tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28268337941068158712024-03-14T08:49:06.172-07:00lasuzalasuzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14538330106857088039noreply@blogger.comBlogger155125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2826833794106815871.post-59326377947807959492014-10-17T13:19:00.001-07:002014-10-18T06:25:42.128-07:00Await what the stars will bring.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Words soar into my time like shooting stars. Daily heat. Black. Light. Night is here, I am tucked into my bed. As my feet mark time on the staircase turn, I know I have to write. There is the yearn. A longing. Just a few words, something before sleep, like the skinning of an onion, oil heating in a pan. A promise. A hope; a vision of a dish. A story. A text. A beginning. A burn. This is desire, from the French, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">de sidere, </span><span class="Apple-style-span">to</span> <span class="Apple-style-span">"await what the stars will bring".</span></span></div>
lasuzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14538330106857088039noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2826833794106815871.post-70966618546994518432014-09-01T10:05:00.001-07:002014-09-01T10:05:24.721-07:00The Whispering Fig<div style="text-align: justify;">
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Summer dwindles, seeps into autumn. Time is like a snake, it sheds sandy bathing suits for the scent of burning wood, a skin made from cold, damp earth. Before we left the forest this summer, I gathered figs, plucked from trees, and gently cradled the soft, warm flesh in my palm. I thought, a fig is a promise, a delicate kiss, a secret purple smile. So easily damaged, so soft, so welcoming; a fig seems to beat with a human heart. Split me in two, the fig whispered; just take a bite.</div>
lasuzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14538330106857088039noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2826833794106815871.post-11567674456247138322014-05-06T13:01:00.001-07:002014-05-06T13:01:29.569-07:00the baby came....<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The baby came. A bud of wisdom. A flower of hope. We drift together in a muddle of time, running on a thread of feeds and sleeps. I try to eat, drink and write with one hand. "She is so tiny" everyone says. "You forget how small babies are". We marvel at her delicate, miniature limbs. Tender. Ferocious. Cradled in my arms. She has changed lives. In a blink of months she will be transformed. For now each day, hour requires an Everest force; meeting the mountain, smelling the flower, tasting the breath of fresh life.</div>
lasuzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14538330106857088039noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2826833794106815871.post-46261275451054977832014-03-10T10:29:00.001-07:002014-03-10T10:31:23.492-07:00Rilke's Double Kingdom: Coming back, going forward, stepping around<div style="text-align: justify;">
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Spring is here this week, soft as the smell of warm baked cake. Gentle temperatures and tulips decorate our days. I've fallen from this blog, had my head in hospices, death, funerals and grief; dark, intimate spaces. I am also pregnant. So, I've been traveling in two directions, living in a place akin to Rilke's Double Kingdom. Orpheus comes and goes perpetually, as the poets come and go, roses blooming, falling and dying, only to bloom again. In the double kingdom voices are mild and eternal, mourning becomes music. So, maybe, I'll be saying goodbye to this space. Maybe, I'll step around here a little while longer. There are so many goodbyes and new beginnings...</div>
lasuzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14538330106857088039noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2826833794106815871.post-4875403746378097862013-12-08T08:48:00.002-08:002013-12-09T08:42:12.772-08:00Black beans and Vermeer<div style="text-align: justify;">
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I was cooking black beans yesterday. Piles of black diamonds in an inky broth, studded with a carrot, a bay leaf and silky strips of leek. </div>
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Suddenly, I thought of <a href="http://www.google.fr/search?q=vermeer&client=safari&rls=en&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ei=p_KlUurAMaaU0QW5_oHYCA&ved=0CAkQ_AUoAQ&biw=1280&bih=664">Vermeer's</a> domestic scenes; dull, "dead coloring", over-layered with glazes of red and yellow, locked into place with a touch of pearl.</div>
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Served with greek yogurt, Jamaican hot sauce, cheddar cheese and a sprinkle of spring onions they tasted delicious too!</div>
lasuzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14538330106857088039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2826833794106815871.post-58851840532278860332013-12-03T03:10:00.001-08:002013-12-03T08:15:37.137-08:00granite flesh<br />
