The Cool Feature & The Great Bookscape, Official Uncensored Second Edition.

Dearest Loverlings of My Heart,

Yes! Victory! I have discovered the Blogger feature which enables me to add up to ten of you to a mailing list of this humble blog. Do not adjust your sets: you have read right. Whenever I publish, ten of you lucky happies will receive an e-mail. I am not sure yet whether you will receive the full contents of the post, or if you get a cool teaser, or if you get an automatically generated message such as:

Dear Blah,
Mademoiselle has just published a new post on Elucubrations (whoop-deee-doo, really), and so, you know, whatever, check it out if you want. If you're not in the mood, we think reruns of either Frasier or The Golden Girls are on. Or you can try bouncing a ball on your nose, although don't make the ball too big, it may hurt a bit. Let us know how it turns out. No, no...not really.
Cheerio and best regards and sincerely and all that,
- The Guys at Blogger.

So, I have no idea. I've put three of you on the list so far (lucky bastards!), let me know how it turns out.

Also, I forgot to tell you this: I am doing something which I've already done, but which I really, really want to do again. Are you reading a book these days? ANY book counts. (Yes, even a do-it-yourself fix-your-car book.) Oh - sorry, the Little Person Living Inside My Head had returned from a very, very long vacation, and is attempting to squeeze herself in here. Gimme a minute. Sorry. Look the other way, if you want. This happens in written form.


ME: Hello, Little Person Living Inside My Head. What's up? Oh - nice loincloth, once again.
Little Person Living Inside My Head: Hi. Thanks. So my fix-your-car book works? I'm trying to blend in and participate. You know, with your Throng of Readers and all.

[Editorial Note: Since writing "Little Person Living Inside My Head" very often is a bit tedious, I will shuffle the letters and give it a name. Hang on. *shuffle, shuffle, shuffle*. Ah - very nice. Little Person Inside My Head will henceforth be known as Limpy. Simple. Efficient. Editorial Note over.]

ME: Nice. You disappear all this time and hop back in here like - I don't know, like you are welcome.
Limpy: I am welcome. I am an extension of you. Plus I'm funny. So, suck it, right?
ME: Right. *sigh* What do you want?
Limpy: I want to be a part of your thing. So my fix-the-car book is okay? You sure?
ME: Yes.


Okay - we're back. Where were we? Yes. Being Readers. I suspect most of you are Readers, even if it's for business. Get your book: I'll wait...seriously. Go. It's on the nightstand/living room table/dryer/backseat/the roof.


Got it? Good. Those of you who have been following since 2006, good for you. Do it again.

1. Grab the nearest book.
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the next 4 sentences as a comment to this blog.
5. Don't you dare dig for that "cool" or "intellectual" book in your closet! I know you were thinking about it! Just pick up whatever is closest. Even if it's up on the roof. Weirdo.

Now - do your Loverly Duty and let me know what it says on page 123. I'll let you know what mine says if you respond. Cheerio, and all that, sincerely.

Musings.

In life, my Dear Handsome and Sexy Loverlies, there are times when you say: "Hmm. I really should do something about this."

So you talk about it to a few, select people. They look at you in a very polite, kind of sideways fashion, and state the obvious (although what they are truly doing is attempting to get rid of you and your weird, over-imaginative way to see the most trivial of events): "That is very interesting - you should write about it!" You feel gratified. You feel like your overly active imagination finally has heard its call, and ultimately, you think "I knew it. There is something to be done about this."

I've been a user of my city's transit system (i.e. the bus, I'm just trying to make it sound fancy) for as long as I've lived here. I don't drive alone yet: I'm working on it. The bus is a microcosm. It includes everything society includes, albeit at varying levels of accuracy and intensity, but it's all there.  The happy and the unhappy, the intriguing,  the snobs and the hippies, rich and poor, people who take showers and others who don't. Mysterious people, bullies, and old farts who want to teach you lessons on life and how you should follow their precepts to be just like them. (You knew when they started talking that you did not want to be like them).


Today is a grand day, for I am launching a new series. It's called: *drum roll*:

Guess What I Saw/Heard/Did On The Bus!

