tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-81291479414829651572024-03-04T21:45:43.271-08:00The Young and HappyMargiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04540391142241091907noreply@blogger.comBlogger16125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8129147941482965157.post-64257594252149675932008-10-22T05:59:00.000-07:002008-10-22T06:13:15.863-07:00As Long as We Are Young<div style="text-align: center;">In an effort to console me over the super 8 footage of our friends that I lost in Bucharest, a friend told me, "<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">But we'll have our memories as long as we are young</span>. So don't be sad and keep on filming." I suppose we will, Dom. Oh, let's never grow old--how sad of a thing life would be to forget. </div>Margiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04540391142241091907noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8129147941482965157.post-82827651988645371822008-10-07T19:52:00.001-07:002008-12-08T13:45:25.091-08:00"C'était Quand-Même Une Belle Epoque"<div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvLon4CQSMqqzpvo79all4rjCWP0JXpaX0wDG0ycFQ3t9PhYKjUjUq86psjuO00J18mKwrH-Bl_4PSg4xlMC2OfRc6so1SYH11Ga6D0hG2DmbTEYaA_KXmllKEZEGTQVTaxq0BByaN370/s1600-h/n55302408_31513704_3155.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvLon4CQSMqqzpvo79all4rjCWP0JXpaX0wDG0ycFQ3t9PhYKjUjUq86psjuO00J18mKwrH-Bl_4PSg4xlMC2OfRc6so1SYH11Ga6D0hG2DmbTEYaA_KXmllKEZEGTQVTaxq0BByaN370/s400/n55302408_31513704_3155.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254642922768778370" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">As Rod says:</div><div style="text-align: center;">"We had joy,</div><div style="text-align: center;">We had wine,</div><div style="text-align: center;">We had seasons on the Rhine."</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">xo</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Margiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04540391142241091907noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8129147941482965157.post-40507704802387455602008-08-23T13:14:00.000-07:002008-08-23T13:17:53.714-07:00Do You Remember...<div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzuS2FaDztfw_4_WzoV07ky_TZF8m6fyE2FmePF_hMTzfzXi29ipeBerL1L288pF8kI3IFJy7OwJU3LiZDRaXaKRV_dk5Qs1wDQ8oxY9Avx34X6cVwhBkSwo-T-G3gwy-pmsH-NQQZuFE/s1600-h/movie%2520stub.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzuS2FaDztfw_4_WzoV07ky_TZF8m6fyE2FmePF_hMTzfzXi29ipeBerL1L288pF8kI3IFJy7OwJU3LiZDRaXaKRV_dk5Qs1wDQ8oxY9Avx34X6cVwhBkSwo-T-G3gwy-pmsH-NQQZuFE/s200/movie%2520stub.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5237809611561354578" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">These times?</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Margiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04540391142241091907noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8129147941482965157.post-71170584632580067792008-07-12T14:34:00.001-07:002008-07-19T20:17:37.828-07:00Be Always Welcome Here<div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9hqXCsiZh9WQ8OsrJ0NXiM-3WGTYEp8hhxKvU_SQk-ye5pqCByPVqnPB9Qomfc3dgClhWcVbT9LzM1YB7YK_tUj169kY6Pu751yZzK4FtIyyPz5ZHi8Eq0hkWlWo1ANv9bwUTKLrRAwg/s1600-h/be+always+welcome+here.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5222244504110100338" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9hqXCsiZh9WQ8OsrJ0NXiM-3WGTYEp8hhxKvU_SQk-ye5pqCByPVqnPB9Qomfc3dgClhWcVbT9LzM1YB7YK_tUj169kY6Pu751yZzK4FtIyyPz5ZHi8Eq0hkWlWo1ANv9bwUTKLrRAwg/s400/be+always+welcome+here.jpg" border="0" /></a> </div><br /><div><br /><br /><div></div></div>The world can be a loving place.<div>xo</div>Margiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04540391142241091907noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8129147941482965157.post-62025875539410583712008-07-07T08:44:00.000-07:002008-07-07T08:56:31.558-07:00Here Hear<div>"Q. - <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">What would be the test of corruption?</span></div><div>A. - <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Becoming really insincere--calling myself "not such a bad fellow," thinking I regretted my lost youth when I only envy the delights of losing it. Youth is like having a big plate of candy. Sentimentalists think they want to be in the pure, simple state they were in before they ate the candy. They don't. They just want the fun of eating it all over again. The matron doesn't want to repeat her girlhood--she wants to repeat her honeymoon. I don't want to repeat my innocence, I want the pleasure of losing it again."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">--This Side of Paradise</span>, F. Scott Fitzgerald</div>Margiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04540391142241091907noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8129147941482965157.post-29744852211036131272008-06-09T07:06:00.000-07:002012-11-18T06:51:06.927-08:00Gérone<div style="text-align: left;">
