, Mallarmé and by the Art Nouveau, amongst others. His paintings and writings are steeped in his reading and his quite lucid vision of the art of his time.
Here is a link which gathers a fair number of his paintings.

J'espère vraiment que vous aimerez ce peintre aux oeuvres mésestimées.
I really hope you'll like this painter and his undervalued masterpieces.

Radiohead/OK COmputer - 04 Exit Music (For a Film)

Hyperkundrium

It all started when I first put on a woollen hat in the middle of Summer. Dunno why – I just felt like it. Middle of June, but I'm losing my marbles. Could've been May.

Then I started pulling all of my grey hair from my eyebrows – they were bush-like. They mightn't have been all grey and perhaps I did pull one hair too many.

People started glaring at me, me who never had a single glance from anyone before. From the murky cranny of ignorance to the glaring blaring lights of onstage sympathy.

One day I felt like cutting my hair, they were neanderthal-like. And seeing how the clipper literally ate through the blackish mass felt exhilarating I had to shave my head.

It also coincided with me starting losing weight. I had stopped junk food first thing when I read in a magazine that there was so many cancer-prone things in it, then food altogether. Because you never know and then it was all so bland. Fruits and veggies tasted like water, meat had the consistency of rubber. The only thing that had taste left was soy milk. Boy I love soy milk. I used to drink gallons of soy milk a day.

Then I guess I thought I felt I became photosensitive. I shunned the sun and the day altogether and started living at night. So I had to have an ex-colleague of mine buy the soy milk and deliver it to me. I think she got scared shitless when she discovered the bags under my eyes. Or perhaps it was my face, she didn't say and I didn't have the opportunity to ask. But man, there's nothing like the night to soothe you, to take your time to listen to your own heartbeats and try and slow them down to a trickle.

Come to think of it, all of this must have happened during the same week or the following weeks. I lost track of time. Anyway.

People never said anything and I never said anything but I think they must have thought I had a cancer or something because they did look at me with pity in their eyes. It was kind of fun so I played along, just for a bit. And Good Lord Almighty it WAS fun. At least I got the attention I always wanted. People are way nicer when they see you dying – and even more so when they realise it's not contagious.

Eventually I had to take to my bed because my life was shit-like, dealing with joint pains and diarrheas and constipation and fever and delirium and blood transfusions and because of all the meds I started taking and I weigh now less than 40kg and doctors say I have acute and never-diagnosed-before and spontaneous forms of pancreatic cancer, leukaemia, lupus and lymphoma and something else but I forgot, all stemming from something they called hyperkundrium or something like that. Tomorrow, at best, I'll be dead.

 

"It is one of the blessings of old friends that you can afford to be stupid with them."

Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803 – 1882) Poet, essayist and lecturer

 

What Really Irritates Me In Men, Women and Poodles, and Other Sartorial Considerations Very Late at Night - Part 2

Hey guys,

I know it's been a while and that it's only the second post in this series, but I hope the wait was worthwhile. Here comes:

What Really Irritates Me In Men, Women and Poodles, and Other Sartorial Considerations Very Late at Night - Part 2

I met a poodle the other day, at a relative's. I write 'met' because I was led to disbelieve that it was a normal dog and had a persona of its own. That she -  for it was a she - literally had a character quite peculiar to her and the tenacity of a dog on a bone. This one rather had a hangdog look, with lots of hair and an indecently long fringe covering its/her eyes. I was wondering how it/she made its way between people's legs without bumping into them. Fact is, it/she couldn't. Not all the time. But with eponymous dogged determination it - she, SHE - pursued calculating angles of approach at the last second and avoiding collision, not avoiding collision. Worst thing was that when someone just patted her on the head, she couldn't help herself and had to relieve the content of her bladder on the floor. So you could follow her path in the house by leaning at light's angle and spot the tiny, light-yellow droplets. Well, I guess my aunt was right, this...dog definitely has a character of her own.

Delicacies abound in our world.

I particularly distaste the people who do not smash their cigarette stubs underfoot. I always think they could save a few atoms of oxygen.

Pigeons that fly right above your head could drive me to buy a gun and start an aviary war.

