I suppose I do find it incredibly insulting that afro-Americans are expected to support Obama “because he’s black”, and that everytime I mutter something along the lines of “I guess Clinton wouldn’t be that bad”, people automatically think that my support is linked to my feminist politics.  Jesus, people. Two days ago I watched an excellent coverage of the elections/super Tuesday  by the BBC, during which the journalist asked Jesse Jackson, point blank, if he supported Obama because they shared the same skin colour. I cringed.

That being said, Obama vs. Clinton is a tough choice and to be frank, I liked Edwards best.

I like Clinton’s views on health care, and appreciate her support of LGBT communities. Her crying did not bother me one bit, and well - I always had a soft spot for Bill. Obama, as pointed out elsewhere, would be better at international affairs since his state is a clean, fresh one untainted by the Clinton Years.

Blogger Susie Bright nails it as always, trying to explain her indecision between the two Democrats candidates:

“The Clintons are admitted hawks, they’re prudes, and they’re absolutely quaint on issues like continuing the embargo on Cuba. Someone needs to surgically remove the Cold War out of their ass. ”

PS: And really? This is why I think blogs are my main source of news-reading these days: for comments like these.

I updated the about page and the homepage (after one year of not having one, good job Jess), so maybe soon I’ll update it here with a real entry. In the meantime:

Amongst other things, well:

- a surprise gathering with my best friend from France and two of my dearest friends from Brighton, organised by a very devious boyfriend.

- a camera:

Model: Fish, the from-upstairs cat.

On Radiohead’s new cd:

mark: all the bloggers are going mad because it’s 160kbps and are calling it a marketing scam

me: yeah i read about that
wankers

mark: bloggers go mad about everything

me: thats a good thing

mark: if thom york was going to cycle round to your house and deliver the album for free on release day, they’d complain he was adding to traffic congestion

me: that’s funny, im gonna blog that

———

With a co-worker, about Second life;

Me: I was reading the other day about how Second life’s public is either made of hardcore gamers, or people who visit for a bit, get confused and then leave.

Coworker: … Like I did. It’s really frustrating when you’re not a geek. Do you remember that time we met with Cory Ondrejka, and I asked about what will happen when there’s a shortage of geeks?

me: Yeah

Coworker: It’s like, it’s not good enough that people just show up and give you wings and stuff, and then go.

Life in London has been hard technology-wise: one cell phone, two ipods and two laptops -of which one was brand new- were stolen from me. But fortunately, I still have one of my most-cherished possession: my bike (and I hope I am not bringing bad luck to myself by mentionning this).

There is no question about that, purchasing a bike was definitely the best idea I have had in a year. Painful 35-40 minutes bus or tube commuting journeys magically turned into brisk 20 mns bike journeys, I discovered parts of the city I wouldn’t have seen otherwise, and my body is certainly thanking me for the exercise. And don’t even get me started on the astronomical amount of money I am saving every day.

I bought my hippy-looking rusty blue bike off Gumtree for 60 pounds. Granted, the process itself was complicated and led M. and I to travel quite far away towards East London to pick it up. On a tuesday evening we hopped in the tube towards East Ham, got lost for a good hour in the beautiful park surrounding the neighbourhood, and finally found the flat. The bike owners were weird to say the least, and spent an hour bragging about their happy financial fortunes (they were quite well off) before even letting me try to ride the damn thing. But two hours later we took the tube back home, bike in hand.

[note] There is where I decide not to write extensively about the emails that followed from the owner, asking me to take him for coffee and calling me ‘honey’ even if I went to his house accompagnied by my boyfriend. Ugh. [/note]

A couple of months later I was talking to one of my co-workers who’s a huge cycling enthusiast (she once cycled from London to Brighton and swears that once one wears lycra to bike, there’s “no way back”) when she made a very poetic remark about bikes: that what she loved most about it was the effortless work between man and machine. How simply they worked together, but how efficient it was.

Spot on, I thought. Bikes are great.

Now - my only profound aversion to cycling these days steams from the dirty looks I get from men who think that a woman wearing a (always medium-to-long, I might add, so there’s not much to see) skirt + bike= free license to wink, stare, stick their tongues out or even scream obscene comments (it did happen). And as much as I would like to refrain from writing stereotypical comments such as “well, what can you do, men can be pigs”, their attitude only allows me to do it without remorse.

Fucking let me go to work in peace, thank you and good night.

Joanna Newsom’s music has been played incessantly in my flat for the last couple of weeks and as much as her voice can irk me at times, I have been enjoying listenning to her 20-minutes songs a lot.

M. claims she’s a brilliant lyricist but alas, Newsom is one of those singers I can’t seem to understand at all. I guess the explanation lies in the fact that she streches her words along with her melody, which is a damn shame for a french person struggling to comprehend the words behind her tales-sounding efforts.

I have wondered many times about her looks, as I was imagining her as a fairy: long blonde hair and dramatic eyes, pouty lips and pink cheeks reminiscing of a 19th century beauty (or an Emily Bronte’s character). So I googled her this morning and by god, she’s exactly how I picture her to be. Beautiful, and I love her folkish jacket (it might have to do with the fact that I recently became interested in quilt and patchwork art, but that’s another post).

Note - I am very pleased to say that after having written this entry I checked a 2006 Guardian interview of Newsom in which the journalist mentions this:

“Shared secrets and experiences are suggested but never spelt out. Heartbreak is alluded to, and the drift into lovesickness. ‘You came and laid a cold compress on the mess I’m in,’ she whispers. ‘Threw the window wide and cried, amen, amen, amen.’ I can’t help but think of the Brontes here, as the child sisters gaze out their window at ‘mountains kneeling, felten and grey’.”

