Justerini And Brooks Whisky

Tree and heart

A new writing workshop Gwen in this morning. The instruction is simple:

A sentence beginning: The tree is in front of the house, a giant in the autumn light.

A sentence end: I hope my heart held without cracks.

It's up to you to write the text between the beginning and the end ... respecting a time constraint: thirty minutes!

And here. What to do with these sentences? 31 minutes later:

The tree is in front of the house, a giant in the autumn light. I feel tired as the day declines rapidly in this season. I have only one desire: to sleep, let me go to sleep, which will allow me to anesthetize the malaise that eats me inside. One last look out the window attracts me to this giant tree protector millennium. There is something familiar and yet strange in its appearance, in the form of its trunk, in the nodes of its bark. I drag myself out

not without a lot of my comfortable armchair, drawn by something like a magnet. The door opens, only, as if moved by an invisible current of air, like an invitation. I go out into the garden, the light of day declines slowly and the blazing colors of the leaves of surrounding trees warms my heart as I approach the tree. I'm so tired ... only a few steps separate me from the house, but I feel I have traveled hundreds of feet in seconds. I must bear, I must rest a moment, and this tree warm, protective, give me the necessary support before continuing. By leaning against the trunk of the tree, I feel under my fingers its roughness, its vitality. My fingers skim the surface of the bark reassuring and suddenly I see the trunk open. My hands have triggered a mechanism and the back door opened onto a staircase that descends into the depths of the earth. I know, I am invited to descend into the underworld, as if I had finally found a place where I could feel good, warm. I gotta go, it's my home!

I walk through the maze of hoses dug between the roots of the tree and its congeners in the nearby forest. They form a veritable subterranean cathedral, comforting, protective, and I feel so ...

At the corner of a gallery, I hear footsteps, voices, songs. Men in frock are there, sitting on small benches and sing. They chant strange chants that I do not understand the lyrics. Instinctively, I feel they are not in their place. I just found this place, but I'm home. They took me, and will hunt me. Their faces with staring eyes, strange look to me. They saw me, they are many, at least a hundred, and rise together, moving towards me. I am at the entrance to this huge room, and I know there's no way out. I must go, otherwise they'll kill.

I run at random in the galleries formed by the roots, not knowing where I came. How to get out? How to find the stairs leading outside while all these men at my heels? They are behind me. I run, they walk, but I know them very close, I have no chance. I'm tired, I'm going to fall apart in a few minutes I no longer have strength, they will catch me.

Breathe.

Concentrate.

I turn around. The men are there, in front of me. They are numerous, they are quiet, determined, implacable. I have no chance. Dizzy, I lay my hands on the walls of the gallery, caring about the roots of trees.

I sense they are alive. This vital force of nature seems to overwhelm me, like a torrent of powerful energy, indomitable. She is alive, vibrant. I'm alive.

My eyes close, this energy is concentrated in me, I feel the tide. Soon she will go out, blow up, pass me. I have to channel it otherwise it will destroy me before men in frock will do so.

I feel this energy: my hands are shaking, my breathing quickens, my heart rate increases.

I open my eyes, holds out his hands. The blast energy is powerful, devastating. The men in frock receive it in the face.

I hope my heart held without cracks.

Amelie Platz, January 30, 2011

Performa Of Marrage Card

The Messenger of time

Great news!

I received in late morning a publishing contract with the publisher Jerome Do. Bentzinger, Colmar.
My novel, which you have lived in the vicissitudes of direct writing will see the day!
It is not intended that it be a best-seller: I am not known, the novel is local, very local, even at the level of plot, so it's a small run of 300 copies that m awaits.
But unlike what I had originally planned, it is a contract publisher account, and not at the author. In other words, the financial publisher, not me. And that, it changes a few things.
So for news, if you wish to order a copy, there are two ways:
- either I have your mailing address and I will convey to the publisher who sends you an order form;
- either you prefer to receive the order by mail, and you just tell me your email address!

Oh yes! The release is scheduled for May-June only. There is no fire to the lake, but the funding of the work is done by a system of pre-sales so the sooner the better anyway!
To get an idea of the general theme, I invite you to see the first posts of this blog, which will give you the context, the early chapters, the writing conditions, and any and everything!
Have fun!

Gloucester 19' Sailboat

"Getting married is always around to caress, a gesture of illiberté"

In No. 288 of 15 April 1901, La Plume launched an "inquiry into marriage" with "different artistic personalities, literary and political," reads:

the issue of marriage is, in France, high and nearly tragic events, both because of the many social problems related to it as individual and unmerited misfortunes of daily more frequent. This question can not remain indifferent to any besides those who care about the future of our race.

It therefore seemed interesting - and useful - to we send to people who have a certain influence over minds, either by their works, either by their situation and ask them

1 ° Their views on marriage as practiced in France at present.

2 ° What are the reforms that seem more urgent and more feasible.

3 ° If the Marriage, that is to say, legalized the union of man and woman is essential for the proper functioning of society and, consequently if we can anticipate or if we should wish the advent of free Union, that is to say the EU has no other rule that two wills of the agreement and requiring no dedication to law.

