Les thèmes de homeschooling (à compléter)

Autour de la cuisine:
la gastronomie, produits
la gastronomie, cuisine
la patisserie
les arts de la table
la verrerie
les vins

Autour de la médecine:
Anatomie
Secourisme
Les ambulances

Autour du jardin:
Les saisons
Les fruits
Les légumes
Les fleurs
les techniques de jardinage
les paysages
les conserves et confiture

Autour de la musique
le chant
la danse
les genres de musiques
le rythme
le solfège
les époques
l'orchestre
la world music
le clavier
la guitarre
la flute à bec
l'harmonica
la batterie

Autour de l'art
le dessin
la peinture
la sculpture
la photographie
l'architecture
la mode
les textiles
l'ébénisterie
le patrimoine

Autour du spéctacle vivant
le théatre
les costumes
les décors
les animations de rue
l'improvisation

Autour des sports
équitation

Autour des jouets
le maquettisme

Autour de la litérature
les classiques de l'enfance
la poésie
les courants litéraires
l'édition

Autour de l'eau
Les poissons
Les crustacés
La pêche
La voile
Le surf

Autour de la nature
La forêt
Les animaux
Les empreintes
les oiseaux
les insectes
La botanique
Les champignons
les pique-niques
Les feux de camp
le camping

Autour de l'agriculture
Le lait
Le miel
La viande
Le blé
Les vergers

Autour de l'astronomie
La terre
Le soleil
le sytème solaire
Les étoiles
La conquète de l'espace

Autour des machines
l'apirateur
la machine à laver le linge
le lave vaisselle

Autour des jeux d'extérieur
cache cache
le loup
colin maillard

Autour des transports
la voiture
le train
l'avion
le code de la route

A trois mois Thomas aime

Que sa maman le porte.
Que sa maman le regarde.
Que sa maman lui parle.
Que sa maman répète ses sons a lui.
Que n'importe qui d'autre le regarde et lui parle.
Les trucs qui pendouillent sur sa babygym et ses mobiles, surtout si ça bouge en continu, ou si les figurines on des yeux bien marqués et le regardent.
Ses totoches.
Ses langes a agripper.
Qu'on lui mette de la crème sur le visage.
Qu'on lui masse les pieds.
Certains airs de Jean Sebastien Bach.

Thomas n'a pas encore décidé si il aime:
Le bain
être sur le ventre

Berceuses Allemandes

N'est pas Halsacien qui veut...

Guten Abend gute Nacht
Guten Abend gute Nacht,
von Englein bewacht,
die zeigen im Traum
dir Christkindleins Baum:
Schlaf nur selig und süß,
schau im Traum's Paradies,
schlaf nur selig und süß,
schau im Traum's Paradies.

La-le-lu
La-le-lu
nun der Mann im Mond schaut zu
wenn die kleinen Babies schlafen
drum schlaf' auch du

La-le-lu
vor dem Bettchen steh'n zwei Schuh'
die sind genauso müde
geh'n jetzt zur Ruh'
dann kommt auch der Sandmann
leis' tritt er ins Haus
sucht aus seinen Träumen
dir den schönsten aus

La-le-lu
nun der Mann im Mond schaut zu
wenn die kleinen Babies schlafen
drum schlaf' auch du.

Leise, Peterle, leise
Leise, Peterle, leise
der Mond geht auf die Reise.
Er hat sein wießes Pferd gezäumt,'es
geht so sanft als ob es träumt.
Leise, Peterle, leise.

Stille, Peterle, stille,
der Mond trägt eine Brille;
ein graues Wölkchen schob sich vor,
das sitzt ihm grad auf Nas und Ohr
stille, Peterle, stille.

Träume, Peterle, träume
der Mond guckt durch die Bäume.
ich glaub sogar,jetzt bleibt er stehn
um Peterle im Traum zu sehn.
Träume, Peterle, träume.