Wait. I don't like that title. It's too...I don't know. It doesn't work, you know? I don't actually ever do anything on the bus, except read, observe people, and listen to music. Sometimes, if I'm taking the bus with someone, I'll talk to them. Let me think about it. Maybe it'll be something a little more playful. Something like...

The Bus Chronicles

Ah. There. I could write a book, but not in these conditions (this was taken as I finished writing this post, at 6:50 this morning: sorry, it's a bit dark, but you get the point):

We're the Blog Police. Fear Us...Are you done yet?

Magnificence.

Today, you computer-using Legion of Lovelies (all four of you), you are blessed with two tributes.

First, I will celebrate my favorite backyard with pictures I took last time I went to this magical getaway which, happily enough, is about twenty minutes away from my house. I last went one week ago and it was - for lack of a better word - magnificent (hence the title of this post). Thank you to V for her hospitality, her patience, her love and the way she sets a table and gives life to plush toys. She makes my life even more delicious than it already is. (Huh - a third tribute which I had not even planned for...)

I will then link to a great hommage to language which was put into the most eloquent words I've heard and seen in a really long time. It's not so much the words themselves individually, but the way they are knit together, the seamless musicality, the yumminess, in short. So sit down, take six minutes and thirty-three seconds to savor this literary soup, and let me know what you think. It goes down really well with hot chocolate, a Pinot Grigio or whatever you have at home, and it is completely up to you to decide which will accompany this feast best. Personally, I favored the classic: a martini. It is Friday evening, after all. It (the literary soup, not the martini) was concocted by the great Stephen Fry, who, among other things, is endowed with one of the most pleasant voices I've ever known.

Without further ado, enjoy the yumminess. First, my magical getaway:

Wasn't that extraordinary? I am in awe. You can smell the leaves and want to jump in them too, don't you? And now, I give you dessert, because you ate all of your plate: have you got your glass of something yummy? Click here, and cheers. *ching!*

Note to Self.

It’s been so long, Throng of Followers. Miss me? Thanks. For the record, this post was originally written March 27th, just so you know.

I’ve missed coming here. This, after all, is my reflection pond. This is where I sit, pretend to crack my knuckles and write whatever comes to mind. I’ve truly been negligent and for that, I don’t apologize. Instead, I reflect upon the meaning of my writing here. I have left more and more time hanging between my entries (or posts, whichever you prefer), both for technical and temporal reasons. Technical, because I don’t have my own computer. And, as I think I’ve mentioned before, the computer I share with The Man is, well, a shared computer. And it’s inconveniently located. No intimacy here, except when I am alone in the house. That doesn’t happen very often. Oh – and the temporal reasons are just an excuse. I do have time off from work over 14 hours a day.

I discovered today that I need to be alone to write. I am not at home right now, as I am visiting family and have been alone all day. I kissed my relatives goodbye as they left for work this morning, and the first thing that came to mind when they closed the door, after deciding a second cup of coffee was a good idea (which it wasn’t, but that did not prevent me from having a third one later on) was hey – I could write today!

And so here I am. I don’t have a particular topic to cover, although the second thing I thought of after the coffee thing was a title for the post. Here it is, just for the hell of it: “On Self-Awareness, Denial and Apathy”. Yeah, that’s the whole thing. The whole thing is the title. I later (15 minutes ago, and seven hours later in the day) decided on “Note to self” because after all, and honestly, I think there are very good chances I will be the only one reading this post after it’s written. I know of two people who read Élucubrations. The others, if you exist, well, hello and welcome. And thanks for reading.

The other title I had thought of (the long one, remember?) actually had topics to cover in it. It was almost self-explanatory. I wanted to talk about Self-Awareness because of how I am – almost freakishly - aware of myself these days. I had a thing or two to say about Denial, because someone I know is neck-deep in it. And I wanted to write a few thoughts on Apathy, because it’s a freakin’ pandemic and I wish I could do something about it. But then I thought fuck it – too heavy.

News? Ok, news.