Here is a little sign that was on my friend's apartment wall in Girona, Spain:</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">La vida es bonita </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">No la olvide </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Serás felíz.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
---------------------------------</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Life is beautiful</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Do not forget it</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">You will be happy.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"> </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"> </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Life is good in Girona. Here's proof:</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5209885649780023378" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiosvzCuruaOSSeF3wjN97p4zQruBvdcTxIU1qIBdidejYhQVpy3FbBqjU6w33V0j83E3aLpd-vcHPelR2Wvy_JTL1S_q1g2twhO5RVAdHHIw1pFcF_wg0HOjqzqY5Q-ssaO4_L7z_iJdA/s400/P1013093.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
xo</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"> </span></div>
Margiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04540391142241091907noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8129147941482965157.post-2398115175787528442008-05-16T14:40:00.001-07:002008-06-07T11:04:10.050-07:00That time we rode our bikes down the Rhine and climbed a mountain in the Vosges.<img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzJ_FK4zZG819Shzs0MbfaUzObwGROK8-uMIr-QVodAERg8S9zUKTVT4nPV0Pf178Nn0J4Yv7trBslR8GIPc8V8sFSnFymagj6vAOjDXCBsrDz3gGIX4EtaU2-anKXRrUb1JQXc4hP4Ew/s400/P1013766.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5209137819228090130" /><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeqLdwv_IdrHohHhVA8Dgq2ZSUpPMM2MZzESpVV0fAPTgmJitTvqLjeaMT9qlXiIS1Zac-yen_NUCNSWLYxY1EW9xUHQyqNNNK8D-pO_KTzcem9qDzUtnjmZqqShuusi8aTvS1wglfTsw/s400/P1013793.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5209168689232865138" /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh881dM1ulS3lVC4912EW-e8kGBuChjiiOZ1jRLjyeZHwNUgbR_wYNGfJr8OM5wHdr7nviNK4XZKIiRQfdRO-c3_lFA9mrauOpdU9I9SVv49R0dWEgvZtyiV3K5USe9-3XSZcK2anA-CYA/s400/P1013800.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5209200036236809906" /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div> </div><div> </div><br /><div><br /><div style="text-align: center;">And it was pretty.<br /></div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div></div>Margiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04540391142241091907noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8129147941482965157.post-48421608808884757792008-04-25T02:48:00.000-07:002008-04-25T06:15:34.893-07:00We don't get older, we just get riper<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Georgia"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Here is a lovely little memory that Janet Flanner, former Paris correspondant for </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The New Yorker</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">, writes in the introduction to a collection of her segments from the 1920s and '30s. She tells of one day when she met Picasso after seeing him in the same café nearly every night years before but never having the courage to speak to him. </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Georgia; min-height: 19.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Georgia"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"As I walked into the salon, which was as crowded with varied art works as an auction room, Picasso turned to me with his hand outstretched in greeting, and then, with a loud cry of astonishment, shouted, 'You! Why didn't you ever speak to me in the old days at the Flore? For years we saw each other and never spoke, until now. Are you just the same as you were? you look it!' By this time he had his arms around me and was thumping me enthusiastically on the shoulders. 'You look fine; not a day older,' and I said, "Nor do you,' and he said, "That's true; that's the way you and I are. We don't get older, we just get riper. Do you still love life the way you used to, and love people the way you did? I watched you and always wanted to know what you were thinking ... Tell me, do you still love the human race, especially your best friends? Do you still love love?' 