03-30-2006
The Call to order!
I have in the mouth today a ground taste which continues me, strange a goùt of a movable ground which I do not know, under the rain, in the bus when I run 2 meters and that a driver of the 80 with the kindness to always expect, in the content of the coffee which I drink with C and Mr. which speak to me about the whores, in the hairdresser I almost forgot that I was in me, I looked in the mirror the world with back, and to look at the reversed world when a small blonde pimpante cherishes you the head, it was almost regressive. Then I listen to Ampop, "My Desilusions", and I find that it was good to change head into forgetting that it was mine. I reddened when I asked to him whether I did not start to lose my hair, in top, where the men start to lose them when they lose them, but it reassured me while smiling, and this smile was full with sympathizing kindness. That made a long time that I had not reddened, even if, it true, I is often betrayed while passing on my lips my language, just a small end, to put at it saliva of which I believe that I miss it at this moment. I decided to boycott the JT of France 2 because Bétarice Shönberg specified Tuesday that this emission had been made with personnel not strikers (like it), because since they do not have of cease to prove that the CPE it is signal méga groove (as they did not have of cease to sell the Treaty on the European Constitution without feeling that their listeners were against). It is much of CPE, CNE, TCE, etc which one rejects since one moment, it is much of things that the media general practitioners support without feeling the mood of their lectorat/auditor. I do not say that the media nowadays are not any more in their good place for représenter/sentir/décrire French mobilities, I affirm it! To continue by saying that these draftings pullulate of Soixante-huitards a little exceeded and a little hypocrites with their past, I let the care of it to you. But with all my support. They will have a full retirement, with all their indemnities, since that at least they succeeded with () guaranteeing it, whereas can one wish them best than Bonne Retirement, and Places At the Young people!
03-29-2006
Behind the TV set... a dead in live!
They lent aa attaché de presse to me, and it is true, I said to the make-up girl MY press attaché blah, and a starlet the tele one arrived in the wall cupboard at make-up, and I asked the make-up girl but who it is? It said to me that it was a girl of Camera Coffee, do not have you the tele one? Not to have the tele one does not prevent me from looking at the posters in the subway. The rédac' chief of the emission came to reassure the starlet, do not worry you, baby, you master keys in second, then the press attaché of the emission came one made you pass in second, one did the utmost so that you can leave early. When I had my microphones, my orange make-up on the face, drunk my two goblets of champagne almost of sharpened, remakes the point with "my" press attaché, considering the presenter who came to tighten me the hand, considering the rédac' chief of the emission which came to greet me, then script came to seek me to place me on the plate, and I learned that I passed the first. Ca was equal for me, to pass the first or the last, I thought that to pass the first it Except Série PREF would put well ahead, which leaves today in kiosk. 
The presenter came followed by an army from caméramen armed each one with a bétacam to the fist, in black a T-shirt uniform marked France4 in the back, and the interview started, dynamic, without me to leave time to finish my sentences, blows on blows, a match of frantic boxing, wrongfully violent, a true gymnastics of the ésprit. To the least bad answer, I was going to take to me a gust sent by the bétacams disguised out of camera. Then the presenter moved away, one withdrew me the microphones.
It was done, I had not died on line. The interview on Except Series of PREF which is an absolutely splendid portefolio, a little PREF magazine available every two months in kiosk, a little my subject on the gays which do not want outer, on the purchasing power of the gays (generally accepted idea, my expensive). I discussed still a little with "my" press attaché, then I returned, emptied, rather happy of me to be well drawn from it, to have been able balanced what I wanted to do to pass. In the subway I did not pay attention to have on the face this paste orange déguelasse which was cracked and which I had the greatest evil to make disappear. Nobody paid attention to that. Click here, baby: PREF_HS.gif
03-28-2006
Released!
Radio FG had already released us, would miss more than G-Live on Ciel FM releases us, sign the petition, not but...http://www.petitiononline.com/g_live/petition.html
http://www.cielfm.be/glive/presentation.htm
03-27-2006
I would not become insane.