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December is here. The year is almost turning and the word flesh has just come whispering in my ear. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, Garamond, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;">An Old English poetry-word for "body" was</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, Garamond, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, Garamond, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;"><span class="foreign" style="font-style: italic;">flæsc-hama</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, Garamond, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;">, literally "flesh-home." The French say we can be <i>bien dans sa peau, </i>to feel right inside your skin, to be comfortable in the body we call our domicile. These days I am encircled by bodies travelling through illness and growth, spinning pirouettes on the tightrope of life. I recently visited a rock collection in a Musée d'Histoire Naturelle. Hunks of granite, ancient earth flesh carried the memories of a million other days. Softly, spoken words. Sshhh..they murmured, we are still here.</span><br />
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lasuzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14538330106857088039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2826833794106815871.post-11875117625995499302013-11-11T03:51:00.001-08:002013-11-11T03:51:41.081-08:00Half-hidden november mornings<div style="text-align: justify;">
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Today, I nestle in a half-hidden morning, tucked inside the taste of croissant crumbs and a return to bed, after breakfast. Returning to bed is always good. I curl like a cat into the spirals of dull clouds that line the sky; autumn is here. Two busy months have spun my body into a peripatetic pace, measured by alarm calls, train coffee and limbs reaching out to strangers, the <i>logos</i> trying to twist a rope, upon which we may walk together. Today, I unwind the cords, unpack the bags and dismantle the relentless clock. I sink into the sofa with detective novels, listening to The Godfather:Love Theme while I think about eating <i>raclette; </i>melted cheese and pencil grey skies. Movement and repose. </div>
lasuzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14538330106857088039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2826833794106815871.post-57526171879972885082013-10-14T12:24:00.002-07:002013-10-14T12:34:19.142-07:00the reclusive room<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Am away from home, in a hotel room, where the bathroom tiles are edged in Air Force Blue. Night has fallen and trash TV fills the space between the walls; a mild, restful, gaudy background buzz. I am draped or slumped upon the bed; my limbs burrow between a phone, a damp towel, a loop of cables, a winter hat, a blue leopard print umbrella; I am waiting to eat a pot of rice pudding, spoonfuls of comfort laced with cinnamon. Next to me, there is a much-thumbed magazine that I purloined from reception, as a plump young woman with empty chocolate eyes said "Bonne soirée".</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I am here, admiring the curve of light falling from the standing lamp, colonizing this makeshift home. The Air Force Blue bathroom tiles remind me of my grandparent's house, the heady scent of the lavender hedges that lined their short garden path. But, nothing else here belongs to me. Anything could happen. There is a freedom in this anonymous expanse, a dreary land where everything is to be invented, again. "Aren't you lonely when you travel?", people ask, I always smile. Movement was written into my childhood and I developed a passion, a taste of wandering, I own a thirst for lone ranging that has yet to be quenched. This borrowed, short-term occupation is my interim caretaker; a fleeting hearth for my frame. Fleet from the old English to flit, to float; in this hotel room the flash of <span apple_mouseover_highlight="1">a</span> bird's wing across the sky would have to be called <span class="render" style="font-style: italic;"><span apple_mouseover_highlight="1">evanescent</span></span>. </span></div>
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lasuzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14538330106857088039noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2826833794106815871.post-85075124724093685722013-07-09T14:40:00.003-07:002013-07-09T14:40:40.847-07:00thinking....<br />
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Thinking about this post written by <a href="http://www.a-n.co.uk/artists_talking/projects/single/2157883">Marion</a>, about staring horror in the face. Thinking about packing to travel, shaking summer dresses free from boxes and the fact that the sun might shine one day. Thinking about a book I am writing about anthropology, bodies and hospitals ; what is traced between the walls while you lie in sickness and the person who cares stands over you. Thinking about spirals painted in paint, a vortex of trickled, splattered colour. Thinking, as the sun rises to a sullen sky and the wind puffs cold breath on a slate grey sea. Thinking about a day soon when we hit the road, with the kids sprawled in the back of the van, surrounded by a nest of books and dolls. Thinking about clowns, women and another text about sex and laughter; Pan and the right of a mother to roar. Thinking about an image of green, emerald rockets blasting across the sky. Thinking about waking up soon and just aiming that day to buy some cake and swim in a river and bask in the sun. Just thinking...</div>