The response of Saint-Pol-Roux appeared in the next delivery from 1 May 1901 (p. 300). Here it is:

M. SAINT-POL-ROUX

He does point that the Revolution has changed much about the wedding section. Getting married is always around to caress, a gesture of illiberté. Parque law spouses in the alcove as a square of surveillance, and it seems that a lot of people dress and wig is considered the nuptial couch, mayor, priest, notary - it does lack the apothecary, but it will come - and that these people back the right to direct the object . Everyone ran for it did not seem to love the quiet and as regimental advance for future products. A clean sweep when the cons of these troublemakers epithalamium which, once set, reappear condensed keeper?

Not surprisingly, the humor of this vividly imaginative response. And no more of his anarchism. While the poet is there freedom in its magnificence. Remember when he lived for twenty years common-law with Amelie Bélorgey. Saint-Pol-Roux marry "the mother of [his] little ones" that two years later, February 5, 1903, as mayor of the eleventh arrondissement. However, do not see in this a denial of late marriage beliefs expressed in La Plume. The poet was, in some ways forced to rectify the situation. Marseille by his family, pretty conservative, first, by his desire to settle permanently in Britain, in his very Catholic and traditional end-of-world, and to integrate this population he learned to love and he wanted to shock. A letter to Peter Decourcelle tells us, in fact, that Roscanvel should ignore this common-law welcomed their village for five years: "We leave shortly, we have come to Paris to marry to avoid unnecessary chatter small town Britain". Also friends Roscanvel, Camaret, Brest, do not they were invited to the wedding.

Howto Make Chili Roaster

La Cucina Extravaganza

Gwen is definitely someone who is beyond imagination when it comes to torture us brains to write a few lines. He was now writing a cookbook by creating a dish that does not exist.

For me who am neither cook (I need some recipes for success in something edible out of my pan) or in a state of my brain to work properly today, I was very annoyed when I discovered this workshop.

especially since Gwen had already published a number of "recipes", all more committed, intelligent and interesting than others. But also very dark. I wanted to write something lighter, which touched me personally.

Those of my readers who know me know that some couple is my hobby (one of my hobbies instead), so I decided to write about it.

Here's what it gave:

Menu "For a Lifetime"

Soup "smoke and mirrors ; '

Ingredients:

• a young woman
• fars shadow, blush, mascara and other items (makeup, what)
• creams, perfume
• beautiful dress and shoes and matching handbag
• much freedom

Preparation time:

• few hours

Realization :

• Take a beautiful young woman or girl (not too young still, it must be somewhat greater). Attention, the choice of the young woman is fundamental: if you choose too young, she will not have enough bite or flavor. Indeed, to some extent, the more the young woman lived, the more interesting gustatorily speaking: it is experience that gives it its salt. Any additions later, during cooking, for example, is unnecessary if you were able to choose the point.
• Prepare the young woman. It must be well dressed, but does not bridle his movements must be able to stay loose and free. Besides, at this stage of the recipe, it can still prepare itself, which makes quite a difference. These preliminary preparations are in fact the whole point of the recipe: do not hesitate to let him complete freedom. His imagination must not be restrained, let him maximum choice, and feel free to compliment her on her dress, she takes on the care of herself. She will thank you and will be even better prepared.
• Give this girl a few hours. Suggest she take the time to think about it. It may eg visit a beautician if deemed necessary. A facial for example it will be brilliant and will give its pretty velvety to your evening. Let it surprise you: his imagination has no limits regarding her attire, her outfit ...
• Once the young woman dressed, make the soup "smokescreen". It does not necessarily need you very much, and according to taste, it is possible to dress "natural" or "sophisticated." The young woman, again, may wish to do so itself (Which will simplify the work). Do not hesitate to accept this complaint: you have the joy of discovering the surprise as you have never seen before.

Croque-nana

Ingredients:

• a young man
• bathroom
• shower
• a little toilet water (it said "some" !)

Preparation time:

• a good half hour

Directed

• The undertaker chick is much faster to prepare than the soup. He just little in reality to be great. This is also what is practical in this inexpensive flat.
• First, take a young man, following the same instructions as for the young woman should not be too young Nor, the ideal being to select both ripening roughly equivalent.
• This dish is easily prepared at the last minute, give him a good half hour just to take a shower, put on perfume and adorn themselves. Please note, the sensitive stage is there: it absolutely must not be too much seasoning. The problem with the scents of men is that they can easily feel too much at risk of misrepresenting the totally flat, but also dangerously contaminate others (especially the soup to be served concurrently). It is therefore imperative to focus efforts on ensuring that young man sprays himself with perfume not too copiously. There is indeed nothing worse than a man who has not used or who uses perfume to mask body odor if not washed beforehand. The only advice I can give you so at this stage is either dosed with him, if this is the first time he uses, or to insist heavily on the shower first (possibly, you can catch an overflow Perfume redouchant the young man then, but guess we still have time to do, which is not necessarily the case).
• Best served in a nice romantic setting and the velvety toasted chick together. It absolutely must not allow time for the dishes to cool, it could spoil the dessert.