Schlaf, Kindlein, schlaf!
Schlaf, Kindlein, schlaf!
Der Vater hüt' die Schaf,
Die Mutter schüttelt 's Bäumelein,
Da fällt herab ein Träumelein.
Schlaf, Kindlein, schlaf!

The donkey that was not thirsty

I once read a story about the only way to make a donkey drink water if that donkey didn't happen to be thirsty. The solution consists in bringing in a donkey that is very thirsty indeed and takes visible pleasure in drinking water. After a while the first donkey will wonder what it is missing...

This fabulous post by Heir to Blair made me wonder what I was missing. I'm so far gone on the feminista front that I take no pleasure in beautifying my home or my appearance beyond the acceptable minimum I can get away with. Then I demand an equal amount of effort from my partner and insist that we do it together.

I must say that Blair's post got me thinking. It's sad somehow that we are prevented from deriving pleasure from our home just because we don't want to be the only ones making an effort, and we don't want to be taken for granted as the ones that keep the house looking nice.

I don't have to be a birkenstock-wearing, bra-burning feminist after all, unless I want to be one, of course.

Goddess Car'net se métamorphose en blog bébé...

Fast foward 3 years, I passed my Ph.D. with praises from both examiners and belated praises from my supervisors too ("we always knew this was good stuff"), I got a cool job, married the stoop frog and popped out a baby too!

Ce blog va donc se remplir de niaiseries autour du nourisson, parce que nous le valons bien...

Entre autre j'ai bien envie de poster le paroles des chansons qui me viennent:

Celle ci est parmi les premières que j'ai fredonné après la naissance de Tom, un petit slow avec mon fils de deux jours:

Sometimes the snow comes down in June
Sometimes the sun goes 'round the moon
I see the passion in your eyes
Sometimes it's all a big surprise
'Cause there was a time when all I did was wish
You'd tell me this was love
It's not the way I hoped or how I planned
But somehow it's enough

And now we're standing face to face
Isn't this world a crazy place
Just when I thought our chance had passed
You go and save the best for last

All of the nights you came to me
When some silly girl had set you free
You wondered how you'd make it through
I wondered what was wrong with you

'Cause how could you give your love to someone else
And share your dreams with me
Sometimes the very thing you're looking for
Is the one thing you can't see

And now we're standing face to face
Isn't this world a crazy place
Just when I thought our chance had passed
You go and save the best for last

Sometimes the very thing you're looking for
Is the one thing you can't see

Sometimes the snow comes down in June
Sometimes the sun goes 'round the moon
Just when I thought our chance had passed
You go and save the best for last

You went and saved the best for last

Tout va

Un homme adorable, des amis geniaux, des projets si beaux qu'on les croirait ecrit pour d'autres, des tas de livres, une these de doctorat presque finie, du bon the, des beaux films, quelques perles en verre de Venise.

inviting down

An e-mail circulate in my department, asking us for suggestions for next year's speakers in our seminar series. My mind races, I know this extremely creative professor at Manchester. He's at the top of the field, let's invite him!

Then I have a look at the people who have already been suggested, all newish scholars I've never heard of, and whose research interest sounds predictable and rather narrow. I forgot that our department thinks it *is* the top of the field.

Inviting big names sounds like you want to grow, but we don't need to grow do we? That's good for the *other* big regional university. Instead, we'll do the new scholars a favour by offering them a tribune up here, bet they're excited about that.

What draws me so strongly to someone who understands me? He turns up and he feels the exact same, we're spiritual twins! He turns up and fifteen years of metaphysical loneliness just wanish into thin air. Someone else cried reading The Plague at fourteen when everyone was watching MTV. I wasn't alone. I wasn't crazy. Oh for that brand of fellowship! This postsecret cards conveys it a little bit:

La faut carrement que je partage...