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lasuzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14538330106857088039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2826833794106815871.post-24905628067071906962013-06-23T11:09:00.000-07:002013-06-23T11:10:05.042-07:00Green is the color of June<div style="text-align: justify;">
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Green is the color of June : verdure, soft moss, chartreuse and lime. A color born from too much rain; drips and drops, torn from the sky, an unbroken deluge of water. Green is the color of June. Green is unlucky whisper the actors, the sailors and my grandmother-in-law, who wore red lipstick and hitched up her skirt to catch a tan when the sun shone bright. Green is the color of June.<br />
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Green was my favorite color as a child. I had green underwear, socks and pants, a green and white striped top and a pair of shorts. Green is growing, green is living, green is envy and rage; bearing burnt copper. Green is the color born from the mountains, emerald lava trickling from the skies. Limpid green, the sea is thriving. Green is the color of June.<br />
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lasuzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14538330106857088039noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2826833794106815871.post-58665889224342614322013-03-13T08:23:00.000-07:002013-03-13T09:15:04.885-07:00running on empty, riding on the train, everywhere is blue<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Ten days ago, I caught an evening train. I was running on empty, end-of-day, end-of-book, end-of-course; the sky was the gentlest blue. I could have sat in the carriage for days, for years; watched the flat green, the night fall, the street lamps alighting one-by-one, dots on the i's of the railroad towns. Slumped in my chair, I leant my head on the accordioned curtain, watched the passengers reading, caressing screens with idle fingers. On the station platform, a plump man stood on tiptoes and exchanged unheard words with the driver. We left, the women opposite giggled. A pretty girl with a spotty forehead gazed anxiously at her phone, hesitated as she read, chewed gum and tucked one arm around her waist, protectively. Everywhere was blue.</div>
<br />lasuzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14538330106857088039noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2826833794106815871.post-87960553452239330822013-02-25T12:31:00.001-08:002013-02-25T12:31:19.199-08:00Dancing with the moon<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I've been in a vortex these past six weeks, spinning in a twirl of flu bugs, decorators, running courses and learning to love the night. Sliding shuffle shoes, I've embraced the midnight hours, been burning the candle at both ends while I finish my book. I am tired from dancing with the moon. But, I am happy to have befriended time from sunset to sunrise; sweet, relentless, nocturnal hours.</div>
lasuzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14538330106857088039noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2826833794106815871.post-32306188575632888582013-01-02T10:39:00.003-08:002013-01-02T10:39:58.903-08:00slipping into 2013<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Here is a pretty picture of a door knocker, taken in the hot August streets of Pamplona. I am sick in bed, sliding gently into 2013. Tucked under my duvet, surrounded by my manuscript, Battleborn and a scary French book about linguistics - that I have promised myself I'll read - I alternately groan, rewrite paragraphs and window shop food blogs. I am nursing a bad head and wearing thick socks. Still, it's cosy in here. <i>Bonne année.</i></div>
lasuzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14538330106857088039noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2826833794106815871.post-69083580451228358132012-12-26T08:25:00.001-08:002012-12-26T08:25:49.099-08:00digging into Christmas: tartelettes au chocolat<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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We dig into Christmas, hollow out a space and fill it to the brim with: homemade stockings, pound shop key rings, mistletoe and stewed red cabbage served with <i>chantrelle</i> mushrooms that the vegetable man said he picked from the forest just next to his house. We sit beside the fire and mislay our sense of time in embroidered vintage tablecloths and silk PJs. Gifts are unwrapped, toys built and thank-yous said. In the middle of the day, he encourages fresh air and we are blown from the <i>appartement</i> and venture outside wearing fake fur coats that are not discreet, but fun. Upon returning, we eat, nibble, drink and I finish the day munching my chocolate ganache tart. Pre-bake little <i>tartlettes</i> of a sweetened pastry. Then, melt chocolate in a <i>bain-marie</i>. Heat double cream until nearing boiling. Add to chocolate with a smidgen of butter. When it resembles chocolate mayonnaise stop stirring. It's ready. Fill pastry cases and refridgerate. Yum. <i>Parfait</i>.</div>
lasuzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14538330106857088039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2826833794106815871.post-69585066623664205462012-12-23T22:58:00.000-08:002012-12-24T00:42:26.129-08:00these days, just before christmas<div style="text-align: justify;">