Kisses Chocolate

Ingredients:

• velvety "window dressing"
• a "croque-nana"
• lot of communication
• desire important to see a relationship will continue
• a fearlessness to face inevitable conflicts

Preparation time:

• some years, preferably many, if any life (we can go up to roughly 75 years or more, until death)

Directed

• After the first meeting " thunderbolt "if the two dishes were properly prepared, it is quite possible that the soup and the croque-girl wants to do more to separate.
• This is quite normal and natural. It took the sauce did not turn, and is perfectly successful.
• It may be that from day one, kisses chocolate are served. But if this is not the case, there is no reason to worry: this may take a few days, weeks, or more than a year, depending on the mood of the young man and the young woman. It'll just wait and see how your menu changes.
• Remember to add
  common experiences, good communication, good agreement also between the young man and young woman (in theory they should both be alive at this stage). If evolution is fast, if you know enough to be patient, you may observe a rapprochement between the two young men, and fruit that would have originally appeared unexpected occur. These fruits are called "Baby Pink", but we do not give you the recipe today, they usually arrive after a few months or few years. Small precision when same: that these fruits may appear, it is imperative that the soup is relatively young. If he is too old, these fruits can not be born. This is to be taken into account when choosing the ingredients of the dishes.
• If the mayonnaise would tend to turn, please advise them to talk. Dialogue, communication, time spent with each other, the services they render each other small gifts, pretty words, incentives are balms that can catch many of these mayonnaise "failed , "provided we know how to use them wisely and give them time to do their work. Outside help may be beneficial, delivering them at the right temperature.

It remains for you to enjoy.

Amelie Platz, January 23, 2011

Small precision: the names of the dishes are not for me. I was looking for inspiration, I told you, so I rummaged on the Internet (it is, the Internet, you can find everything, including the inspiration for a workshop Writing of Gwen), and I found this a series of bizarre links to recipes, names more or less evocative. It is looking at this list I found my "menu." So thank you Marmikid.org!

Multizone Sony Dvp-sr200p

Letters profane

New workshop Gwen (yes, it's Sunday!). He was now writing a letter. But not just that: it had to do it as if it was Usbek (for example), a Persian of the eighteenth century, which would have made a leap in time and discover our current society. Being

uncomfortable with the eighteenth century, I told Gwen that I turned the set. Here's what it gave:

Sélestat (Schlettstadt) on 16 January in the year of grace 2011

My dearest Marie-Adelaide,

How

are you since my last letter? And Mother? I am very sick and am very concerned about it. My remote only amplifies these concerns and I miss our house. I hope to return in a few months, but the findings are linked each other and I find it extremely unpleasant to think that it would be able to return until you have explored more thoroughly this time when I arrived there a few months now. Besides, you're aware that this is Mother herself asked me to continue my education by pursuing my tour of France and Navarre, and I can not fail to the commitment that I I took it before and I must honor now. I am currently in a small town near the border with Germany, you know the name of Prussia, in a region called Alsace, and I met very strange people, with morals that do not offend you, Mother and you, if you were with me right now.

However, I must say that their customs, for they seem amazing, are not totally meaningless, as far as I can judge. Upon reflection, I think that human nature does not fundamentally change that much over the years.

The proof of the daily press. You'd be surprised to see the contents of the newspapers that appear here every day. Point of debate as the Mother of opinions and you're used to read - I am particularly fond of these games written, which fueled our discussions and make you aware of women in our society - but the "new" very focused on daily life, with many a story of personal experiences or any news items more or less sordid. I can not find our incisive articles, corrosive and polemics, but this does not mean that people will be chastened and that discussions have been held over. You'd be surprised the amount of information sources available to us here. There are of course the press, which has not fundamentally changed from what you know, except as regards the tone: I seems that now, what we call here the "politically correct", the watchword for all that is officially published, prevents any expression that, thank God, we can still help us. But there is also television, a sort of box where pictures come out and everyone was home. It broadcasts news, stories, but also on dozens and dozens of different channels, games, series (sort of mini-dramas with real stories of people playing) of cartoons aimed particularly at children - yes, you can imagine! Children are almost regarded as small adults and have access to television, other amazing things, they have the right to speak at the table, know how to express personal opinions of earlier and earlier, and in addition, adults are listening! - Documentaries, too ... Through these films naturalists, it is even more need to travel as I do to learn about other countries! Some game shows have even been to discover a country than their competitors, combining knowledge and entertainment sports games! I recently saw such a program called "Beijing Express". It is indeed strange: this game took place in India ... I know China is geographically close, but Beijing is still very far from Bombay ... There is something in the logic of men in this time that does not seem quite understandable. The television, however, ask myself some questions. In fact, I know the ownership of some large companies, some good close to the government in place, and I wonder what is its independence. This would explain a few things about this famous "politically correct" I spoke to you about the press. We for our part, Censorship but I would not be surprised to learn that here, she thought not to be, it is nonetheless real and formidable ...