People who go to Chinese restaurants and who obstinately try to eat with chopsticks and can't are mildly irritating. I'd rather see them skew the food rather than hold the chopsticks in each hand like pens or garden forks and take up the food from the plate from each side.

I have seen a few feathered birds wearing sunglasses inside a building or at night when there's only one streetlamp. Fashion never got so blind.

Lunches with old people who rant about the government and the immigrants and the social security and insecurity and blahblahblah and the state of their prostate and blood levels re-blahblahblah what can we do it's the ways of the youth and I really liked the old Franc system and Charles Martel could have done a better job re-re-blahblahblah I really like your napkins and the carrots were cooked to perfection and my uncle Robert had a glass eye and a wooden leg blaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahblahblah the price of the petrol wasn't the same before the war - yes, the Gulf war - no, no, after World War II blaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah really make my amygdala and angular gyrus go banana.I could throw a spider monkey at them. And those are helluva nasty bastards, 'scuse my French.

I now have a heartfelt antipathy against the men and women, girls, boys, brats, old badgers and cronies who don't care a whit when they see a wheelchair, in distress or not. Luckily, there are still nice people to help you push it. 

I wondered the other day if I hadn't become cantankerous before my time. 

You And Who's Army? - Radiohead

Hunting Bears - Radiohead

Like Spining Plates

10. I Will (No Man's Land)

Tonight, my dear, tonight

Poem dated 03/08/2011, inscribed Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia.

Tonight, my dear, tonight

Tonight we shall meet, and God nilling, God willing,

We may never look upon one another again.

For leave I must, for find myself I must.

Here was full of promises of hope and auguries of deceit –

I fulfilled them all.

You, my dear, whose lips I see trembling,

Whose face is see paling, ask me:

“When shall we two meet again?

I already yearn for thine eyes.”

All I can say at present is

Tonight, my dear, tonight.

For after tonight, the future holds

Far too many uncertainties.

And then you don't ask me,

The iris of your eyes as dark as the night,

The white of your eyes as clear as day:

“When shalt thou return to God?

He yearns for thy faith.”

All I can say at present is

Not now, my dear, not now,

For God has tried my faith

Beyond what it could hold.

You ask me, my dear, with your unbroken voice,

Showing me how good you have been at school,

Concealing your apprehension:

“When are you going to leave us again?

We live in fear of you dying far away from us.”

All I can say at present is

Later, my dear, later,

For living here and now is all I can do,

There and before I hold no regard to.

For live I must, for trust only myself I must.

Here dwell promises of hope and auguries of deceit –

I must fulfil them all.

Finally you ask me, my dear, shaking my hand:

“When was the last time we met?

It seems that we haven't aged a day.”

Suffice it to say at present that it was

Yesterday, my dear, yesterday,

For time waits for no man and never stops,

Carves its way until the last man drops.

Only love and friendship survive us,

Even as lengthened shades of memories.

I have to find a place that either

Quells the fire raging in the pit

Of my stomach, or that responds to it.

And this silent or violent land, God nilling, God willing,

I may well find tonight, my dear, tonight.

Croix d'Agades

"Mon fils, je te donne les quatre coins du monde, parce qu'on ne peut pas savoir où on mourra."

Voulant savoir pourquoi ma mère voulait une de ces croix touarègues, je suis tombé là-dessus.

citation

"Les choses les plus belles sont celles que souffle la folie et qu'écrit la raison. Il faut demeurer entre les deux, tout près de la folie quand on rêve, tout près de la raison quand on écrit."

André Gide, écrivain et prix Nobel (1869 - 1951)

Juste une phrase, comme ça.

"Le parfum de la liberté n'a jamais senti aussi bon qu'au milieu de la tempête."


Ressentie tout-à-l'heure lors d'une ballade sur le front de mer.

Je devrais peut-être lui trouver une utilité romanesque, ou poétique.

09/11/2011, 06:59:58.

It is precisely this time when a white car driving the other way overtakes another vehicle on top of a small hill and hits me almost head-on.

Orchha (Uttar Pradesh, India), 05:53 am.