Y'a un type sur le site de Lonely Planet qui a fait une liste hallucinante de super hotels parisiens, tous autour de 100-150 euros la double:

1) Hotel des Grands Ecoles (near Pantheon)

2) Hotel les Degres (Ile St Louis)

3) Hotel des Trois colleges (near Mouffetard)

4) Hotel Verneuil (St Germain de Pres)

5) Hotel de Lutece (Ile St Louis)

6) Hotel Caron de Beaumarchais (Mairie)

8) Hotel Eldorado (near Montmartre)

Des niouses

Bon alors pour recapituler…. Je suis allee a Vancouver fin Janvier rendre visite l’autre gars donc je parle un peu plus bas – et en effet on s’entend bien. J’aimais bien la sensibilite du gars, j’aimais bien son projet, et je voulais voir comment ca fonctionnait en vrai, dans l’optique de faire partie du projet a long terme, ou au moins de les soutenir. C’etait mon ONG preferee on va dire, mon petit baby. Et ca l’est toujours.

Et a Deville, y’avais un mec aussi. Pire grenouille de CoE tu meurs. Pour faire court on va dire que les vrais dog collars c’est encore plus marrant que les faux. Alors quand j’en vois dans des sex shop ca me fait bien rigoler. Du coup ben punaise, le premier qui me parle d’Eglise je le butte. Entre ces deux la je sature severe. Sans dec'.

Exceptional stuff

He waited until I was begging for it, then he waited a couple of days more. He treated me like a queen. I'm amazed. After half a decade of drunken first nights, I'm totally blown away.

Odd situation

He seems lonely. Sometimes he does not reply to a very direct text question (what time shall we meet on Thursday?) until a day later. I sense that he "saves" it to create more interaction. Me, I'm mystified. If more people knew this guy, he'd be so popular that I'd have to book an appointment.

I really really like this guy. Some part of me want to keep him to myself. "Ah, bad luck you morons, look what gem I found me!!!". The other part of me wants to kill the psychotic Annie Wilkes in me and thinks "Wow wow wow. This is no good. He needs a few strokes by a few more people, maybe some feminine attention." And he's not dysfunctional at all, not needy at all, not particularly shy, he's just really great. I don't get it.

Is this love?

When he's not around, I find myself trying to recreate what life would be if he was there. I like this guy so much that I'd like to spend as much time as possible surrounded by his aura, his world, the things he likes, the topics he talks about, his amazing smile, the fabulous love that radiates out of him. I wish that the nights without him were as shiny as the nights with him. I want more of this guy, please, please.

A beautiful quote

As an adolescent I aspired to lasting fame, I craved factual certainty, and I thirsted for a meaningful vision of human life - so I became a scientist. This is like becoming an archbishop so you can meet girls. M. Cartmill

Superbe post de Sophil

Ca se passe ici: http://sophie.typepad.com/sophildeleau/2007/06/la_chute.html

Excited

Each friend represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born. Anais Nin

Teenage kicks

I've been blogging somewhere else for a couple of weeks now, trying out a subject position that is not fully mine, to see if I had anything to say. I'd grown tired of leaving that aspect of my reflection to people I either positively dislike or idealise beyond reason. There wasn't much middle ground, and I wanted to find my voice.

It turns out that I had lots of things to say. It was (and it is) quite a trip: I'm loving the adolescent rawness that it brings up. I did not know that I could still navigate seventeen-year-old idealism which such seemless ease. It's like being in "Almost Famous" and encountering a new exiting scene, full of the type of people you only dreamed about until now.

I remember being seventeen, how I longed for a scene. How I never found it. I only found individuals and small groups who became the people I love. Just reading Livvy again this morning ties me back to the things I like about this blog (although I'm so drunk on the teenage kicks that I'm finding it hard to pinpoint exactly what it is). There is something I love about Goddess Carnet, and I don't want to loose that.



The Elton John Lyrics are a big part of the film, and a big part of the last three weeks, in an odd kind of way. How I love adolescence, I'll never tire of it!