Returning to the discussion of opinions, general information, I told you earlier that the daily press is no longer the fundamental support, but they have not disappeared. The men of this era in which I arrived after many wanderings in almost every house, in addition to TV, other devices they call computers. They can with these kinds of personal television, fixed or mobile, have access to an information network called the Internet. What the press is more, the Internet seems to realize now, allowing everyone to have a space for personal expression, through a kind of diary visible to all, social networks, community sites ... The analysis of the facts is no longer the sole province of journalists: each can now boast an expertise in one field or another, previously reserved only to specialists in the field. All this gives me besides many subjects for reflection. It exists on the Internet, for example, a kind of encyclopedia such as Diderot and D'Alembert's dream. The information made available to everyone! Do you travel account, my dear sister? How wonderful! I discussed with a librarian at the library - let me digress for a moment: a library, a library like the one that exists in our living room, but is freely accessible to everyone. It is administered by the city and uses and makes available to readers all kinds of documents, many different media: music, movies, video games, and others - and this woman warned me against this encyclopedia. Imagine that anyone can write whatever he wants! The scientific endorsement of these items is not absolutely certain! Give yourself account of what it means! Knowledge to everyone, but what is the validity of this knowledge? Does this mean that all knowledge is worth? Can anyone give itself as an expert in a specific area, including if not obtained a degree, simply because he knows or has worked in this area or has faced a particular problem and has done research on it? All this, my dear, makes me very puzzled. What is the legitimacy of this? The fact remains that the Internet seems to be some sort of power rather cons-effective means of spreading many opinions. What's more, Indeed, to counter the standardization and sleep on television and in newspapers?

One thing has not changed yet, even if it is less visible. The money was always so much power in this world, and politicians are still corrupt. Because knowledge is shared and better studies (yes, higher education!) Being accessible to many more people than we have, decisions are made differently than before. Now, politicians assure their earnings, their retirement and their power with laws! One example: recently there has been considerable debate in France about pensions. The only system that has not been reformed, that is ... politicians! They are smart, believe me! As they themselves take the decisions that affect them, there is no reason that the system, which is favorable to them, evolving ...

You see, my dear sister, human nature does not change, despite changes in technology, technology, environment, and morals. I was surprised on arriving there, but I finally found my bearings very quickly ... Supports and uses have changed, not the fundamental nature of people.

I'll rewrite again very soon: it would take more than one letter to describe to you the world, with mobile phones, social networks, blogs, fashion clothing (yes, you may be shocked!), Or the operation institutions, social security, assistance policies to the poor, business, globalization, banks, the stock market ... It is unfortunate that you and Mom did not know computers and do not have one. We could connect faster! Remember that thanks to Internet, mail does now that a few seconds to reach the other side of the world!

Kiss Mother for me, I hope his last treatment has not weakened too.

I remain your devoted and loving

Jacques-Henri.

Amelie Platz, January 16, 2011

Difference Between Lease And Leave

"The sun The sun is the sun!" He was born 150 years ago Saint-Pol-Roux the Magnificent

is an important anniversary and we look forward to this year 2011, which we hope will circulate very widely the influence of Saint-Pol-Roux. Hexagonal in our borders, yet it begins badly. I had indeed thought, and naively announced that one hundred and fiftieth be included quite naturally, beautiful place, among national celebrations of the new year. What was my disappointment - proportional to the original enthusiasm - to discover while leafing through the booklet said that the Magnificent celebrations has not captured the interest of the High Committee! Just give him Is there some strange lines in the bazaar "other anniversaries reported," where he meets Robin Cioran and Armand, which deserved better, Emile Henriot, Andre Roussin, Alfred Binet, and events of importance equalized , like the invention of the pedal by Pierre and Ernest Michaux, the adoption of Greenwich by France, the first rally in Monte Carlo, creating Now by Gilbert Becaud, the inauguration of the South Terminal Orly and de Gaulle's first concert at the Olympia Johnny Halliday. We appreciate this concern variety. Obviously, when birthdays were each identified as key presenter their pens, records of 27 "reported more birthdays" are the work of three authors, which we can legitimately assume that they were difficult to control such a variety of topics. He only read the three paragraphs devoted to Saint-Pol-Roux to be convinced. Give a reading tour:

"Forty years in the nineteenth, forty in the twentieth, the terrestrial life of Saint-Pol-Roux is exactly balanced on a knife that is the dawn of our century": observation of Andre Pieyre Mandiargues on one of Mallarmé called her son does not understand what Symbolist poet, also celebrated by the Surrealists as a precursor.

First note: the quotation from Mandiargues, taken from his preface to Treasury Human (Rougerie, 1970), and often reproduced, especially by Gerard Mace in his record "Saint-Pol-Roux" from the Encyclopedia Universalis , never seemed to say something other than the finding of a biographical reality. So it seems inappropriate to criticize his failure, especially as this criticism is accompanied by a flatter paraphrase the following text to Mandiargues: "So she joins the symbolism forms the most recent literature ". Is it not in fact remember the companionship of the Symbolist poet than advancing too famous, and uncertain historical reality, periphrasis: "the one that Mallarme called his son"? And do not you remember its role as a harbinger of the "newer forms of literature" to clarify that - another cliché, the more essential, however - it was "also celebrated by the Surrealists as a precursor? In short, this is not the first paragraph that will help us "to [better] understand what Symbolist poet." The next, perhaps?