'I do,' I said, astonished at the turn the monologue was taking. 'And so do I!' he shouted, laughing. 'Oh, we're great ones for that, you and I. Isn't love the greatest refreshment in life?' And he embraced me with his strong arms, in farewell."</span></i></p>Margiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04540391142241091907noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8129147941482965157.post-14386827545395097332008-04-18T09:38:00.000-07:002008-04-18T09:51:20.516-07:00A Friendly Hello from the European Union<div style="text-align: center;">The sun is shining in Alsace <br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">and</div><div style="text-align: center;">"Vous êtes jolies, toutes les deux."</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">(as said to Rodica and me by the slightly batty old French man who meanders along the Quai des Pêcheurs while smiling and nodding from under his European Union baseball cap.)</div>Margiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04540391142241091907noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8129147941482965157.post-78502824022111523862008-04-17T03:26:00.000-07:002008-04-17T10:36:34.092-07:00Instants Anonymes<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg03A6SvjQUmvhoySH7EPQ9RCDBEnNoucRyr8FI0P59IV9RXI74hrvt99o7Iv9ZukyowXRQbA91zlXmdOTtJ-zd3fFIJuwZxL2wcRMGKd_4W6lI5QmFoIw3i8JCrL7fBMmLOUgskbf03wY/s1600-h/instants.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg03A6SvjQUmvhoySH7EPQ9RCDBEnNoucRyr8FI0P59IV9RXI74hrvt99o7Iv9ZukyowXRQbA91zlXmdOTtJ-zd3fFIJuwZxL2wcRMGKd_4W6lI5QmFoIw3i8JCrL7fBMmLOUgskbf03wY/s400/instants.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190252866034570322" /></a><br /><div>This exhibition, currently showing at the Musée d'art moderne et contemporain de Strasbourg (assembled by Patrick Bailly-Maître-Grand), compiles a collection of over a century's worth of family snapshots, nearly 800 in total. These forgotten moments, pulled out of boxes and photo albums, dusted off and hung on the wall probably for the first time, evoke the simplistic charm of everyday life and all of its <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">petits bonheurs </span>which pass so easily to the back of our minds. Although set in a time long past and taken by amateurs wishing for nothing more than the preservation of a moment, these <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">instants anonymes </span>constitute one of the most quietly beautiful art exhibitions I have ever seen.</div>Margiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04540391142241091907noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8129147941482965157.post-56231668687276659462008-04-16T09:47:00.000-07:002008-04-17T02:02:03.530-07:00Jools and Jim<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcz_n7KipEkenPR9jmAjxJbK6kP4E8Z0SFjoA23eOpQLHddMayfHBPCyCSa9lgltU8-9GvgkucuiwBUUL3vvYFrh0MmnWg87rYNd4U3rJtpy6PndQPDVf3tfaAh4HFO0n6RVvlaLYaqpc/s1600-h/JulesetJim.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcz_n7KipEkenPR9jmAjxJbK6kP4E8Z0SFjoA23eOpQLHddMayfHBPCyCSa9lgltU8-9GvgkucuiwBUUL3vvYFrh0MmnWg87rYNd4U3rJtpy6PndQPDVf3tfaAh4HFO0n6RVvlaLYaqpc/s400/JulesetJim.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190136867557839938" /></a><br />"Voyagez, écrivez, traduisez. Apprenez à vivre partout; commencez tout de suite. L'avenir est aux curieux de profession."<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Travel, write, translate. Learn to live anywhere; start right away. The future belongs to those who are curious by profession.<br /><br />--</span>Jules et Jim <div>(François Truffaut, 1962)--<br /></div>Margiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04540391142241091907noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8129147941482965157.post-72678139622162471142008-03-16T09:35:00.000-07:002008-08-08T05:00:32.290-07:00A Series of Minor Kidnappings<div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwf_s3KOS_wXR2SSFhkZgnT_YvhAHodJ4K1q2_peLJdzFmZl7KKY2dL_8BP25usaNHT5EyQTWLM7PMFayUOWXzvjVAMBiseO_VwWXy6g_IGPtvG99NfWWPy-y0FD7mmnxVrIOi9LYHEyc/s1600-h/skinny+desert+.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwf_s3KOS_wXR2SSFhkZgnT_YvhAHodJ4K1q2_peLJdzFmZl7KKY2dL_8BP25usaNHT5EyQTWLM7PMFayUOWXzvjVAMBiseO_VwWXy6g_IGPtvG99NfWWPy-y0FD7mmnxVrIOi9LYHEyc/s400/skinny+desert+.