Since Lutetia , j'enclenche the ball.
European elections. Yawning gargantuan citizens motivated Big Media in the warming of a few very old recipes. France 2, where Elkabbach throne - when the shiny careerism would anticon-for-economist - is the prime contractor of a duel of verbal jousting between thick ropes.
First prize to the two most beautiful giants of the moment: The Pen-Tapie. Paul Amar and his political service had tried in vain to excite the fiber bellicose policies of the two tenors, pushing the solicitation up to give a pair of boxing gloves. And these journalists say we teach civics or ethics of behavior!
The two men immediately avoided the trap of slipping free, their credibility as the top candidates in these elections, then as contenders Elysian, depended on it. It was, nevertheless, far from the whey of sheep in a tutu. Topping the bow, mimics Tapie left no doubt as to his instinctive hatred of Le Pen. The enemies have Brett determination, without special effects in antagonism, no purchase under the top of the opponent. Other
kind, more slender, much less colorful: de Villiers, in the frenzied Vendeen Phrygian cap, and Kouchner's humanitarian elastic with anti-leakage.
De Villiers was chosen, a few years ago, my attention Big picnickers minitellien when he rocked a suit to the gates of the National Assembly. Unkempt hair, shaggy round the chin, he went to explain the antenna of TF1. Both opponents
sniffed, them damn complacent complicity. Speeches much weighted semblance of confrontation, without issue of tripe. Wednesday, June 8
Day Marathon in Strasbourg for the collection localities in the French Revolution. Survey pointed to five hours at dawn return under my Purgatory: 23 hours toward the declining of the sun bed. Meanwhile, hop to the waterfalls at the Hall home, the cultural sector, filed arguments on both regional newspapers and The Friends of the People (likely antithesis log Darien), whirlwind visit to three bookstores in the city consistent and interview with the curator of the Historical Museum of Strasbourg chosen as the preface of our exhumation. Pretty city
my faith, more preserved in the architectural and economical than Bethune and Valenciennes. The tendency university (15,000 student boiled irrigate) makes a teeming asphalt eager youth wandering slightly expanded. With moist heat that pervades the scene, no need to force her exhibitionist nature. Legs and arms lengthen their flesh to the sun, plunging necklines deepen their position, eyes adorned with a pair of black protective, and the whole panoply adequate. Surprise
size. Just before talking to the nice conservative grumpy old girlfriend Hubert, Sylvie, recognizes me and calls me from afar. Random strictly impossible to comprehend. She is radiant, always so nice at first. She asks me in all directions. A boy joins Soon, more visibly a acquaintance. She must go to Australia soon. Very factual, I agree, but surprising to me. Saturday, June 11
Yesterday, a new getaway in a city of France. The
Terror in Rouen, prolific Felix Clérambray to exhume, I decided to set foot in the town where the maid was kindled. Sweet life in the rue du Gros Horloge, the historical load leads to the most pathetic feelings. turning out, interspersed with interviews with libraries, regional archives, general and regional Councils, I sit in the cozy bar of the Hotel de Dieppe with Claude M., Professor of Modern History at the University of Rouen. The hair and beard cut short, a white patriarchal line of a young man, his eyes piercing intelligence, we converse an hour, and he promised me his preface to the end of the month. Forgot to mention
my meeting with Michele G., responsible for cultural affairs at the City Hall, enthusiastic about our project, a cool professional quite invigorating. This city department has installed near St. Macloud Atre, in the former convent for plague victims. Instead of inspiring serenity, where you stored the skulls of victims of the scourge. The buildings have withstood the centuries and retain, as a morbid resonance, the torments of the black souls.
Again I think about Joan of Arc. How this kind of fate upsets common sense, especially if one imagines the brave with sleek lines, burned prettiness. Beauty is equated with instinctive virtue, the good inclinations of being, as if aesthetic permeated outside the character. What would be incongruous to attribute to a wealth of juvenile Jeanne Carabosse. Our commitment to the warrior maiden, if there was, would lose much of its sentimentality to mutate into compliance indifferent.