Nothing new, really. Except for my not-so-new kickass job. And Spring, too. Spring is here. And apparently, it’s here faster where I am sitting today than in Quebec City, two and a half hours away. With Spring comes my birthday: I turned 33 a week ago and it was a rather quiet affair, just the way I needed it to be. I received Wii Fit as a gift, which I highly recommend. When I plugged everything in the morning of my birthday (it was just like Christmas – I got to open my presents at midnight), the Wii actually wished me happy birthday. And I took a virtual jog in my living room with everyone who’s ever played with us. There’s something pretty cool to jogging along behind a small bobbing character (not too fast – you’re not supposed to catch up to them) and see the avatars of people living thousands of kilometers away wave at you as they jog along or meet you, running in the opposite direction. Of course, I did not want Wii Fit to jog. I’d rather do that outside. But I had to try it, and running in one spot for an extended period of time is not too shabby, cardio-wise. Of course, I am probably out of shape, not a good basis for comparison. I wanted Wii Fit for the yoga training, the ski-jumping and all the other fun things you can do. So voilà. I is a Happy Camper.

Happy Spring, everyone!

Croix de Laiton.

au loin courent les images fluides du temps imparfait
les grises faucheuses emmènent avec elles les aurores

un courant de figures excentriques les séparent
la raison et la haine partagent le sceptre

ô chanvre imparfait le silence est mort
douce croix de laiton enterrée sous la glace noire

fibre de ma chair chair de ma peau peau de mon air
aire de repos simple sourire ô mon bourreau

rage des mots je découvre le sens des sons
immobile je me confonds

au nord d’ici quelque part très loin
les couronnes d’or encerclent les pins

l’aurore scintillante amènera le froid
au nord d’ici, quelque part très loin

me sens rongés par la folie se défont
et ils coulent je me noie dans la houle

le feu des éternels brûlera ce soir
les sacrifices spirituels sont terminés

aux rebelles du soir je lève mon chapeau
aux vampires infidèles je soupire d’ennui

Once Upon A Time...

...There was this girl.


She liked to write. In fact, not only did she like writing, she virtually lived by it. She needed it to survive. And then, after a few months, she felt this sour, bitter taste far in the back of her throat and thought "Oh - maybe I need to tone it down. Maybe people don't want to read about my daily meanderings, my Élucubrations."


So she waited until she found the right topic to write about. Day in and day out, she held back until the right phrase presented itself. She found everything boring and un-post-worthy. Once in a while, she jotted down words and sentences, figured out ways to make them sound the way she wanted them to, and inevitably postponed publishing them to her blog. She went to see the Beastie Boys in Montreal (yyyyessss!!!) and generally had a great summer. Her man turned thirty and it was not the party she thought it would be, but it was great anyway. She continued knitting the baby blankie for her friends S&M (I assure you...) in Montréal.


Oh this gets tiring, writing at the third person. So for the record, I am alas fed up of waiting, Throng of Readers. I have grown used to your comments and approval, and I found it was lacking in the past posts. So I stopped writing. But I craved the writing so much! The writing is such a joy! To post once in a while and to - maybe - get a response, some sort of acknowledgement! It filled me with joy! So I am back to the writing. How many times have I said this? Many. I admit. Okay. I have not been regular in posting. Please forgive and forget, for this is a tentative new beginning.


How have you been? Well, I hope. Any of you have kids while I was gone? Anyone retire or move to a distant land? Anyone get married, divorced, found new yummy love? Good. Keep me posted. I crave your news. My last question to you was not answered, you bunch of worthless losers, except by my one and only Tortuga. So for the record, the Chicken crossed the road to get to the other side, to slip his card to the hot business guy with the pinstripe suit and the tie and the briefcase. This particular chicken, as my father-in-law would say (he likes to use the word particular) according to Tortuga, did not have a ring on his left hand ringfinger, or wherever it is that chickens place their rings. So she said, and I quote: "Go chicken go." Voilà. And now that the survey results have been communicated, I may move on.

I'm off to play Project Gotham Racing 4 on my boyfriend's XBox 360 while he's gone. So long, Suckers. See you soon, I sincerely hope.

Best wishes, and I'll keep you posted. This time.

Mademoiselle xox

A Quickie.