Born near Marseille Saint-Henri, Pierre-Paul Roux wins Paris in 1882 and publishes three volumes of prose poems between 1893 and 1907. His "ideorealism" seeks to show that man does not live in the forest of symbols evoked by Baudelaire, but in the middle of opposites that he must try to unite.

After reading those lines, it will be understood that the number of characters per record was previously restricted and very limited. This explains, perhaps, the shortcut literature which only retains the poetic prose, does not mention the title of overall Pads Procession , and omits any cons volume consistency. For, if Saint-Pol-Roux publishes indeed a first volume of Reposoir in 1893, he resumed the title for a new series that will include three collections, designed as open trilogy: Rose and thorns of the Way (1901), From Colombia to the Peacock by Raven (1904), internal Extravaganza (1907). So there was not three but four "volumes of prose poems between 1893 and 1907. As for the next sentence, which opposes our poet Baudelaire, is it necessary to comment on the stupidity? No, does not it? Turning rather to the final paragraph.

Refusing to publish almost all his writings after 1907 because the ink "breathes death," he advocates a return to oral with The Synthesis legendary which, in 1926, is said by 250 outdoor reciters. If it feels like to "discover the truth of the world "in his mansion Camaret Breton, German soldiers killed his housekeeper and seriously injured June 24, 1940. He died Oct. 18, to greet the old champion of human love, "poet murdered," Vercors dedicate The Silence of the Sea .

New error, even borrowed the legend: if the Magnificent did not publish most of the major works after 1907, lack of money and publisher. Quickly point out, for the record, in 1914, was scheduled the publication in several volumes of his complete dramatic work under the general title of Tragic in Man ; in 1925, had published two new volumes of Repository of Procession , Idéoréalités and Glorification. As for the Synthesis legendary, its title, The Litany of the Sea, synthesis legendary fishermen Camaret , representation did not take place in 1926 but June 12, 1927, at the inauguration of the monument sailors died for their country, on the Pointe Saint-Mathieu. I think we could mention, among the works of that period, Répoétique , which was the major project of Saint-Pol-Roux, whose Litany of the Sea are an amazing event, it would have been the occasion to salute the editor René Rougerie, who died last year, which made available many unpublished essential. Note now, without stopping long, the other oddity, grammar, which assumes a funny logical connection between the fact that Saint-Pol-Roux could "discover the truth of the world" to the crime and Camaret Nazi soldiers: implication of Proposition 2 by Proposition 1, opposition of Proposition 2 to Proposition 1? neither of the two possibilities satisfies our reason. Finally, this taste of another contortion biography involves of Nazi soldiers on June 24 when the crime was perpetrated by a single soldier, and when the Magnificent died, not of violence there, real, and which touched Divine - forgotten here - but an attack of uremia declared a few days after the sacking of his mansion. And I'll stop there, even if there would be more to say about the "old champion of human love." And I summarize: the author of the record - I refuse to believe that there will be three to write - obviously, did not know Saint-Pol-Roux, his work less yet, but knows surf the internet, which allows to remonstrate with Andre Pieyre of Mandiargues.

It should be clear that I believe this small concession to the hundred-fiftieth anniversary of Saint-Pol-Roux, birthday "whose reputation is perhaps a little less" than that of anniversaries celebrated nationally, and completely inadequate unworthy. And the reference to the index of " Roux (Jean-Pierre ," said Saint-Pol-Roux) "reinforces my decision. How does preferred celebration we invite? At the tercentenary of Boileau, the legislature of poetry. I shall be pardoned, or we will not forgive me, to reduce it to the Art of Poetry but Boileau Roger Zuber to defend effectively, then, is how the perceived Saint-Pol-Roux, a father of the modern critic who does not understand. Let us recall the Air trombone :

Son of Boileau, husband of Human Stupidity, see the future master born with a big zero for skull perched on the largest zero of the belly then watch the homeless so that the infant newly hatched displays to form the beautiful, taking the hornet and the bee for the mule to the standard, ie that the raven or the dove and the cradle falls, confounding the blonde with the brown and the sun with the moon, then you quickly conclude that such signs will also signal some bloody fools, cutter and maker of award of angels in turn, one of the architects brief upside down so that know destroy up to build, such as worms and vultures.

Why can not I help but consider the preference of Boileau cons Saint-Pol-Roux, reason cons imagination, as a sign of our times?

the day, however, is not bitterness. Certainly, events in France will probably not live up to the event beautiful. Certainly must have forgotten that Marseille was the birthplace of this great poet radiant that he never, even in the best hours of his exile in Brittany, did not forget. But I could be wrong. But let us rejoice, for others, with means which are those of excitement, travel to Saint-Pol-Roux tribute institutionally we seem to want to refuse. An exhibition, already announced. In France? No. Germany. At the university library of Bayreuth. And it will open its doors to the public this Monday, January 17 to do that close on March 31. Joachim Schultz, who translated several works by the poet from the publisher Rolf A. Burkart, invites us to discover "Saint-Pol-Roux and his world."