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5215088128791214962" /></a><div><br /></div><div>It has been almost two months since we embarked on a little trip to Morocco to visit a dear old friend, yet I still don't quite believe many of the things that happened actually occurred in <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">real </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="">life. It's too much to recount all of the incredible details of the (sometimes harrowing, though always memorable) adventures we experienced, so I will be concise.</span></div><div><div> </div><div> </div></div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div> </div><div>I walked the streets of a city that was built in 800 AD (which I can't imagine looking very different, even 1200 years ago). I ate kefta burgers at night on a roof that overlooked the Medina and drank coffee in a café with a bright orange sign. I shared the back seat of a taxi with three of my friends for the 9 hour drive through the Atlas mountains until we reached the Sahara, where Mama Africa and the black desert sky provided us with a blood-red lunar eclipse as a welcoming gift. I rode a friendly camel away from our casbah and slept in the tents of nomadic Berber people who fed us tagine and gave us good water to drink. I felt the stillness and peace of the Sahara at night and ran along her gracefully sloping dunes (which, incidentally, felt like marshmallows beneath my feet). I left feeling new. (And also, quite queasy thanks to my faint-hearted American digestive system's unfavorable interactions with Moroccan sanitation policies.)</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1A7wOv9hJaXhVBzK6dRtvEH314b8e2_52nIcVwhLQMvX2uY-daJbfUfccjym9w3O13TSk-Ufkxf_AWGj3N6bKxWgKMKeZzwd2WQLWhFOQV1gLJ5ylSKSnIbw7jyMdDgfLK9Rp99WTgIw/s400/P1012468.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5213844238832271298" /></div><div>xo</div><div> </div>Margiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04540391142241091907noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8129147941482965157.post-18078993088843520382008-02-28T11:30:00.000-08:002008-02-28T12:18:20.623-08:00A little bit of AnnieSince I am sick today (thank you, Africa), and since I'm wearing a black turtleneck, I think I will set aside tales of Moroccan exploits for another time and instead share with you a little poem in honor mon cher ami in Towson who lays away money for a Hermes 3000 manual typewriter. This one is somewhat atypical of this particular poet but I love it nonetheless because it reminds me of my home and all the dear friends whom I think of so fondly. <div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">I Remember </span>by Anne Sexton</div><div><br /></div><div>By the first of August</div><div>the invisible beetles began</div><div>to snore and the grass was</div><div>as tough as hemp and was</div><div>no color--no more than </div><div>the sand was a color and</div><div>we had worn our bare feet </div><div>bare since the twentieth</div><div>of June and there were times</div><div>we forgot to wind up your</div><div>alarm clock and some nights</div><div>we took our gin warm and neat</div><div>from old jelly glasses while</div><div>the sun blew out of sight</div><div>like a red picture hat and</div><div>one day I tied my hair back </div><div>with a ribbon and you said</div><div>that I looked almost like</div><div>a puritan lady and what</div><div>I remember best is that</div><div>the door to your room was </div><div>the door to mine.</div>Margiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04540391142241091907noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8129147941482965157.post-74730395530766002562008-02-06T15:56:00.000-08:002008-02-07T17:59:13.333-08:00Black History Month<div>Yes, it exists in France. I think. Actually I'm not even really sure. But I do know that last night a few of my friends and I attended an American-soul/operatic celebration of Black History Month in a small Alsatian town, approximately 45 minutes outside of Strasbourg. Bribed by the American Embassy with free transportation and hints at hors d'œuvres (read: champagne), we thought, "pourquoi pas?" In true American fashion we arrived at the cultural center of Fülfenhagenahëanwhöanen (this is not the actual name of the town) in a charter bus big enough for 60 people (there were 10 of us) which was longer than 5 French cars and probably created more carbon emissions in one night than a French person does in a whole year. We didn't hate it. After all, what better way to rep' the Land Of The Free And The Home Of The Brave than to roll up in a needlessly large vehicle that takes up the whole street? </div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div> </div><div>The evening's performance was given by Mr. Kevin Maynor, and featured the ivory-ticklin' piano