I've just realized I like my own writing.
Is that wrong?

Mots.

Une lueur d’amertume enveloppe mon âme
Comme un froid sibérien comme
Une chandelle fige dans l’air du matin
Quelque part une femme
Quelque part un oiseau

Une écharpe de laine oubliée sur la lune
Tel un manteau de brume
Sur le dos d’une étoile
Et mon cœur de bitume dévoile
Son corps d’argent

Quelque part une membrane
Quelque part un ruisseau

Et dans les bras d’un homme dans le port
De l’oubli j’ai gravé ma démence
Et les pétales ternis
J’ai crié aux aurores
Quelque part une amphore
Quelque part une enfant

Isabelle – The End.

Isabelle could hear them arguing about her failure, though she could not make out the words. She lit another cigarette and threw her small metal case beside her. The match hit the chair and curled up among the charred remains of hundreds of others littered on the chamber floor. She walked up to the door and screamed at it.

“Tunisia!”

The exasperated look on Esmé’s face worstened with the commotion. All twelve of the operators had taken a step back hurriedly at the sound of Isabelle’s shout and fallen to the floor. Isabelle emerged running from the room and attempted the seventeenth escape in less than a week.

Isabelle – Part IV.

Humphrey lowered his defiant stare and studied his feet. He reached for one of the clipboards hanging from pegs on the door frame and looked up. When will that wretched woman understand things should not be rushed?, he thought. He slammed one fist on the table now deserted by the twelve others. They were now standing in a single file right before Isabelle’s door. The woman at the head of the lineup extended one hand towards the doorknob. Humphrey hissed at the woman and paused before looking at Esmé again.

“In the beginning, there was light. And He said that was good. And He drank from the Chalice and obscured our sight. Mark my words: we must locate it, Esmé. We must. We have no other choice. Time is running out.”
“And what,” she spat, “are your puny neurons transmitting right now, you extraordinary moron? We have been waiting for this revelation of yours patiently, we have tried to be our most understanding but this charade has to stop, Humphrey! We have been very supportive. And so far, all our efforts have been in vain.”
“I haven’t –“ Humphrey slithered away from Esmé.
“No! You haven’t! You seem not to have the capability of channeling her. How many times, Humphrey, how many times will I have to explain this?”

Isabelle - Part III.

“You fools! How long have we waited for this? How calm does she have to be? Why can’t we use stronger doses of the elixir to speed this up? I did not spend years planning this to see it fail. There has to be…” she waved her hand impatiently above her shoulder. A metallic voice cut her off.
“…something we can do. I’ve been saying so all week, Madam. These…fools, your highness, have not a single shred of evidence our young friend has the ability to locate the item. We have collected enough data, however, to return to the previous location, and perhaps we should start from there!”
The wispy voice had emerged from the speaker on the wall. Esmé shrugged cynically and turned her gaze back to the window, her fists clenched.
“Your highness, if I may, what are we to do, then?”
A short man emerged from the antechamber and made his way towards the table, fingering his leather pouch. His voice sounded oddly the same through the speaker and in person.
“What? Humphrey, you dimwit! You are the cause of this! You are the one we should be looking to for a plan right now! There is a reason I had this facility built, and you certainly proved you couldn’t handle it properly! And that is precisely the reason you are now navigating this wreck! You can’t handle things!”

Isabelle - Part II

Everything swung into focus. A chair in the corner. The cedar wood shelving. The portrait of her father. Her small feet covered by the blanket. She sighed. The light seeping from under the door was soft and yellow, and she knew at once they were all there, waiting anxiously for her to emerge from the room.

“Adjust the intake levels, this is mad!” one man said, pointing angrily at the door. “There is no way she could have located this fast. There has to be something we can do.”

Another man hissed curses under his breath, clutching the leather pouch hanging from his belt. The tiny lights illuminating the floorboards hesitated. Someone flicked a switch twice and they steadied, resuming their cold lighting along the edges of the oval room they were in. Isabelle unwound the threads around her fingers, straightened her back and lit a cigarette.