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These days, we are walking in the forest, nestling into our cosy home, burrowing into Christmas. I have baked a cake, unexpectedly. Decorated a tree. I am reading Foucault, Claire Vaye Watkins and a book about the origins of writing. Science is reassuring, I tell him as we sip tiny glasses of blackberry gin, lit by the winking of fairy lights. Philosophy structures thought, I explain and we talk about that and then my vegetable soup, made from turnips, carrots, leeks, potatoes and a handful of chestnuts. I flavoured the soup with sprigs of thyme and a solitary bay leaf; liquidized it was divine. </div>
lasuzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14538330106857088039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2826833794106815871.post-43679664953593748892012-12-14T06:09:00.001-08:002012-12-14T06:09:18.261-08:00art rhythms<div style="text-align: justify;">
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On the 14th of December, I am thinking about the way we organize time, our rhythms as we make art: do you snap time into pieces, travel to and fro, hold it, encircle it or lose all sense of time. When I make theatre, time is ritualised, an organised limbic experience for the actors and spectators; a collectif sense of time preceding from beginning to middle to end. Whilst, writing time is constant, always at the back of my mind, words and ideas churning; like waves that rise up from my inside until I am full and then, the water pours out onto the page. </div>
lasuzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14538330106857088039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2826833794106815871.post-14362126692671388632012-12-12T09:35:00.002-08:002012-12-12T10:47:48.038-08:00handles turning on the last days of autumn<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Early, I leave </span>hot coffee and jumble of brooms. Outside clouds hang like sky whales, pencil grey on turquoise sky. A pinky ink is seaping into the daybreak. Bold golden light carries the dawn to a tar black, starless earth that is frozen, stone daubed with a swift breath of frost. Soon the sun will rise, unlatching the door to green grass. Handles turning on the last days of autumn light.</div>
lasuzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14538330106857088039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2826833794106815871.post-75776603163864861232012-12-10T08:59:00.002-08:002012-12-10T09:12:49.542-08:00a winter morning<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I leave my home wrapped in the smell of baked christmas cake, driving, steering through the darkness, the cars opposite like miners with headlamps, ready to descend into the pit, the trees line the hedgerows and point us forwards, driving, on this road there is no turning back, half-awake and half-asleep in this period of hibernation where the animals are tucked into earthy holes, suddenly when i turn there is the winter light, a hot globe burning, hanging low, just above a lace of black branches, hope and warmth where life goes on.</span></div>
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lasuzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14538330106857088039noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2826833794106815871.post-79689310031557635792012-12-05T12:59:00.001-08:002012-12-10T09:01:09.520-08:00jam tarts in bed<div style="text-align: justify;">
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There is nothing quite like jam tarts in bed, crumbs wriggling into sheets as you take a bite. It is comfort, safety, like a bedtime kiss from a parent who says it will all be right. A chill draft is sneaking through my window, but I under my Welsh blanket I am eating jam. Slivers of pastry linger at the back of my mouth as I creep, deeper into my bed. There is nothing quite like jam tarts in bed. Do try!</div>
lasuzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14538330106857088039noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2826833794106815871.post-77080542988851806732012-10-15T12:23:00.001-07:002012-10-15T13:07:08.700-07:00watching what sophie calle saw...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Sat in the Perrotin gallery, I watched three screens, three backs, three people watching the sea, meeting the sea for the very first time. <a href="http://www.perrotin.com/artiste-Sophie_Calle-1.html">I watched what Sophie Calle saw</a>. I watched the waves roll, shoulders shift and then one of the people turned, faced me, watching me as I watched him having first seen the sea. On another screen a man turned, faced us, watching him as he looked out of the screen, the experience marking each line on his face. Eyes closed, open. Tears ran. On the third scree, a women turned. Faced us facing her, her face facing us. All of meeting in the gallery, for the very first time. Sat in the Perrotin gallery, I watched the three screens a second time and then, a third. Mesmerized by first times, I wanted to stay there, in the pure white room, in the tenderness, caught in a neat nostalgic rewind, for the first time, another first time, another first... </div>
lasuzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14538330106857088039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2826833794106815871.post-49784437572472178822012-10-14T12:54:00.002-07:002012-10-14T13:20:53.352-07:00 Octobering Paris<div style="text-align: justify;">
On the twelfth day of the tenth month, we steal days soaked with Parisian rain. Days measured in city steps, marked on pavements, eyes drinking in roof-tops and capital smells.<br />
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Three days made from ramen soup, tempura and Molière's statue, in the elegant shadow of the Palais Royale. We eat and sleep in the 1er arrondissement, crammed with Japanese restaurants where pin thin chefs, with aprons wrapped round non-existent waists, whisk metals sieves of udon noodles from bubbling baths of broth. Morning coffee is pertained from moustached barristas - moustaches are the latest ting - who draw tulips into milky froth and treasure a collection of miniature owls. In the Marais, we drink lemon tea from glasses in the Jewish quarter, split a bitter poppy seed rugelach and watch doe-eyed families shopping for Friday Sabbath. After, we hunt for Sophie Calle and find first and last times in words and videos and I sit, stop, watch, think.<br />
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Watch the backs of the people discovering the sea, watch them turn to face us watching them, for the first, the very, very first time. Think about first times, memories. Fresh, unscarred by the tread of time. Nothing is ever the same. The next day, coffee drips through paper filters. Drips it drops to the sound of rain. Men wear scarves draped carelessly around wet necks. Silk, wool, cotton, knotted into negligent Parisian chic. It rains and we walk to the the Quai Branly Museum and fall into continents, dreaming time. Aboriginal Australian art.<br />
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I stop, once again, at these topographical wonders, journeys measured in dots and lines, circling sacred space. The museum is breath-taking, both the form and content. Then, in the evening, Chekov, starting and stopping, a Benedetti's version with pauses into which the audience can stride and gaze - for a second - upon casual tableaux, the actors on the stage with the ease of horses. Sunday, we eat boiled eggs. Walk. Get wet and then, come home on a silent train. Remembering all that rain.</div>
lasuzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14538330106857088039noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2826833794106815871.post-53943595832011916642012-08-29T13:45:00.003-07:002012-08-30T12:26:33.288-07:00Stealing the last piece of summer<div style="text-align: justify;">
Far too early in the morning, I took my holiday feet back out for a stroll, accompanied by three pairs of lovely shoes. Before the sun rose, I put my sandy plimpsolls on a boat bound for Jersey, to the nearest bit of England from here. The plan was to steal the last bit of summer, continue to drift in an unplanned way - keep loose before life tightens. It felt almost right, this last snatched day, felt almost right - despite the fatigue - to tease the summer out before <i>la rentrée</i>, before timetables loom on the horizon, before school, before workshops, before manuscripts are to be written, train whistles blown, before time is cut into predestined pieces and improvisation cast to the administration dogs, who are asking for papers, appointments and my signature, just at the end of the page, <i>s'il vous plait</i>. Before all of this, we took the time for ice-cream, to dip our limbs into an art-deco swimming pool, dream and admire the turquoise. </div>
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lasuzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14538330106857088039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2826833794106815871.post-35468542583683271302012-08-26T03:15:00.000-07:002012-08-26T03:17:34.712-07:00Nostalgia : a wistful yearning for the past<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span lang="FR" style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOSliNN6LVtM7Z2vhJ-A3ge4b-rEJyCb953-f5IB6ZjoA9N7yA9t6z-1-E9BFfx1J6MhCkG2yDX4pTOI136b16aJ_kdjEOAEP85zexqTQdkovuFQNICVr4EwELUF19gbDrQx-xqtyM1FkV/s1600/IMG_1804.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOSliNN6LVtM7Z2vhJ-A3ge4b-rEJyCb953-f5IB6ZjoA9N7yA9t6z-1-E9BFfx1J6MhCkG2yDX4pTOI136b16aJ_kdjEOAEP85zexqTQdkovuFQNICVr4EwELUF19gbDrQx-xqtyM1FkV/s320/IMG_1804.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></span></div>
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<span lang="FR" style="font-family: Georgia;">Going to wrap my journeys up, all of them, in bus tickets printed in alphabets that I don't understand, in the taste of Spanish cakes and Korean spice, in the smell of otherness as I step off the plane, train and out of the van door, bouncing on a hotel bed and sleeping on a mountain floor, I'll put the thoughts of wandering in my dreamland, until I repack my bag and start moving, all over again.</span></div>
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<span lang="FR" style="font-family: Georgia;"><b><span style="color: #6b0918;"><a href="http://www.etymonline.com/index.php?term=nostalgia&allowed_in_frame=0">nostalgia (n.)</a></span></b></span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: Georgia;">1770,
"severe homesickness" (considered as a disease), Modern Latin (cf.