I'm waiting outside, all patience. I'm early, as usual. It's cold. Evenings and nights are getting colder. Yesterday was splendid. It wasn't too hot yet the sun was shining bright; I met with Mark, a very friendly Englishman and I went back to that cafe down the main road to meet again the nice couple who runs it, Didi and Loyal. Their lemon tart is to die for. Now I mention it, here's an instance of the tart, which didn't last long (it was the third...)

Anyway. Aye, I'm waiting in the cold – the sensory souvenir of the tangy taste of the lemon makes me salivate – for a man whom I met yesterday so that he can rent me a motorbike. He said we'd meet at 6 in the morning, but he'll be late, or he isn't a true Indian.

Orchha, 06:09 am.

I went back to my hotel room to fetch my wind-cutter. The masala chai the old lady is selling at the corner of the road didn't warm me at all, even if it was pleasantly gingery and spiced.

My man is here at last, and he isn't too late. That's good, for I have more than two hundred kilometers to drive today. The bike's here, and it's the same as yesterday's – a Honda Hero – so things start well. We chat for a short time, then I'm on my way in the night, scarved with bands of dawn.

7 km after Orchha, at the crossroads with Khajuraho/Jhansi road, 06:20 am.

There's something wrong with the bike. It's jolting and coughing. I understand the problem as soon as I inspect the fuel tank level. I thought it was broken, but in fact it's working, it's just that the guy's left me with enough petrol to reach the next gas station...which I have already passed. The next one mustn't be far. The bike's running out, so I pull up the lever on the tank and I finally reach the station. I ask for a full tank.

Barwa Sagar, 06:35 am. 20 km after Orchha.

I'm thinking of stopping to take a few pictures, but my conscience tells me to go on, tells me that I'm not there yet. I do have some time, but not all the time in the world. Though I have more than if I had taken the train or the bus, which both take up 5 to 6 hours to reach Khajuraho, if nothing breaks down – which is rare. What I'm seeing looks somewhat like this:

On the road to Khajuraho, perhaps 06:45 am.

The sun is rising right in front of me. The road isn't too damaged, and just a few vehicles pass by, few sheep, few cows, much less people. The landscape is delicate, bedecked with pink and vermillion. Nature's waking up. I can hear some birds singing. The wind, blowing in my face, loses its sharp edge.

There are more and more vehicles. 'Indian drivers are really reckless' is what I think. I have taken enough time to go there and back and be able to visit Khajuraho and its temples carved with erotic figures, like in Konark (among other things, it goes without saying that I didn't go there just for this).

Niwari, 06:59:55 am. 28 km after Orchha.

The road is rising slightly – it's probably flying over a river or another road. I slow down a bit as I can't see what's on the other side of the hill.

Niwari, 06:59:58 am.

I finally spot a small hamlet on the right-hand side; just about a few huts hurdled together as if they had been thrown there, and a small truck coming the other way. I'm about to look on the left-hand side when I see a white car emerging rapidly from behind the truck. I'm pulling on the breaks and I start moving the bike to the left but the car, on the other hand, doesn't break speed, doesn't swerve and honks at me. I know I can't avoid the collision. I don't know if the bridge is over and I can't detach my eyes from the front of the car. I swerve on the left as much as I can. I cannot close my eyes as I crash into the right-hand corner of the car. Nor can I close them as I fall on my right side, the bike still between my legs, and as I skid on the asphalt which apparently broadens at this point. I still cannot blink as I leave the roadway and continue skidding on the dirt by the side of the road. I can at long last close my eyes only when I'm about to crash underneath a truck that is parked a bit further down. I know the impact will be massive. The truck's underside appears to be high enough for me to fit under it – I eventually end up my course against the front tyre.

Niwari, 07:0? am

I open my eyes. I am covered in dust from head to foot. There's dust in my mouth, ears and eyes. I try unsuccessfully to disengage my body from underneath the bike. I can see the fuel pipe has been torn open and spurts jets of petrol over the tank. I asked for a full tank. I kick harder and harder and at last set myself free.