“I’ve located!” she screamed breathlessly. She exhaled. The scanner on her left had gone off the charts once again and she knew her captors would not be pleased. She allowed herself a half-grin, satisfied she had frustrated them. Another drag. A pause. Exhale.

“In light of the current progress, madam, we cannot take her there. She has exceeded our expectations and we simply cannot keep up with her. We have to postpone the location.”
The tall, slender, satin-clad figure standing at the window turned and faced them.

Isabelle - Part I

There was no room on the table. There was scarcely any room to breathe. It was ten past five in the morning and they had been working for what felt like eternity. In the silent, opaque night, the buzzing and whirling noises had stopped and she was wide awake, moved by the sudden stillness of her surroundings. She gathered her thoughts and took a deep breath.

Cool air drifted in through the opening in the tent. The signal. Isabelle rose to her feet, picked up her knapsack and went outside in the fresh breeze of the desert night. She walked for a while before letting herself fall to her knees in the rusty orange sand. It was close to sunrise – but the stillness of her surroundings, however immense and exotic they were, made her uneasy and a chill ran up her spine, making the short brown hair on the nape of her neck stand on end. She had no idea what to look for in the Sahara desert and tried hard to figure it out. The camels were all perched on their folded legs and were moaning in their sleep. The sand seemed to swirl and dance around her, even though the wind had died down, and called her to her knees once again. Her hands ran on either side of her legs, fingers digging in the sand and raking it ever so gently. Breathe. Her face was now very close to her knees, she had folded onto her own lap and was studying little craters in the sand. Little footsteps, it seemed, left by critters in the night. She followed one path, until it intersected with another. She followed that one. Soon, she found herself staring at the traces left by hundreds of insects, short and long, sinuous and of military precision – a whole other world had left its mark and was now hiding from the rising sun.
“Tunisia,” she mouthed, smiling.

Old Blog + New Blog = Retrospective

Surpriiiiise! This is a bilingual thing I'm doing. Ha! Yeah that's right.
I knew I'd get you someday. And that day, my friends, is today.

Before we move on to other things, I must mention my sadness at losing someone I didn't even know yet. I am rationalizing this right now with coldness because I am sick of crying. I know I am allowed to cry. But I've been doing it for 2 days now. I feel....dry.

Ha. That rhymes with cry. Lookadat.

I will survive. I have people around me who love me. I am choosing to be a being of light. I will not crawl into a cave and roll up into a little ball of pain. *Deep breath* Aaahhhhhh. *Stretch*. Ok. Here we go.

So as a new feature to this otherwise featureless thing I'm writing, I thought I would include in this blog entries from my first blog, which I started and maintained very unfaithfully in 2004-2005. This was in a fantastical place called Diaryland. It was not all fairies and pixies and pink marshmallow trees, nooooo. None of that. Just thousands of people, doing a writing thing. Much like Blogger. But not as cool with the templates and all that. So! Hence the title of this entry.

We are rewinding time *ooo-eee-ooo-eee-ooo* and going back to 2004. Not very interesting. But somewhat entertaining. So hang on to your berets, here's September 21, 2004:

So...hiya, world. Or whoever will read this. Or not. This is me doing something I've been wanting to do for a while: to have something I create be online. Dunno how this is going to turn out. We'll see. It's never too late. Maybe this is what I need to vent all these evil thoughts I've been having lately. God I need to eat something. Don't get me wrong, I'm not voluntarily not eating or anything. I'm just calming down from an out-of-control episode I've just had for the past...uhhhhm...4 or 5 hours. Ok. Grilled cheese sounds good.Currently listening to Dr. Greenthumb, by Cypress Hill. Very good.

Well! Phew! Not many things have changed, since that day. Let's see. I still have evil thoughts and out-of-control episodes. But I'm learning to control them, now. Okay, okay, I see where you're going - things have changed a bit. Next, I still like grilled cheese and Cypress Hill. Classics. How can you give up grilled cheese and Cypress Hill, seriously.

Okay, my readers! If you are not a figment of my imagination, I hope you enjoyed today's retrospective episode, and keep your eyes peeled for more soon. I've got better ones. And if you are a figment of my imagination, well, it's good to see you again. *Wink*

See ya.