Face it, whatever the mind of a woman, we think only shorten the conversation when nothing in his appearance does not cause us that parcel of emotion, halfway between satisfaction and intellectual animal frenzy. Wednesday, June 15
Back in Paris early this morning. My stay at Au has been somewhat extended. Monday trip with J5 Karl Pontlevoy to move the cases of Mary in the house called Miss Revaud . Short stop at Blois, where, between bites of Packman, we maintain our rut facing all young flesh walker.
Yesterday meal with Heim and Michel Leborgne. Primary objective: to prepare the end of the Reprographics Santerre and installing a printer in Reims. The desire to break from Alice, the irreversible failure of the company of Michel Leborgne due to multiple factors, including his claim on the company GIE Ornicar and non-development of external markets, forcing them to reorganize everything avoiding existential dramas. Again, despite a growing despair and terrible blows to the soul carried by some relatives, the generosity of Heim is total. Last date
treason: that of Sophia K. One of the main topics of catharsis meal yesterday. Thousands of hours have been spent, the bus hectoliters of champagne, Heim's continued commitment to financial security, aid has not prevented many made Ker to make emotional blackmail. So goodbye ...
To punctuate the discussion, little getaway in the Land Rover Michel to the marshes located within ten kilometers of the castle. Peat at floor and humidity contribute to the lush flora. My weaving relationships
Paris continues. Note my interview with Adeline D., an old acquaintance whom I left pre-teen and young I found 19 year old woman, beautiful and touching girl looking like Madonna.
Sabrina L. Nancéienne my favorite, I have already mentioned in these notes, just contact me, back at Lutece, in emotional turmoil and family. It certainly sparkling, but
no tendency to rebellion emancipatory and butting inconsiderate annihilated several years of construction in love with his gentle, Fabrice and gets angry with his family. I, of course, responded to this support and help as much as I can, in hardships she goes through. Mouloudji died, a little poppy , ladies ...
Friday, June 17 After a few attempts to scribble alone, I come back, fangs drawn to the display of the pen. As the old pervert the falling folds of his raincoat to an audience ready to wield the knife, I am profitable in the flow of Black once incorporated into the table on parade night. First
burr on the coat and small squares of notebook. The Bubbling of Select, with its orange to red hot to me. Clumsiness of solitaire that I am. How to sharpen any 
lucidity in this floundering fool. Shifted pitiful, that's my sign crucified front face. I dare not lift the end of Papelard stained, lest I find a designer excruciating task, worthy of more languien modern art. Clown, sad clown, the heavens burst, you'll end up. The left eye
trend blur, purulent discharge point at the corner of the apple, I let up, like little vomiting mental vapors Elephant Man.
revelation for me: my behavioral trends, in a shell about drinking more m'assimilent, time goes by, the monster distraught. My tenses face down terrifying climax in the failed incarnate.
other, infinitely more to have their share of sloppiness. And the spicy Rocard did he have taken off in the dungeon figurehead on the list chiassocialiste and pretending Elysian. His Little Big Bang him just to fart mouth, which should rejoice Mité Fanfan. Flunked, Rocard leaves intellectualizations the purring Delors, Jacques Philosophical technocratism that transmutes into everything he envisages.
Reification disgust clutters the back of the throat. This irresolution when we are witnessing the happiness of other petrified while saving momentum.
I feel my left eye to limit the loss of orbit, familiarly dark autumn. Younger, at the turn of a verse, I denounced my psychological entropion. How, in this case, convince a beautiful soul, embodied in a stunning frame, giving me the credibility necessary to achieve this mutually exclusive, basis for any lasting love.
The blurred vision is too generalized and forced me to join the fold. Damage to the confession. Saturday, June 18
Late afternoon. The sun heats our barbaque unrestrained. The wet boiling, I scoured my bottom Purgatory before taking the bundle towards Au.
Is this a regression revealing, but here I am income last few months, my starting position, with some extra bullshit: solitaire on all fronts. "Isolated everywhere / Bathed in all / I breathe" finished one of my poems. That mold again my daily life.