I was bored you, you I would say to him missed me so much, these days mow, the sun even on my skin did not have the softness of the wind of aoùt which it should have had. I lie. I would say anything to him, neither that I missed it, nor that I was bored of him, of his laughter to the childish glares, his odor sweetened, his always hard cock for me, always to await me, with my claiming, to want my bottom, still, and still, and always, without never wearying itself, the evening, the morning, the day, during a nap that me I pass to look at the hour turning, so timorous to deaden me and to awake me before the evening only I maintenances in life by blinking head over each second, at the moment of wrist that I sometimes listen to in the night to deaden me, while I éspère that him will fall asleep, I would become the guaranteeing one of his sleep. I would not say to him that the other men had the air insipid, without goùt, interest, I would not say to him that I counted the weeks, then the days, then the hours, then the minutes, then that I believed to become insane there when I would suspect it of being, with a few meters of at home, in its at his place,
when I would suspect finally his telephone of not more sounding in the vacuum. The love alone gives me this capacity with becoming insane. This madness which does not guide me with him, which could guide me without him. This madness where the other carries the phantasm of its frustrations, of its neuroses. Not that between us, I signed myself a moral contract, this time it is important, I rejoue more with the Human Voice (of Cocteau) with them. One day it was necessary to take the things in hand, to understand that it was not in my loves that I will be the best actor of the theatre of my neuroses. I save that to them, now, even if I am not still able to demolish me of a too marked taste for sentimentalism. I read a whole collection of books to the water of pink being teenager, I would ever have had, I remain marked with life by the princes on horses with the soft hair, the princesses who feel to be inserted in them one saw hot flesh, the maidservants which type their maitres, and the old fat bags who type the stable boys. Even Cocteau in its White Paper acknowledged to have fantasmé on the stable boys. I would not become insane. I would say hold hello, as if I had left it the day before, I would say they are cool that you would be there. I would say I wanted of you since a small moment, finally you are there. Not, I censure. I cannot say that. I would say rather you come with the sun. And I would find this small end of me (between the heart and the coasts) which was torn off to me, I would be finally again with people when they speak to me and not unceasingly to ask me where is this small end of me, is it happy, pays it attention to the sun as I had advised it to him, pays it attention not to drink putrid water of the fine bottom of Amazonia. It is far Amazonia. I would not become insane.
03-26-2006
Tears of lesbians.
She cracked, she said that she had broke down, that she had cried, like that, at the end of a dinner with her friends, that she could not stop any more, that she felt well on its size, its thigh, its hand of the sympathizing hands, of the comforting words, me that makes me think of this scene of Franny and Zooey, of J.D. Salinger, when Zooey takes refuge in the toilets, puts herelf sitted on the basin and makes an attack of nerves. She is very female, I found, to crack. It is pretty way to remember that it is a woman, true, with what it can to have of force to be always with height, always to reflect, to beat good than man, because unceasingly it should be proven that without testicles one can nevertheless think, one can nevertheless hold a bétacam of 30kg, one can nevertheless have a vision of the world around, love. One is accustomed too quickly so that people want to show well us, that they are strong, that they are courageous, that they assume. One is accustomed to these that coarse words flower between its two small pink lips, ever made up, but slightly hemmed by two small bearings gorged with blood, one is accustomed so that it passes to tele, to the radio, in the newspapers, that it is the woman who could obtain the price of Flora before these 30 years. One is accustomed so that it attends bars of guys, that it drinks beer, that it jète its cigarette ends in the street. That it makes a large school, that it holds with an iron hand its box of prod with his wife, that it writes a novel. One is accustomed, and one forgets that it is a woman, with this brittleness and this force to be able to spit of his belly a man. With this sensitivity which wets the eyes of the boys when his resist them. A little. One is accustomed to see people whom one loves such as they show oneself, one knows that at the bottom they can be different, and it is sufficient to like them deeply. It is a woman, true. I forget sometimes that it is a woman.
03-25-2006
little princess
M(mmm)awine wrote pretty a post which touched me http://jaiplusdesouvenirs.blogspot.com/, and on a pavement of Pigalle I left Diego http://letranger.canalblog.com/, I let leave with the U.S.A. a small end of me, I had hardly taken a step that already I remembered the things that I had forgotten of him to say, take guard with you, am not the men in the street which propose you candies, does not forget us. Diego it said that it did not want to return any more, that that had been too hard to come here to finish its fairy tale 8 months, that was too difficult to yield its prince charming to a bitch suburbs. The fairy tales, whore, that does not exist, the charming princes, all that, it is too equivocal to be true. Did one wonder only one second if one were princes naîfs with the height before believing that one will have the incredible chance to be that which will have his perfect half without the least effort? The stories of love of adult, that, that exists, the small man with almond eyes to crunch which are barred three weeks to be made in full winter a dive in the Indienne culture, until one waits without the slightest doubt, because when one is adult, one is not any more afraid. More same fears. It is known that one existed with him, one knows that one will exist after him. It is sure it is less romantic. Of course, one wants always super that after us, nobody any more is loved as much him, but when one is adult, one knows that one is mistaken by thinking that. But I swear that like that, the fairy tale becomes more real than it never was it, of time when one needed that all is perfect, of time when in any case that would never have been it. Take guard with you, Diego, and even if you often aggravate me with your manners of little princess, I love you my small sister.
03-24-2006
The time of September and the vague(lette)s.