Blue jean baby, L.A. lady, seamstress for the band
Pretty eyed, pirate smile, you'll marry a music man
Ballerina, you must have seen her dancing in the sand
And now she's in me, always with me, tiny dancer in my hand

Jesus freaks, out in the street
Handing tickets out for God
Turning back, she just laughs
The boulevard is not that bad

Piano man he makes his stand
In the auditorium
Looking on she sings the songs
The words she knows, the tune she hums

But oh how it feels so real
Lying here with no one near
Only you and you can't hear me
When I say softly, slowly

Hold me closer tiny dancer
Count the headlights on the highway
Lay me down in sheets of linen
you had a busy day today

Blue jean baby, L.A. lady, seamstress for the band
Pretty eyed, pirate smile, you'll marry a music man
Ballerina, you must have seen her dancing in the sand
And now she's in me, always with me, tiny dancer in my hand

What's in my cocktail?

I'm thinking of applying for a great job based both in Birmingham (university) and in Italy (fieldwork). It would be two years of researching the history and current evolution of the social movements who opposed Berlusconi. Now that's got a serious radical edge! And fieldwork in Rome? Yes please!

It ties in wonderfully with my current research as well. The only thing I'm worried about: will I like Birmingham? What kind of stuff will I fill my life with once there? At the moment my life is filled with a f*cking thesis, and that's about it. I don't really want to reiterate that mistake if I move away from Deville.

Bitten by the fanclub bug

I don't like it, I really don't like this at all, this has got to stop, but I'm swimming in teenage enthusiasm about the blog I talked about on my post about the "mainstream" last week. I've been bitten by the fanclub bug. I've even offered to send them some cash because I think they're doing great stuff and I would like to be part of it. I'm over-keen and find it hard to hold my horses.

On some level I'm ambivalent because they seem like a bunch of notorious Jesus-freaks, and I'm a French secularist who usually dislikes the mega-annoying CoE bigots that we've got around here. I even joined the aptly named CUNTS: Christian Union NO THANKS!

But I must say that I totally fall head over heels for sensitive folks who love people in an intelligent, reflexive, bountiful way. The only comfort I've got for my current fanclubitis is that the whole web seems to rave about it too. It's been voted theological blog of the month on the third month on which the contest was going, with all the big bookish profs agreeing that this was an excellent choice.

Still, must hold my horses. The French Abbe Pierre used to really dislike it when people worshiped his personality, he thought that it was a way in which people escaped their own responsibilities to be like him. I thought I was beyond this silly enthusiasm. I'm gonna link to one great post just one more time and then I quit. I can do it!

(remove the star): http://poserorpro*phet.livejournal.com/87963.html

Don't relate to rock?

Just had one conversation with a flatmate. There's a girl who fancies him, and he's not interested. He was asking two of us how he should convey this to her, even though it's been going on for months and she knows. I mean she even knows that he's got a new girlfriend. She won't stop texting him, wanting to draw him in.

If it was me, I would wish to be told in no uncertain terms that it's not going to happen. I think that the state Marina is in should not be perpetuated. I think unrequitted love borders on the pathological and that she should move on and learn not to not fall for men who don't love her. I think that someone who feels like Radiohead's "Creep" for a long period of time would benefit from counceling. I mean honestly, friends don't let friends feel like this. My flatmate thinks I'm beyond hope and that I will never have a rock sensibility. What do you think?

Through a clarinet

It's hard to describe the sheer physicality of a clarinet, your finite breath (and for all you know it could be your last as you pour it into the music), the feeling on you lower lip, the vibrating wood, the slight resistance of the metal, the tiny little sounds of the mechanics which only the player hears, the deep round soulful sound, the smell of its very old wood. The place where it comes from (Prague), the places where it's been since. The hesitant playing which somehow expresses the state of your soul better than words or silence could. I don't know many greater pleasures. And sometimes at night, when my neighbours are resting, I long for the morrow to play again, I long to pour my lungs' last drop of air into a clarinet.



Maria, I've just met a girl named Maria
and suddenly the name will never be the same to me
Maria! I've just kissed a girl named Maria
And suddenly I've found how wonderful a sound can be
Maria, say it loud and there's music playing
Say it soft and it's almost like praying
Maria, I never stop saying: "Maria!"