Fr. <i>nostalgie</i>, 1802), coined 1668 by Johannes Hofer, as a rendering of
Ger. <i>heimweh</i>, from Gk. <i>algos</i> "pain, grief, distress"
(see <a href="http://www.etymonline.com/index.php?term=-algia&allowed_in_frame=0"><b><i><span style="color: #6b0918;">-algia</span></i></b></a>)
+ <i>nostos</i> "homecoming," from PIE <i>*nes-</i> "to return
safely home" (cf. O.N. <i>nest</i> "food for a journey," Skt. <i>nasate</i>
"approaches, joins," Ger. <i>genesen</i> "to recover,"
Goth. <i>ganisan</i> "to heal," O.E. <i>genesen</i> "to
recover"). Transferred sense (the main modern one) of "wistful
yearning for the past" first recorded 1920.</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: Georgia;"> </span></div>
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<!--EndFragment-->lasuzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14538330106857088039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2826833794106815871.post-86948952516165127582012-08-25T10:38:00.001-07:002012-08-25T10:38:11.522-07:00Returning<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYayGNfUZe1HsgpSVf_s_AuIoCTOVAwtfUGT35JLqHXw1ktHei_FvB4TnHKRrTVUfctB6cbx3sMCU80FwVX3Lmeh9M_pB6qGctJ-NcN6oDezekneHpuW2jUl6ewTDplyDYJrK0XEenPDq5/s1600/IMG_6004.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYayGNfUZe1HsgpSVf_s_AuIoCTOVAwtfUGT35JLqHXw1ktHei_FvB4TnHKRrTVUfctB6cbx3sMCU80FwVX3Lmeh9M_pB6qGctJ-NcN6oDezekneHpuW2jUl6ewTDplyDYJrK0XEenPDq5/s320/IMG_6004.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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We are still returning to everyday life. We joke that summer is going, "Away, away, away..", as we finish salted almonds, drink the last bitter orange drop of Vermouth, the plastic carton bought from a dusty mountain shop. We cling, with tenderness, to the memories of hot days that stretched from the morning to evening aperitif, new friends, mountains, cards games and a Jeff Koons dog. I have left some of the bags unpacked. The smell of summer crouches, hiding in folded clothes, crumbs of earth from our journey roll inside, whispering to each in foreign tongues: Matarana, Navarre, Pamplona, Bilbao, Estella, Charentes. There are <i>rollos de anis</i> aniseed Spanish biscuits that are yet to be eaten - squirreled for a rainy Breton day, there are wrinkled black olives and garlic octopus in jars. I wear shorts and a misshapen T-shirt as I work, tackling revisions of my book, the clothes make me feel free and the hours suspended and open, (somewhat silly, but true.)</div>
lasuzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14538330106857088039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2826833794106815871.post-43400126688255549612012-08-12T23:12:00.001-07:002012-08-12T23:13:07.017-07:00This morning - before breakfast<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ2orLdH0nhjL1YQKcs0srrInNgtJYlll6uDQ5vPuNoTD58xWbzXSr9fi7MzyHUW5FEZzrl65Cqp5nVYliSxmodf2laazNZ7ZaM0tx0Oo0VP16adLaj3Ls34VzJu_w7YA8MbuVX4Cl5bpm/s1600/IMG_5799.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ2orLdH0nhjL1YQKcs0srrInNgtJYlll6uDQ5vPuNoTD58xWbzXSr9fi7MzyHUW5FEZzrl65Cqp5nVYliSxmodf2laazNZ7ZaM0tx0Oo0VP16adLaj3Ls34VzJu_w7YA8MbuVX4Cl5bpm/s320/IMG_5799.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">From the wall of Santa Barbara hermitage, La Fresneda, 2012</span></i></div>
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I planned a series of posts about Spain, a list of the things that I love: eating dinner at ten at night, eating lunch at three, days reconstructed by the very hot sun, <i>siesta</i> dripping, endlessly, the <i>tortas</i>, the <i>tapas</i>, the wine, The Guggenheim, the plastic curtains separating the inside of houses from the outside world, the surreal ice lollies, the olive groves, the greenest river pools you ever saw, the hermitages stuck onto the sides of dry mountains, rivers sewn through the heart of stone, the old men gathered in white short sleeves, the teenage swimming pool girls who serenaded mine, the drive across the desert, the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Second_breakfast">second breakfasts</a> ( we think of ourselves as hobbits when we travel), the <i>cortado</i>, the living in the van ( which a man called Dusty named our wagon), the sleepy Charentes, the Navarre mountain plateau where horses rode wild, the...but the day is dawning and today is back to work time and today - before breakfast, I must eat something - I imagine time going backwards, the unpacking of bags, the unreading of maps, the places travelling back from my mind to the page, evrything becoming unknown again, the unpicking of a path.</div>
lasuzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14538330106857088039noreply@blogger.com2