Friday, Sabrina visits me for a fresh lunch: salad and fresh orange juice. His testimony on the upheavals in her life has strengthened in me that feeling of constant change on razor wire, tightrope-board cuts for all imbalances.
His decision to end the five-year relationship with Fabrizio is a liaison with another young man, during the past eight months. Bitch! I hear already. The crux of the case scenario explains and excuses the young woman, the couple Sabrina-Fabrizio had no sexual relations for two years. In his twenties, age capacity sensual intimacy like that of pensioners reduced to abstinence. No explanation to give, but no more desire to do the trail led wet. curl boring to sparkling Sabrina, in quite a romp. The artillery of a seductive young entrepreneur will be enough to germinate the detonator emancipation. Result: failure combined with his family and partner. Worse: it recognizes the impossibility of his life with this new love. Physical arrangement, but repeated arguments and selfishness of the man.
Sunday, June 19
It took Father's Day for Alice hands over the feet of the castle. The diners, under the rays of summer, was almost complete: Heim, Vanessa, Sally, Alice, Hermione, Monique Karl, Hubert by phone a few moments earlier, and me. Heim's emotion at the time of departure of his two daughters and me, climbed to the edge of the lashes. Heim on the steps of the castle, we in the taxi, hands to the sky took over our hugs. The determination of Alice
to depart from that family life does not reserve any one year of rest. Bracket today should in no way obscure the emotional and professional tragedy. Since the train escaped from Laon, I stop my eye on a three quarter moon in the hazy blue of the sky where the sun still reigns, and my throat tightens, my eyes welled up. The kind that runs behind my window, thick, at the height of its freshness, is inclined to wander this melancholy.
Last night, on the recommendation of Heim, I discovered the light Challaye Felicien, synthesizer and popularizer of large size. His Bergson, published in 1947 by Editions Mellottée, is a treat for the mind. With his talent, we had made of whey Being and Nothingness of "shaken the jar." I look forward to his go Nietzsche. If an author is to be exhumed and widely distributed, it Challaye.
On reading these lines to the style slender, flowing like a fountain of youth, I wonder about my ability to extract myself from writing controversial, with frequent slippages pamphleteers, to devote myself to the depth of things mind to reflect on the great problems of our time, with the extent and humility that is appropriate for this type of exercise. Power, on pages and pages, analyze a complex system and develop a tad understanding by the lighting of my intellect.
Knowledge must become my reason for being, to exist on this earth. Feed your cortex in all directions and fight his evil inclinations of carelessness can perhaps achieve the wisdom of the philosopher. The trap
existential questions, that reminds us Challaye ("Where we come from? What are we and what are we doing down here? Where are we going? Why the universe exists there?") , is stuck in the commonplace, the intellectual nonsense, the cliché hundred percent fat, heavy with unnecessary frills redundancy. As soon wallowing in gossip claimed intelligence, the notion of guidance as an Aristotle, gives way to a sham intellectual in the way of a good load of our new philosophers not take any action on.
The most newsworthy of all, Bernard-Henri Levy, whose dexterity in philosophy may be likened to that of a Tapie in business, deceives with rants in projectors Big Media. Thus it appears, wicks before, disgusted by the late étripages in Yugoslavia, ready to some risky round trips in the capital, ready to abuse as Dr. Schwartzenberg in the formation of a list for European elections, which were not long in discovering the properties of self-destruction, like a bearded dad-to-policy. The authenticity of BHL
as Grand Propagator of procedures, is BrazilThe once qu'interviennent personal interests, a strategy to safeguard its environment, cream pies to his face. So for the late
Yugoslavia, then, among all these specialists Sc musings, undermine democracy? In the light of hundreds of thousands of premature carrion, could we question the benefits in a given context, a Tito, certainly tyrant in the armholes, but unifying foremost. The peacekeeping, economic development and credibility with the world's nations do they not apply in this case, a totalitarianism? The inability to freedom, this is a complex topic, but useful for clearing to understand the destiny of peoples.
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