And, as I do not want to miss this day without celebration, too, poetry solar Saint-Pol-Roux, behold, better than any gloss, an unpublished poem the Magnificent.

L A V Ague

(St. Henry, 1882-1884)

To Alex [is] Tarquis

Through the sheep that Lazarus Dog gathers around tamarisk and purslane Mourepiane, my Youth down to the classical Wed

I will bathe my double clay man and son of a potter.

Right opening on the foam, I see, from the distance of time and country to my bare flesh, as a sort of smile at midlife clear azure.

Now this is a vague smile ensafranée by the sun flowed from the mountains of farigoule.

Everything seems motionless, except that the sun rises and the miracle that comes forward.

On the rock a galleon its luster angel wings and my grandfather in his country house certainly prepared, unconscious, frankincense, myrrh and gold.

Someone is born, it seems.

In its pace towards me smile grows and multiplies diaphanous to move it among the blue side which cracks all in smiles minimal.

The sea of joy is growing Latin Greek.

And the Gulf is more than a stanza innumerable.

The truth is, approaching a wave ... the eternal wave of waves ... the Wave of God in the soul which I find the radius kept the hair of Aphrodite emerging before the hearts flourished in the world.

suddenly Invaded by the mass and admirable when I enter into a diamond belly, I feel both faint and be reborn, because here I am, by a sacred fury, immediately rejected, wailing on an issue of kelp.

A poet was born!

far already, the wave would hymnal on other banks to create other enthusiasms.

It was a morning baptism and the surf whispering dragees sheer panic on Favouille.

St. Henry

(Note Youth)

Change Head Manfrotto

The last flight of Ben Ali

The situation is somewhat confused, it seems that President Tunisia Ben Ali has fled, the only thing besides that the people of Tunisia considers that it has not flown.

I should have guessed that myself several times this afternoon was busy with my pants down. What do you want! If you love clothes patina, the dud worn, patched and last until see the wire become threadbare, it is nevertheless forced to admit that sometimes the costume is fond happened in the end track. Balances were not yesterday the chestnut they are today. Undergoing undoubtedly influence this, I'm doing the shopping. I play bad luck. Where once they sold new pants, the shops sell only used nine, faded badly and ironed. And I do not necessarily talk about brands (of iron). International prices for most, do not change much. I found an article attractive. A mysterious figure on it: 160. It was not clear. The saleswoman went through the store at high speed to confirm my taste. An Italian brand. We rented preserved the qualities of the article. Each lovingly fingered the precious piece of cloth. Considering that it was particularly valuable, I dodged deviated from my usual loose to abandon my faith to experts.

Do not think of choosing a color, they were gone. Thence to resign and to ruin himself for the old, no. I want to crumple crumpling my myself to use my favorite painting by my own means. The younger generations no longer dream to the Prince of Wales bedridden and want the foot-holes nonagenarian. So I drop my pants, try, try, and the choice is more complex than it appears with the display of American sizes not to mention the length of leg. Previously, small and large contented themselves with the same length of leg. Today you have the choice between pants too big adjusted to your size or a frock worthy of your stature but depending on your taste you explode the family jewels or you'll have to remember with a belt, two pairs of suspenders and using your carer (No hands 'there would be insufficient).

Ben Ali has finally boarding the plane. I'm relieved, I have new pants. Good thing it's not every day that is happy to show her ass in the cabin.

photo: Chtouber

Shemales In Abu Dhabi

The chocolate bread from the supermarket

Gwen we did this week with a nice workshop exercise a little difficult for me: the pastiche. Difficult or impossible because I have not read Philippe Delerm, so I can not write "his way" ... So I wrote a piece trying to play the game, letting myself be guided by inspiration. I do not know at all if it meets the instruction given, but the key is to participate, we'll see!

Happy reading! The text is much shorter than last week, you'll see!

The chocolate bread from the supermarket

We did not have much money. Races in downtown, in small shops, were not known. There was only one pleasure: chocolate bread on Friday. They waited for the return of mom with the groceries, after school, we knew we would have a good taste. With my brothers and sisters, it would happen to the first to unpack the shopping and find the plastic box containing the precious pastries. What we liked them a few! Two bars of chocolate inside, it was so much better! And when we came to expect, they warmed a few minutes in the toaster ... melted chocolate, and our greasy fingers amused skinning the pastry to the heart basis for lasting pleasure. The crumbs on the table were the subject of bitter fighting, and we ended by licking their fingers hungrily. All weekend and next week had the taste of the bread of remembrance Chocolate as expected, as expected. Some weeks, especially at the end of the month, the empty wallet Mommy made us fear that we should wait a little longer than usual. And when Friday came back, we waited an hour for a snack, hoping that Mom would not have forgotten our little fun week.

As adults, the chocolate bread disappeared Friday. Too childish. Too predictable. Supplanted by homemade cakes and buns for the bread machine. Adult life, a good job, earn more than decent, the frantic pace of everyday life, home downtown, the fashion of organic and healthy eating have was correct in this innocent pleasure. I take the bakery on the corner of the street to buy pastries at good butter instead of oil, less expensive, once used for making breads at the supermarket chocolate, pastries more "healthy" more nutritious, less fatty, more airy, flaky ...