(Picture credit: East London Clarinet Choir)

Committed to the mainstream

People who think like me are radical hippies. They live in some christian communities in the downtown areas of big cities. Their community houses double as a drop ins for whoever needs them. I really don't know what their daily life feels like, something along the lines of the million dollar hotel maybe?

People who think like me are pretty full on: they studied some theology since undergrad, now they're doing a thesis on capitalim and christianity, they live and breathe their stuff. They advocate radical reforms. They married someone who thinks like them. They're also bordering on the burnout. It's fairly scary.

I know I couldn't stand their brainwashed vibe for more than a couple of days. I could not handle their dogooding and I would really hate their lack of concious ambivalence. Sugar and spice personalities creep me out, and I'd be watching Quills and The Beach every other night to recover my anger, my sadness, my fear and my humanity. I could not stand (what I imagine to be) a fairly sketchy house, vegan cooking and holier than thou attitude, though I may be badly prejudiced. I'm committed to the maintream. The mainstream is my community, and I believe in regular people.

But hell, their blog is good! There are some wondrous gems of fairly good thinking in it, and I can't help but wanting to compulsively pour over the archives and take notes. They're so beautiful. And somehow, consumed in that way, imported back to the maintream, translated back in nonconfessional lingo, it makes sense. I'll be a vegan radical hippy at Glastonbury and an understated humanist for the rest of the year.

(I'm not linking because I might be traced back, and I like the privacy of this blog. If you're interested look for p*ose*rorp*roph*et on google, without the stars. This guy's sensibility really rocks)

Brrrrrr: got given a cheap gift!

Kiara will know who I'm talking about, and I'm really peeved off: we went to a party one Saturday and I brought an orchid and mosel wine. When C came to lunch the following Monday she brought lidl chocolate and one 3-for-£2.25 box of exotic fruit drink. I know I should not care, and C -who lives far away- probably did not go shopping between Saturday night and Monday lunchtime, but this has really gotten me to think about the practice of making presents: it can be so warm and charming when it shows that we value each other, and almost hurting when they are so obviously cheap and thoughtless. It' s ridiculous, but at that time I longed for the company of one of my gay flatmates who dresses like prince Charles and is always unbeliveably "proper", so we spent the rest of the afternoon trading our Miss Manners credentials while drinking good tea. I probably need to adjust some attitude at some point too: unpretentiousness can be charming too.

For the record, in case I forget: presents are always top of their range, preferably something of a luxury that the person would not buy for themselves, and preferably a consumable unless you know their taste well. But I won't forget that, will I? I knew this when I was ten.

Weak tie

I’m not doing too well these days. I feel like a “weak tie”: people I introduce get on really well and leave me out of their stuff. People I’ve not yet introduced but who are desperate to have a reason to know each other are overjoyed if I provide the opportunity while they are somewhat less overjoyed if I just suggest coffee. Guys who know I had a crush on them invite me to their wedding because we’re such close friends. I debunk students in a minute by explaining the notion of Foucauldian discourse and providing the emotional labour to let them gain confidence in their own ability and they go away creating Facebook fan clubs for the unapproachable (male) profs. I’m so non-threatening it’s scary. I’m also socially generous and I share my contacts and information easily. But I’ve had enough of this ecological niche.

Jo March

Jo March lives on my floor. She was educated by principled (catholic philosophical vegetarian) parents in a remote part of the country. She is amazingly well read, well behaved and plays several intruments. She speaks greek and latin and has read all the church fathers plus most of the philosophical classics. She has the most inspiring conversation, the broadest smile and the best cooking.

We've just spent the evening playing wind intruments (with me on the clarinet and "Jo" on the bason), talking about politics with a visiting professor of theology from Duke who also happens to live in college and rehearsing Becca's wedding song. There was five or six of us. It was such a great evening. I'm realising that I need more of this to fill my heart's home. I've secretly always longed for the March's attic brand of fun. This is as close as it gets.