skillz of the blush-sporting Mr. James Olsen. Mr. Maynor delivered song after song, inspirational quote after inspirational quote, video clip after video clip, long into the night--even after the management had subtly hinted at an imminent end to the art by turning on the auditorium lights. As I watched Kevin wave his arms and point fingers at the crowd as he shouted his passionate speeches (in English), I was reminded of videos I've watched of dictators giving similar discourses at rallies in languages I can't understand and realized how scary this must be for the audience of francophones. At this point I quietly laughed, causing the old French man to my right to turn to me and wink. (This never happens in France!) Proof! once and for all that Black History Month really does bring people together, albeit in sometimes unconventional ways. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcklvQFTVUz_YjB4YFL9F_xzvdqx9zxLl2ELms4XdTclcMsxyFT1zwzPHg-AaM_ZjUvAzdeemqxA-gUlxEfqb6LFpgGUS_042LCdBcwzsGXnqtvA9wOAuYHFJqMyJy1_fMZCS9i7FFp9A/s400/old+black+tuxedo.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5164261326453241122" /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Kevin Maynor, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Pure Bass</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; ">Don't worry</span>, I'm not going to include "Black History Month" by Death from Above in this post.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">xo,</div><div style="text-align: left;">m</div><div> </div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div> </div><div> </div>Margiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04540391142241091907noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8129147941482965157.post-40546566680307758622008-02-04T08:18:00.001-08:002008-02-04T08:22:42.939-08:00I live in France<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyfGQ5ei-RLsXhWeO7QRWS78mSamoDJ9MxPlM3Z7tUjKX5yG0UAVgVDvy88PVYa1suJbIihA4SgGchf0wf-8Vq0DzAonQlPGW3yTMdcH9s_s7umoWn5R_mL-eHmCJmteh9RSHUXEXRiys/s1600-h/P1012084.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyfGQ5ei-RLsXhWeO7QRWS78mSamoDJ9MxPlM3Z7tUjKX5yG0UAVgVDvy88PVYa1suJbIihA4SgGchf0wf-8Vq0DzAonQlPGW3yTMdcH9s_s7umoWn5R_mL-eHmCJmteh9RSHUXEXRiys/s320/P1012084.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5163160595054753026" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">Here.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Bienvenue</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">More to come. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">xo</div><div> </div><div><br /></div>Margiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04540391142241091907noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8129147941482965157.post-47925188088328586702008-02-04T05:02:00.000-08:002008-02-04T05:55:47.386-08:00Sensation"Sensation" by Arthur Rimbaud<div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Par les soirs bleus d'été, j'irai dans les sentiers,</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Picoté par les blés, fouler l'herbe menue :</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Rêveur, j'en sentirai la fraîcheur à mes pieds.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Je laisserai le vent baigner ma tête nue.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Je ne parlerai pas, ne ne penserai rien:</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Mais l'amour infini me montera dans l'âme,</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Et j'irai loin, bien loin, comme un bohémien,</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Par la Nature, herueux comme avec une femme.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div>Translation:</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">On summer's blue evenings I will take the beaten paths,</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Pricked by spring corn, crushing the short grass :</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">In a dream I will feel the coolness under my feet.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">I will let the wind wash over my bare head.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">I will not speak, I will not think :</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">But my soul will swell with infinite love,</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">And I will go far away, very far like a gypsy,</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Through Nature, happy, as if with a woman.</span></div>Margiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04540391142241091907noreply@blogger.com0