I stand up. It's only then that I can feel the pain. I have seldom felt such an intense pain, it's hissing all over in my right side. The fingers on my right hand wave weirdly, I can sense my heart pulsing like mad. My hand has hit the windscreen. What comes out of my lungs when I cry out isn't a cry, it's a rattle. Guttural, beastly. I'm limping. I look up to spot one of my shoes lying sole down on the road, in the middle of some débris. I know it sounds foolish, but I don't want to know if my foot is missing, if it's still in my shoe, over there on the road, far from me and alien to me. I look down. My foot is still dangling at the end of my leg, it's swollen; blood is dyeing the sock on the right-hand side. I hop up to my shoe, cry and howl with pain. I fall down. I take a look at my right calf: it is burnt black on its side and something oozes from the burns. I can discern shreds of skin, small stones and matted hair. I stand up again. I pick up the shoe and I observe the road: no signs of breaks apart from mine. The guy has lost his side mirror. He didn't stop.

Niwari, around 07:01 am.

I hop back to the bike. Nothing useful to do there. The pain is throbbing. I yell. I shout at the people who lined up in front of me that they must call an ambulance, that they must help me. No one stirs. Their eyes pass from me to the bike and back. Some look to the West and the runaway car. Putting my foot down wrenches rales from me. I'm begging them to help me, but I choke, my vision blurs. I want to faint not to feel the pain anymore. I want to wake up from this nightmare. I implore them. I sit down on a wooden bench, the same one on which they will be sat drinking the piping hot chai, watching the trucks, cars, buses, carts, herds go by. I'm hot. I take the wind-cutter off, it proved efficient protecting my upper body. A shiver runs along my spine straightaway. They scrutinize me with their black, unfathomable eyes.

All of a sudden it hits me: they don't understand me. I take my guidebook out of my dust-covered sling-bag. I ask them in Hindi where I am. Niwari. Where's the nearest hospital? Jhansi. How many kilometers? They discuss among themselves and the word 'Eighteen', when one says it, stabs like a knife. I try calling my friend Ajay then James, in Hyderabad. I know full well that it's too early in the morning, that they won't be able to do anything for me more than a thousand kilometers distant. I decide on calling the man who rent me the bike. He tells me that he's coming to get me straightaway. I know that he can't be here before thirty minutes. An hour at best.

Niwari, 07:30 am.

I can't take it any more. The pain is too intense, I'm hiccuping with pain. I can't stop my hand and leg from shivering. I can feel saliva drooling on my chin. They are still standing in front of me, they haven't moved an inch. They keep quiet, apart from two men who must be commenting, pointing their thumb here and there. One of them suddenly turns his head. He's young and wears a moustache like all the youngsters his age who would like to be considered men already. He rushes to the middle of the road, I can see him from below my eyelids as I double-up in pain. A bus stops by. He chats rapidly with the driver. He points somewhere behind him. The driver steps down from the bus. He comes to me and tells me in English to get onto his bus, that he'll bring me to Jhansi. I don't argue. I hop, he puts his arm under mine. I get in and lie down over two seats. We leave. From his seat the driver tells me not to worry, that we'll be there in half an hour.

On the road to Jhansi, time unknown.

The jerks reverberate in each and every of my broken bones. A new pain appeared and bore into my eardrums and temples.

Jhansi, 08:05 am.

I step down the bus, as it can't go any further. But there's a tuk-tuk (a motor tricycle) that's going to bring me to a clinic. I check if I still have all my stuff. I know that I have to hold on. The drive is, as usual, mad, run at break-neck speed. Few minutes later I am in the clinic, on a stretcher. A doctor comes up, looks at my hand, says something to the nurse waiting next to him, who in turn repeats it to someone out of my sight, somewhere further down the corridor. The stretcher reverses. I try to stand up but the doctor forces me to lie back down. He explains to me that they don't have the equipment to do x-rays here, that they'll send me to another clinic.

Jhansi, 08:15 am.

Another Tuk-tuk again. Another stretcher. Another doctor. Another chain message. This time they keep me. My eyes shut by themselves. I can see a known face peering over me. It's the man who rented me the bike. how the hecll did he get here. He comforts me. Asks me if it hurts. Where is the bike. He looks at me with pity, from head to toe.