It be a time of September, a time to remain with bed in listen to Suzanne Vega sing No smile one this face, today... (Public goes Private), the sky be gray and heavy, it there be little of wind, it be a time to carry a imper super length and a Stretson, some shoe of leather black, a time to have 40 year and speak with woman with a accent American puritan and virile of Fifty 50. It be a time to listen to Tiersen in a coffee of a district of passage, the 17è perhaps, and look at the people behind a newspaper unfold, them look at just. A time to remain with the bed, but I ever had courage to do that, to remain with the bed all the day with side of provisons, an orange, three chocolate cakes, a bar of Mars and an old package of chips to onion, other cigarettes, matches and ashtray, opposite computer and a bottle Contrex. It be a time to go in a office work under a light blafarde, skirt some partition in PVC decorate of poster exceed, and make the mouth with coffee machine à café in look in the street the rain fall, with the tear inside the eye, just below. A time to be made engueler by an idiotic head. It be a time to himself bar, Barbara sing I you telephone, close of subway Rome, Paris under the rain me weary and me ennuit, the Seine be more gray than the Thames, this sky of fog me fout the cockroach, because it rain always on the Luxembourg, it there have some other garden to speak of love, there have the Tower of Pisa, but I prefer Venice, come, make your luggage, one leave on journey... It would be so good to hear that, and to do it, make its luggage and to be barred in the train as far as Italy. And why not only, to take a sweater over, two jeans and a pair of tennis shoes and to bar themselves far from the cities. In Oostende, at the end of the Earth, where it is the sea which stops the steps, a cavalry of déchainées waves which howls, the sand which invades the streets at the winter, in the roasting plant of tea of the old insane artist who speaks with an English so Queen English and who speaks about Oostende as if it were still a seaside resort à.la.mode, as at the century spent, as if one still awaited the Victoria Queen who came to soak her feet into soft of Brighton when it had some to be so enough strict. One buried it with hung with his toe a bell which it could have made sound if it had not died, finally, although one made him the test of the bottle: for décreter brain death the doctor placait a bottle on the belly and checked that there are no more respiratory vibrations. The life was due only to one suspect wavelet in a bottle out of glass, so much worse for people in the coma who perhaps awoke too late. I like this old hotel with the long gray corridors with small lights which emit a continuous sound, grésillement which makes the atmosphere almost alarming. Me I am in the coma today. Bury me alive, please As Arno sings it, neither gray, nor green, as to Ostend, and everywhere, when on the city falls the rain, and that one wonders whether it is useful, and then especially if that is worth the blow, food its life...
03-23-2006
The flowers also push in the refuse tips.
There was a handicapped guy, bellow of the steps, on its armchair. He waited. And Diego and me one was held upright, counters the wall, opposite, one looked at the steps, people who déscendaient some, one waited. A miracle. A beautiful super guy to think that it had been worth the sorrow to spend 7,50 euros. He also awaited a miracle, somebody who comes to propose his assistance to him. Me I felt in his waiting that it needed that. I remember always to hesitate before proposing my assistance with needy, I remember that once I helped a blind man to cross, that I had told Patrick to agree to repeat it afterwards the air of nothing in the conversation a few hours, when the in love one with the moment would be there. I remember that I always check that me not am not stolen, while I help somebody, but imagine you that false blind men can make you the pockets when you help them to cross. It is an impure thought, I will go in hell, blablablabla. Then finally with Diego one looked at oneself, of all obviousnesses, one had both understood that this handicapped person in bottom of the steps of the undergrounds of the Deposit needed somebody. Then it was asked him how one could help it. And waiting which one put to propose to him our assistance, the hesitation in our voices and our capacity with knowing to help it were undoubtedly as many marks of the lack of spontaneousness of our step. An additional test for a type which did not need that moreover. It did not look at us, and its scorn was justified. I addressed as vous it spontaneously, I said myself initially that it was well, then finally that it was a barrier moreover than I imposed to him whereas I would have addressed as tu no matter whom of other. Then I stopped thinking of it. Diego said that one would go to the paradise, me I said that the hell suited me very well, then I thought that that would not change this life. This life which I had forgotten. I had forgotten all that, I had forgotten the long corridors black and sad, I had forgotten the mines defeats, the dirty cabins, I had forgotten that the men when they look at the rough truth are ugly, I had forgotten that the market of the bottom when there is not even money concerned was without alibi, magic, false belief, dream, without goùt, without salt, without life, shit. I had forgotten because I had not felt the need any more to return here, since time, because meanwhile I had built a pretty balance, with nights of sleep, days full of sun, friends, pleasant emails, small victories, pretty fights. His/her friend has Diego left the morning-even, and me I had this weak gay reflex to believe that to be caught a cock in the bottom would make him forget a 8 months history as pretty as a modern fairy