For the record

You have never pushed me to greater things, you have never mentioned my name to anyone you know or spoken about my research, you have never asked if I wanted to come to dinner with a visiting speaker, you have never taken me along to a conference, you have not even replied to e-mails in which I suggested things you might be interested in, you have never introduced me to anyone, you have looked worried when I was engaged in conversation with some scholars, you have spent days without acknowledging my presences at the London conference or without smiling back at me when I looked at you, you have never even given me the impression that I could amount to something in academia, you have never put me forward for anything like the stuff Marie is doing, like helping to edit a book, or write a report for government. You have never invited me round to yours like you have with other postgrads. You have felt comfortable talking total bullsh*t in front of me, thinking that I wouldn’t notice that you did not know what you were talking about, because I was so ignorant, and assuming I hadn’t read the books (which unlike you, I had).

In short, you don’t value me and you don’t respect me. I can’t help but think about Bourdieu, who thought that school did not iron out initial differences, it served a device for legitimating them. All this sh*t is insidiously undermining my confidence. Because I’m not the teacher’s pet I think there is something wrong with me or my ability. You never took me under your wing like you did with quite a few other students whom you idealize because they write about stuff that you don’t understand. I guess that my only option is to make clear that I don’t respect you either.

l'eau minerale gazeuse

Cheres lectrices,

Savez vous quelle est votre eau minerale gazeuse preferee? Peut etre pas et c'est un tort. Parce que le bon usage de la consommation exige que vous ayez des gouts precis et que vous evaluiyez la marchandise. Sauf qu'il ne s'agit pas de marchandise justement, mais de savoir de quelle personne vous pourriez envie: de trouver les autres attirants.

Bref, tout ca pour dire (et je suis passablement emechee) que c'est facile pour n'importe quelle femme de seduire qui elle veut, pour peu qu'elle reste en contact avec ses desirs: plutot ci ou plutot ca, cette eau gazeuse ou celle la? L' ambiance de ce gars ou de celui la? Avec mes 1 m 50, zero make up et en jeans t-shirt, je les fais se battre pour moi. Une femme qui desire, c'est irresistible.

Feeling like July 1914

I've developped an obsession for pre-and post WWI politics. The period 1870-1936 is just fascinating... In my everyday, it's just a passing mood, and it's a couple of paragraphs of my thesis. As often, passing moods are associated with songs, or images. The song Jaures by Jacques Brel, and a small statue of St Joseph.

There were so many of St Josephs in Lille. They're pretty sweet mostly: the one small statue I got is so lovely that when I got it in an underadvertised flee market in some far away district of Lille, people were stopping me to buy it off me, or at least ask where I got it.

I got it because it's beautiful, because it's cool to have representations of men with their kids, and also because I know that it's a symbol of catholic propaganda to keep the workers off socialism. They even colonised the first of may with the feast of "St Joseph the worker".

Oui notre monsieur, oui notre bon maitre...

Ils étaient usés à quinze ans
Ils finissaient en débutant
Les douze mois s'appelaient décembre

Quelle vie ont eu nos grand-parents
Entre l'absinthe et les grand-messes
Ils étaient vieux avant que d'être
Quinze heures par jour le corps en laisse
Laissent au visage un teint de cendres
Oui notre Monsieur, oui notre bon Maître
Pourquoi ont-ils tué Jaurès ?
Pourquoi ont-ils tué Jaurès ?

On ne peut pas dire qu'ils furent esclaves
De là à dire qu'ils ont vécu
Lorsque l'on part aussi vaincu
C'est dur de sortir de l'enclave
Et pourtant l'espoir fleurissait
Dans les rêves qui montaient aux cieux
Des quelques ceux qui refusaient
De ramper jusqu'à la vieillesse
Oui notre bon Maître, oui notre Monsieur
Pourquoi ont-ils tué Jaurès ?
Pourquoi ont-ils tué Jaurès ?

