Life is so quiet

This week was a busy week, probably as much as the next one. FDI (Foreign Direct Investment) and South Korea's economy are crowding my life. Nothing interesting to tell, not many photographs, but an experience which has revolutionized my food's perception.

Oh, I am forgetting the show by Air and Aurevoir Simone... amazing.

Marmite
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Marmite /ˈmɑːmaɪt/ is the name given to two similar food spreads, one produced in the United Kingdom and the other in New Zealand. Marmite is made from yeast extract, a by-product of beer brewing. Marmite is suitable for vegetarians and vegans.
The British version is a sticky, dark brown paste with a distinctive, powerful taste. This distinctive taste is reflected in the British company's marketing slogan: "Love it or hate it". It is similar to the Australian Vegemite, Swiss Cenovis. Bovril is a similar looking spread made from beef.
This distinctive product was originally British, but a version with a noticeably different taste has been manufactured in New Zealand since 1919, and this is the dominant version in New Zealand, Australia and the Pacific Islands.
The image on the front of the British jar shows a marmite (French, "large covered earthenware or metal cooking pot").[1] The British Marmite was originally supplied in earthenware pots, but has long been sold in glass jars that approximate the shape of such pots.[2] A thinner version in squeezable plastic jars was introduced in March 2006.

PS: temperature is higher in Birmingham than in Toulouse or Paris or Marseille... how wierd the world is...

Sous les pavés, la Seine

Revenir en France pour quelques jours, revoir, voir, sentir les odeurs de passage, et puis rentrer. L'oxygène a ses propres lois.
J'ai croisé des mains durant ces quelques jours. Dans la paresse d'une étreinte, dans la ferveur d'une embrassade, on saisit toujours la perenne temporalité des mains. Elles souffrent ou ont souffert, elles s'élancent et se deviennent célestes quand elles dansent au creux du temps. Les mains revêtent sans arrêt de la présence des gens, de leur implication dans la vie. Nous avons des mains pour saisir et aimer, nous avons des mains pour vivre, et pour ma part, je les vis plus que tout.
On a tendance à vivre dans la pudeur du toucher, ou dans sa peur. On se regarde, on s'envisage, on s'écoute, mais le toucher ne vient que plus tard. J'ai aimé Paris pour toutes ses mains que je connais, pour des gestes qui signifient rien aussi. Certaines ont manqué, une paire n'apparait pas. Mais les mains restent des poèmes de chaque instant.
Je réécrirai. Mieux, et plus volontairement, mais le temps se dissout alors que la librairie ferme. Je dois partir.

Je dois revenir.

The colour's death

Sometimes, life seems to appear in black and white. It is like my eyes, a dark globe hung above a land of snow, just an unbelievable phenomenon, something from a physical theory nobody can understand.

Sometimes, life is but reality which can’t be explained.

It is.

And nothing more.

There is mist all around me. I feel alone, but strangely glad. The lights which transpire from the branches call me “little child” and I would like to be handsome in front of Night. Places are empty; the crow which used to stand on the pavement has left far away, and leaves the squares

quiet…

still quiet.

Colours don’t exist anymore, there is no white, or yellow, or blue. There is just a virginal land and the air which smells cold.

The little pieces of water dance upon a wind that has never existed. They stand on my hands, and can’t fall to the grass because they’re not heavy enough. I want to believe in that few seconds…

life could be a religion.

Far away, fireworks are bursting. Their explosions are the single link with the life from outside. My songs have vanished in a deep shadow; my lips are kissed by the smoothest caress. The wind of November which follows my shape.

This night is a tale never told.

Some people have written it, some dreamers have read it although their thoughts are still laid on their bed of wisdom. Youth has never existed as much as in the colours’ death.
I have understood the lights, and while night will pass away, I will be a child holding stars,

hung in the night,

...but laid on that soft cold grass.

Birmingham, the 4th of November.

2007