tale. Except that the life it is not a fairy tale. It is just modern. And still. Y has that Madonna nowadays to speak about pinks and nice fifilles... Madonna the singer supra celebrates who sang express train yourself, don' T repress yourself, ouioui and which makes the cover of It the USA of this month with pink clothes like the trouble. I remembered that front, I came to be sure to be able to endure that, to make of it a successful test, my great capacity to assume my side bitch. Of course, that returned to me sad. But it was needed, I were émancipé PD which assumed. The dirty cocks, the cocks already sucked by others, the risks of AIDS, all that, I assumed , kiss in an odor bad poppers of the guys between-outlines in a half-light which arranges everyone. Y has things not beautiful to see by here, as much to make pretence be blind and to require of the assistance, and to cling to the first cock to cross the test. Thank you to help the blind men, one you will not steal, load of cretins nevertheless. After it is easy to cry, ouin-ouin, the flowers also push in the refuse tips, sisisi, the flowers of the desire, the flowers of the evil. I regretted, I said this life is not mine, I rectified, this life is not more mine. To be here with Diego it is like being carrying the message that the love, the fairy tales 8 months, all that, that was not worth more than one cock puante in a cabin puante. But they is false, they are false, they are false. Let me believe that it is other thing, help me to believe that to be in it this evening it was an error of course, a trap, that I am entitled still to my happy life, even if there is not in this life more fôrets cocks, more scents of cheap poppers, more dull and sad nights as the walls on which I would have finished by me scraping the body in penitence, by hiding my star of David under my black sweater. Nail me on the cross of St Andre, and let me burst, it is for all these small PD lost that I would burst. I would be love. And during 2 000 years you will regret me. As I said to Mawine, poetry explodes you with the mouth when you come to seek love in a refuse tip.
03-22-2006
t.u.n.n.e.l.
If I did not took poppers, I would be obliged of taking of coke. At best. Pep, in the worst case, crack, Omo detergent. Besides I wonder what prevents me from becoming barebaker, to puff out sperm, of being drunk all the time, drinking more than of reason, fucking all the guys whom I would find. When people die, I always say myself it is sad, they prevented all their life from making tricks in prévison of a long life, and finally they died. Then I think that me I should not leave myself with my death this feeling that I did not benefit from it, I do not want to want me per hour of my death, at the time of the last minute, when people who died and rescussities say that one sees the life ravelling in a tunnel, to say to me that I die nevertheless whereas I avoided catching the AIDS, of sniffer of white to hold, to drink the bottles by the neck, to take so much cocks in the bottom to me that at the end I do not have badly any more. Any more. Because I have badly when I tighten the buttocks, that I think that I will be caught a cock, when I evaluated the cock by sucking it, that I suspect it of being too large, too hard. Moreover, when that returns, that always surprises me. I say myself always finally it was not an exceptional convoy which I was caught in the tunnel. I read Annie Ernaux, because Diego reads all these books, because it me spun one from there, because one was in Dépot, that that puait bad poppers (the kind that I do not even snifferais to laugh), sweat, lack of ventilation. I said myself since I did not any more come here, anything changed. The place with Juste took 6 months. People also, but them they was 10 years that they had been caught in the mouth; I asked Diego ugly people do not pay, here? But in fact, I believe that it is especially their desire which I found ugly, their lamentable lack of sex, their Pavlovienne research of sex. Oh not, not like a middle-class man who says himself that to do that, it east déguelasse, with an unknown moreover, large God. At all. Just that I said myself that to want this sex, or rather not to more have that the choice of this sex, it was sad as the black walls on which the men rest to look at passing the other men. I want to say that on Internet, one can forget that it is crade to want a cock at all costs, there are pretty colors, pretty photographs, everyone made pretence seek another thing, one can even make pretence discuss another thing. But here, in Dépot, it is rough, and in the mirrors which run sometimes along the wall, one can surprise oneself to see the reflection of a sad guy which seeks sex, which corrodes its brake not to find one of them immediately, or to wipe refusal: its own reflection. Then one passes in the backrooms, it is a tunnel for humdrum routine, shouk-shouk, the ones behind the others in the black one advances, one moves back, one loses oneself, one touches pieces of scattered cocks, hair on this level, pieces of flask buttocks, and that opera hat, and that sighs, and that breathes extremely, quickly the exit... Of agreement, Diego needed to change the ideas, but there I have badly with cranium, baby. It is not my place, here. It is more my place. Into little time, my life changed, gently, at the moment when I did not résolutionnais it more than one morning with the other, where I did not prohibit anything any more, I chose other transgressions, other plays to have fear, other pleasures to counterbalance frights. And then in Deep had there straightforwardly more world and it was less expensive.
03-21-2006
http://nous-tous.com/
If you want to know what happens to him yesterday night, juste have a look on http://nous-tous.com/
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