We know they are better. I just find it hard to find the taste of my childhood.

Amelie Platz, 9 January 2011.

Rs232 To Rs422 Diagram

Another step, second version

The first text did not please me not on form. Here it is corrected, imperfect but more like what I wanted it to be.

Another step

Fabienne stood outside the door. She knew her future lay just on the other side. It was a beautiful wooden door, old, who opened a breach in a stone wall dating back several centuries. Fabienne knew what was behind, without ever having crossed. She knew the history of this building and knew what to expect once she had crossed the threshold.

Fabienne was a little less than forty years. Was a brunette, who would have been great if he worries that weighed as only gave him an air packed. She seemed much older than he; frankly, it looked like an old woman exhausted, burnt out. Behind this door, there was both his salvation and his end, she could be saved, but at the same time, she knew she was lost when she entered the field.

She constantly reliving the scene of the morning had brought her here. She had to repeatedly take place in his worst nightmares, repeatedly as she had hoped. It it was hard not to be reassured knowing that the dreaded moment had finally arrived. But quitting is always complicated. Through that door, forget it was her life before, to accept another. He would forget who she was forgetting her comfort, her home, her daily; certainly, she would forget her anxieties, but also its joys morning when she woke up perky, confusing dream and reality, the threshold real life.

That morning, she received a phone call from his doctor. The latter had asked him if he could go see her, he had insisted on telling him how his visit was important and would take time to explain everything to him. Fabienne knew full well why his doctor had called. She knew the moment finally comes, inevitable: this time, she could not discard. There comes a time when the point of no return is reached. For it was this morning. The doctor rang his door half an hour later. She had time to dress and prepare a few things she had gathered in a small suitcase. And she smiled. He would to imagine being in his house, and then she could come back, through the magic of thinking. Yes, that's what she would do: imagine she was at home.

The doctor congratulated for his cooperative attitude. He explained the workflow. All he had to sit the entrance, staff were warned, a room was ready for her, she had only one ring and the host. She was to appear before 17 hours was all that mattered. Fabienne remembered having had a funny feeling when the doctor had passed the door of his small house. She felt that the gates had closed his life before her and that she had entered prison. At noon, she took her last lunch sentenced before joining his cell that would be the world until his death.

She knew intimately the doctor was right. The internment was the only alternative. Life only became too dangerous, too complicated. Yet at first it was rather funny. His hallucinations made her laugh in retrospect, at that point in the early days, she had accepted these imaginary characters as companions in his lonely life. But they had made more and more present and had become cumbersome or even dangerous. They could take any form. Human, animal, or something else. His imagination had no limits on this subject. The last time was a huge spider she continued with her rolling pin. When she was finally caught when she was on the kitchen table and she had hit her three times, she was abruptly returned to reality. The pain was called to order and she had to join his doctor urgently. He was sent to radio stations in the hospital and she ended up with his left hand in a cast for 6 weeks. She was ashamed. At the hospital, nurses who had received had asked how she had her hand crushed. She had known what to say and the nurse had suspected abuse. She asked her if she was married, if she was alone at the time of the accident ... answers confused and embarrassed by Fabienne had seemed strange to the point that it had asked the name of his doctor and a balance sheet psychological.

She was there, now, before the wooden door. Behind, she knew, was a delightful setting preserved. The vegetation was lush, the micro climate that prevailed in the small town Finisterian for acclimatization and growth of palms. The place was famous for being beautiful, unspoilt, very well restored. The gardens are visited first enclosure and attracted many people in search of calm and tranquility. The austere convent had been replaced by a modern building provided with every comfort necessary to the new destination without the primary site is denatured. The stone building had, therefore, retained its charm and its pristine beauty. The old inn, near the main entrance, once served as housing for passage of believers in the religious community and home to a retirement home now that the framework made it particularly quiet. In the private part of the former convent, behind the walls of the cloister, was now a mental hospital. Fabian knew that today his illusions disappear quickly. The drugs were going to brutalize, eliminate the hallucinations, but This also tender and humorous it was about the world around him. She was locked in his madness, aided by pills given him every night. And yet she longed to enter. She knew she would be safe. Plus she never would run behind his hand in the belief it would knock him out, it never set fire to the curtains, thinking she had installed at this location fireplace.

She grabbed the knocker, decided to knock on the door. It was 15 hours, she was on time. It was better for it go as soon as possible. If she did not now, she might change her mind, and she wanted at any price. His life became dangerous, so dangerous! Yes, she had to go.

Fabienne dropped the knocker. Renounce his freedom, his imagination, his dreams, even dangerous, it suddenly seemed unthinkable.

It was dangerous. Especially for itself. Soon, she may have lost touch with reality. But meanwhile, she did not want him stealing their dreams. She did not want pills that he would swallow.

She turned. She had her suitcase in hand, she decided on a whim not to enter and start a new life. Elsewhere. In the street if necessary.

She would disappear.

Now.

Amelie Platz, January 7, 2011

Intent Letter To Vacate Apartment

more step.