Si par malheur ils survivaient
C'était pour partir à la guerre
C'était pour finir à la guerreA
ux ordres de quelque sabreur
Qui exigeait du bout des lèvres
Qu'ils aillent offrir au champ d'horreur
Leurs vingt ans qui n'avaient pu naître
Et ils mouraient à pleine peur
Tout miséreux oui notre bon Maître
Couverts de prèles oui notre Monsieur

Demandez-vous belle jeunesse
Le temps de l'ombre d'un souvenir
Le temps de souffle d'un soupir
Pourquoi ont-ils tué Jaurès ?
Pourquoi ont-ils tué Jaurès ?

Paroles: Jacques Brel

Au debut c'etait pas possible... vous n'aviez jamais vu quelqu'un d'aussi peu sociabilise: un vrai monstre de negativite et de critique amere, son surnom c'etait "Swamp Monster", c'est dire.

A son egard il ya avait trois camps: une grosse majorite de gens polis qui ne l'appreciaient pas du tout et se forcaient visiblement quand ils la croisaient, un ou deux qui lui rentraient dedans pour faire evoluer les choses, et quelques bonnes ames judeo-chretiennes qui passaient un max de temps a l'ecouter, tout en emagasinant pas mal de "ressentiment".

Je faisais partie du premier lot... pas tres glorieux mais bon. Deux ans plus tard, le premier lot est reste le meme. Les deux rentre-dedans sont partis, les judeo-chretiens (JC) sont burnt out et ne peuvent plus la voir.

Pour ma part, je trouve qu'il y a une vraie evolution. Quoi qu'on en dise, les JC on bien degrossi, et je trouve Abie tout a fait frequentable ces jours-ci. On peut passer a la vitesse superieure, lui trouver du charme, aimer passer du temps avec elle, la voir s'epanouir et rire. C'est sur elle est pas jolie, elle a des dents pourries, elle s'habille mal, elle ne sent pas toujours super bon, mais elle est tres intelligente et elle a plein de centres d'interet. Je chope au vol le premier tuc qui me plait, et paf, je me contente d'apprecier. Parfois je lui envoie une ou deux de mes goddess "vibes" (just-think-about-sex). Elle en revient pas.

Je me souviens d'une injonction film "dangerous beauty", un de mes films preferes: "don't be squeamish" et aussi de la scene pendant laquelle l'heroine Veronica n'est pas du tout degoutee par les pieds gangrenes d'un de ses pretendants. La scene est magnifiquement bien jouee: tu vois la peur passer dans les yeux du mec: "elle me trouvera moche, repugnant" et sa surprise muette quand ce n'est pas le cas. N'est pas courtisane qui veut...

Alors je flirte impunement. Je decouvre aux premieres loges son ame legere et ses sourires. C'est beau et c'est pour ma pomme. Comme je vis avec un moine, un cure et cinq ou six grenouilles de CoE, je trouve que l'honneur des mecreantes est a defendre... Parfois j'imagine une sorte de match, et, bordel, c'est pas demain la veille que je me ferais battre par un cureton au jeu de bien traiter son prochain.

Over the moon...

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bragging is good

Ca m’avait plus ou moins passé. Je m’accomodais d’un petit crush sans suite. Le truc de gamine, pas tres productif, pas vraiment destructif non plus. Le genre de crush dont je pense qu’il fondra comme la neige au soleil quand ma vie amoureuse sera plus interessante.

Et puis, Kat rentre du fieldtrip. Elle me raconte que BH n’a parle que de moi pendant toute la semaine. Que mon nom revenait tout le temps, et toujours associe a des louanges de tous poils. Je serais intelligente, sensible, drole…

Peut etre que Kat en rajoute un peu pour me faire plaisir. Peut etre qu’a certains moments Kat et BH n’avaient vraiment rien a se dire et n’avaient que moi en commun. Peut etre que BH communique via Kat pour me booster l’ego un peu. Mais ca me fait plaisir de savoir que je suis presente a son esprit, que je fais un peu partie de son paysage, que j’etais pas betement la, a l’apprecier unilateralement dans mon coin.