I end up in a room painted green. The x-ray table is in here. I lie down on it. People busy themselves around me. There's a male nurse and five or six men whom I have never met before but who visibly don't belong to the hospital staff. They must have come with the motorbike man. My sock is removed. I yell. I am pinned down. A word flashes across my mind: darda. Pain. 'Darda, darda.' The male nurse seems to understand me, nods, taps on my shoulder. Then he leaves the room. I look up at the ceiling. I can hear the men chatting away. An old woman with a wrinkled face leans over me. 'Darda, darda.' She frowns, looks at me intently, taps my shoulder.

Few minutes later, I receive an injection. The doctor is here examining the x-rays. Everything has already been prepared to put casts. He holds my wrist and tells me something in Hindi. I tell him that I don't understand. Someone translates. I have three fractured fingers. The voice says that the doctor is about to do something but the voice doesn't know how to say it in English. In English, it goes like this: he is about to try and set the fractures by flattening my hand in order to put the cast. This I discover just when he puts my right hand in between his, and presses it flat. The men pin my feet down. I have never yelled like this before, I rarely suffered like this. The pain bores into my eardrums, reverberates in echos that don't lose their intensity. I swear. I feel tears blurring my eyes – at long last, those tears who took so long to surface and who, as if shy, hang onto the edge of my eyelids. I insult him, yes I do, I insult this doctor who tortures me, in English, in French, in Italian. 'Darda! Darda!'

I spend the following minutes in a muzzy state in which my hand is throbbing at the side of my body. It is detached from me, I just receive its pain. I know the man is touching my foot now, that there was a bone protruding. He has to set it. The pain that I receive from it is diffuse, like someone who shouts in the wind on the shore.

Orchha, 11:10 am.

I am back to my hotel room, my hand and foot in a cast. I took a taxi to come back. Sai, the man who rented me the bike, came with me. He asks me what I'm going to do. I tell him that I don't know yet, that I have to think. That I'll call him. I lie down on the bed. I fall asleep.

Orchha, 14:30 pm.

This is the time when I start organizing the long journey which will take more than 50 hours, starting the next morning at 8, back home in France. I'll go back at Didi and Loyal's cafe whose help will be more than precious – I thank them from the bottom of my heart, not only for opening their door and their heart, but also for giving me the last piece of lemon tart. I will go back and visit them to return them what they have given me without thinking: human warmth.

Ajay, James, Vijay another Indian friend and my sister will work really hard to make me come back quickly. It took three and a half hours to reach Gwalior's airport. There I learn that the flight is cancelled due to a sandstorm and that I'll have to join Delhi by taxi. More than seven hours later I reach Delhi's domestic airport (it's something like 11 pm). I will take a flight to Hyderabad, where my friend Ajay lives, at 6 in the morning on the next day. It's 10 am when I arrive at his parents' house who insisted on taking me in. There I am really looked after, Ajay's mother visibly moved by my poorly appearance. I eat, wash – wash away the sand in my ears, in my nostrils, in my hair. Wash the blood away. Give a good cry. I thank Ajay, his family and all of my friends in India for smoothing things out and for supporting me.

The arrival in France was simpler, via a medical repatriation that my sister triggered and that I directed from the different stops along the way. I bow my hat at her for not giving up, for understanding that the situation was more serious than my pride was willing to admit. I have always been like this, I don't like people worrying about me. For taking the matter into her own hands and for supporting me in the A&E in Blois, for taking me in her house. For putting up with me every single day. Thanks sis.

She is the one who took the following pictures. I included the most eloquent x-rays. Even if there's nothing gory in those pics, some may offend certain viewers. I publish them because I want people to measure the gravity of the situation, gravity I have myself diminished down to the point of absurdity. I want to restore it to its just degree. The last x-ray of my hand is the one made after the pins were set. Of course you can double-click or right-click on every photo to zoom in (I know few people who're going to like it).

Thank you for taking the time to read all of the above.

P.S. I know the quasi exact time because my pocket watch, which I found at the dusty bottom of my sling bag, stopped at that time.