Le temps d'écrire.

Salutations sincères, lecteurs et lecteuses invisibles.

Quelle constance! Quelle assiduité! Que de réflexions!

Aucune rigidité pour ce processus qui, même en investissant $15,00 pour un petit cahier tout beau, aspect-soie-qui-ferme-avec-un-aimant, continue de m'échapper. Dois-je prendre rendez-vous avec moi-même pour venir ici ou ouvrir mon cahier à la fermeture hyper-sécuritaire? Dois-je me botter le postérieur pour tirer de mon cerveau des phrases qui me font du bien? Je sais que je dois écrire. J'ai des idées à la tonne, mais je ne les consigne nulle part. Elle se perdent dans les dédales de mon gruyère de matière grise. Mais comment? Comment?

Je sais que je veux écrire. Que je sois n'importe où, il m'arrive d'être assailie par une suite de mots qui ne veulent rien dire d'eux-même mais qui, allongés, épicés un peu, même, pourraient devenir des exutoires tout à fait bénéfiques. Je devrais suivre mes propres conseils. C'est ça. Je devrais toujours avoir sous la main (où pas trop loin) un cahier pour écrire ces mots. Juste pour leur donner une forme de permanence, juste pour être capable de les cueillir et de jouer avec un peu. Pourquoi? Pouuurquoi!

Je sais que je sais écrire. Je le prouve en ce moment même, lecteurs et lecteuses. Je sais à peu près où se trouvent les lettres sur le clavier avec plein d'autre touches dont je ne me sers pas. Je regarde le clavier quand j'écris, mais je vais conserver cette question pour une autre entrée. Oui, j'ai fait taptouche au collégial. Oui, j'ai suivi des cours de dactylo au secondaire. (dac-ty-lo: n.f. machine à écrire qui précède, dans l'histoire de la technologie de l'écriture, le clavier d'ordinateur, lui-même précédé du système de traitement de texte intégré). Mais tout cela étant dit, et ayant maintenant établi avec certitude le fait que je sais écrire (physiquement, à tout le moins), pourquoi ne le fais-je pas? Par paresse? Mmmm. Hypothèse valide. Mais je le fais, là, maintenant! Je viens même de laisser un message à D pour lui demander qu'il m'appelle aveant de se pointer chez moi, parce que je suis encore en pyjamas à onze heures dix et que je suis en train d'écrire! Re-mmm. Curieux. Qu'est-ce qu'il me faut?

J'imagine que l'inspiration se fait plus rare quand je passe huit heures par jour le cerveau encombré de questions et de réflexions reliées à mon travail. Bon. Vingt-quatre moins huit font seize. Un autre huit heures de dodo. (Note: Développer une méthode pour écrire en dormant: possibilité à l'étude. Pas la première à avoir cette idée, en suis certaine.) Il reste donc huit heures. Une heure à commencer la journée le matin, une heure de bus au total dans la journée, une heure à faire le souper et le manger, une heure à regarder les nouvelles, trois heures à regarder quelque chose sur DVD, il reste...une heure.

Voilà. J'ai trouvé le temps d'écrire.

Un début

Bonjour à vous, nobles visiteurs et visitrices!

Je suis estomaquée. Sacrée en bas de ma chaise. J'ai découvert que je pouvais créer, en quelques clics qui m'ont pris moins de 5 minutes (sans blague!), un endroit où vous diriger pour partager mes réflections, mes sautes d'humeur, et mes...élucubrations. J'ai des choses à dire. J'ai besoin d'écrire. Vous avez un sens de la curiosité. Sinon, vous ne seriez pas ici. Ha!

Je ne veux pas que l'opération se solde en éloge au prétentieux. Je veux rester vraie dans mes propos, tout ce qui se dira ici sera vrai, et je crache *pftou*, je le jure. Ce lieu m'appartient, mais il vous appartient aussi. Je vous invite donc à m'écrire pour me faire parvenir vos commentaires, vos réponses à mes questions, et vos observations en général. Après tout, pour succomber aux clichés - plus on est de fous...plus on rit!

Bonne lecture.

-Mademoiselle.