Once is not custom, I today attended the writing workshop Gwen, she apparently goes online every Sunday.
Here's how: Gwen offers a subject, now a photograph (a wooden door), with the following instruction:

"Watch it well this is it ... What inspires you? What are the first ideas that come to mind? The qualifiers, images? Write them.

From your notes on the spot, I suggest you write a story that the door will be the central element. Your character is faced with when the story begins. What is he doing there? What's behind this door? Will it open before him? Perhaps he feared that it just opens

... Well, your turn now. "

reads ensuing:

more step.

Fabienne stood outside the door. She knew her future lay before it, behind this door. It was a beautiful wooden door, old, who opened a breach in a stone wall dating back several centuries. Fabienne knew what was behind this door, without ever having crossed. She knew the history of this building. She knew what awaited him once she had crossed the threshold.

Fabienne was a little less than forty years. It was a dark woman, who was so great that he worries weighed so does it look like a tightly packed. She seemed much older than he; frankly, it looked like an old woman exhausted, burnt out. Behind this door, there was both his salvation and his end, she could be saved, but at the same time, she knew she was lost when she entered the field.

She constantly reliving the scene of the morning had brought her to the door. She had to repeatedly take place in his worst nightmares, repeatedly as she had hoped. It was hard not to be reassured knowing that the dreaded moment was finally arrived. But quitting is always complicated. Through that door, forget it was her life before, to accept another. He would forget who she was forgetting her comfort, her home, her daily life, to forget her anxieties, but also its joys morning when she woke up perky, confusing dream and reality, on the threshold of real life.

That morning, she received a phone call from his doctor. The latter asked him if he could go see her, he had insisted on telling him how his visit was important and that take the time to explain everything to him. Fabienne knew full well why his doctor had called. She knew that the time had come, and this time she could not discard. There comes a time when the point of no return is reached. For it was this morning. The doctor rang his door half an hour later. She had time to dress and prepare a few things she had gathered in a small suitcase. And she smiled. It needs only to imagine being in his house, and then she could come back, through the magic of thinking. Yes, she would do that. Imagine that was at home.

The doctor congratulated for his cooperative attitude. He explained the workflow. All he had to sit the entrance, staff were warned, a room was ready for her, she had only to ring at the entrance, and we welcome him. She was to appear before 17 hours was all that mattered. Fabienne remembered having had a funny feeling when the doctor had passed the door of his small house. She felt that the gates had closed his life before her and she came into prison. She was now taking his last lunch sentenced before joining his cell that would be the universe until his death.

She knew intimately the doctor was right. The internment was the only alternative. Life only became too dangerous, too complicated. Yet at first it was rather funny. His hallucinations made her laugh in retrospect, at that point in the early days, she had accepted these imaginary characters as companions in his lonely life. But the companions had made more and more present and had become cumbersome or even dangerous. They could take any form. Human, animal, or something else. His imagination had no limits on this subject. The last time was a huge spider she continued with her rolling pin. When she was finally caught when she was on the kitchen table and she was struck three times with her wooden rolling pin, she was abruptly returned to reality. The pain was called to order, and she had to call his doctor urgently. He was sent to radio stations in the hospital and she found herself with her left hand in a cast for 6 weeks. She was ashamed. At the hospital, nurses who had received had asked how she had her hand crushed. She had known what to say and the nurse had suspected abuse. She asked her if she was married, if she was alone at the time of the accident ... answers confused and embarrassed by Fabienne had seemed strange to the point that it had asked the name of his physician and a psychological assessment.

She was there, now, before the wooden door. Behind, she knew, was a delightful setting preserved. The vegetation was lush, the micro climate that prevailed in the small town Finisterian for acclimatization and growth of palms. Behind the walls of the old cloister was the psychiatric hospital. Fabian knew that his illusions disappear quickly. The drugs were going to brutalize, eliminate the hallucinations, but this tender and humorous it was about the world around him. She was locked in his madness, aided by pills given him every evening. And yet she longed to enter. She knew she would be safe. Plus she never would run behind his hand in the belief it would knock him out, it never set fire to the curtains, thinking she had installed a fireplace.

Facing the door, she grabbed the knocker, decided to knock on the door. It was 15 hours, she was on time. It was better for her to go as soon as possible. Otherwise, she might change her mind, and she wanted at any price. His life became dangerous, so dangerous! Yes, she had to go.

Fabienne dropped the knocker. Renounce his freedom, his imagination, his dreams, even dangerous, it suddenly seemed unthinkable.

It was dangerous. Yes, especially for itself. Soon, she may have lost touch with reality. But meanwhile, she did not want him stealing their dreams. She did not want pills that he would swallow.

She turned. She had her suitcase in hand, she decided on a whim not to enter, and start a new life. Elsewhere. In the street if necessary.

She would disappear.

Now.

Amelie Platz, January 2, 2011

Gwen Thanks for this great workshop!

Charriol Bracelets Philippines

... and Happy New Year 2011!

2010 is over, long live 2011!

whole family and I wish you a happy new year!
Health, happiness, success in your projects ... we wish you the best for this new year!