My friend Aurelie is back from China, and moving to Brighton this week. An adventurer, she is. I am thrilled to have her and her intrepid boyfriend stay in our flat for a couple of days, so she can tell me everything about her tribulations in Orient.

Boris, Aurelie and I spent the entire year of 2006 together, slaving away during this hard last University year that we shared. We went to protests together - even blocked a roundabout at 6 in the morning (1)-, created a Gender-focused ‘zine and had too many glasses of Cotes de Blaye, which is quite possibly my favourite white wine of all time. Conversation this year was understandbly sparse as her blog has been censored many times (even though I did commission a couple of her blog entries at work!) and well, phoning Nanjing was a bit over the top.

Needless to say, I missed her a lot.

(1) In which Boris, Aurelie and I woke up at 4.30 in the morning, walked across town to meet other protesters, walked on the highway and blocked the main roudabout leading to the city. The police arrived soon enough, and our little experiment brought us both cheers and encouragement from commuters, an equal load of insults, and a lot of hooking. By 10 o’clock I was back in bed, listenning to people on the national radio pestering against those “damn socialist students”. Good times were had by all.
[…and this is from July 2005:]

And old friend, and an old song

I met Aurelie at Old Street station around 10 o’clock. She is in London for two days, coming from Edinburgh with Amnesty International. It was great to see someone so familiar who knew me already (read: someone you don’t have o explain your life for the very beginning. She has the basic about me and more, vice versa. I was relieved to be able to talk to a friend face-to-face).

In a way it was a little bit like going back home, somewhere safe, secure, not challenging. I don’t usually appreciate ‘home’ per say, but I needed that.

We could only chat for an hour - over Baileys, hidden in some very gloomy pub- and parted ways in front of the tube again.

This damn fucking tube.

We hugged hard like only women seem to know how to, breast againt breast, all smiles. Not this ‘Oi you’re my boy’ kind of hug, but something deeper, emotional, silent, understanding (no homo-erotica in here, please).

I took the escalators and when reaching the platform I heard this guy singing. Turned round only to nice a dreadlocked man playing guitar with a real broken soulful voice.

I stared.

He was singing the worst lyrics ever.

‘I wanted to take control but love took control of me - it’s just another sad sad sad song - I have to let it go let it go’.

Somehow the whole thing was really sincere, and I was really moved. It made sense.

The train arrived and I smiled at him. He winked and did a ‘peace’ sign. I waved back. Got on the train, sat down, and as we left the platform, he waved again still playing guitar. I smiled. Life is a bitch but this guy made it more than fucking cool for one minute.

Of course, with me not having an kind of Internet connection at home which does not involve some kind of savage and unreliable piggy-backing, and me feeling a wee bit tired of the blogosphere once I hit home everyday after work, luck and motivation were not on my blogging side for months.

I admit to still feeling a bit shaky at the thought of resuming my private blogging. So.

Although work has been very stressful for the last few months (that, dear friends, is an understatement), M. and I have nevertheless managed to enjoy a wonderful week in Spain, both in Isla Cristina and Sevilla.

I was born in Sevilla and although I lived there for 0 to 2 years old (and later had the chance to visit Cordoba, Malaga and Granada while in high school) I had never actually visited Sevilla ever since my mom and I flew back to France as I learning my first words.

Not much can be said about Isla Cristina: it is an odd Spanish-touristy town bordering on Portugual with nice beaches but little else to see except if you dig those huge project management housing beach sites which are progressively disfiguring the coasts of Europe. But Sevilla was another bargain and as my dad has put it, it might just be the best city in Europe if one can cope with the 35-38+ degrees which pushed me into a catatonic state for most of our stay.

Upom arrival M. and I asked ourselves the same question: “Why do we live in London again?”. I for one couldn’t explain why we have been living in the ugly English city for so long when confronted with Sevilla’s many charms: excellent food, cheap prices, nice people, brilliant music, a bit more soul than one can find in big capitals, as well as one-Euro Tinto de Verano (I am not even mentioning to sangria, the fact that pigeons did not exist, the marvelous parks and gardens, and a sense of fashion which suits my tastes better than those neo-rave London kids).

Flying in I wondered if I could remember any of those places - after all, I had seen those parks and houses many times as a baby, so maybe their souvenirs would be buried in my memory. Alas, I did not have such Proustian moments, but does no regret any of it nonetheless. In fact, I will come back there if I can.

All that being said, dear blog, it’s good to be back (online, at least). Now is the time for dinner and a glass of wine.

Maybe, maybe it’s time to take the electronic pen and start blogging again.

This week end I will be sent to York (in Northern England) for work. The deputy editor at my job happens to know the city quite well and gave me touristy recommendations. Seeing that I have a particular affection for Gothic cathedrals, I was excited to learn that York’s Minster cathedral is the biggest one in Northern Europe. I mentioned this to the editor, who replied:

There is a great quote from Heinrich Heine saying we moderns have opinions not convictions, but it takes more than opinions to build a Gothic cathedral.

It reminds me: my friend Boris systematically refuses to enter a cathedral or church, this decision being hugely influenced by his beliefs which, being very socially liberal, contradict those of the Church endlessly. As an atheist despising the official Vatican’s stances I can certainly see where he is coming from, but we nonetheless argued about it countless times: in my view, a church is just a building to marvel at for its architecture, and to appreciate for the sense of peace and quiet one can find inside. Boris is having none of that - which is probably why he’s my best friend (that is up until he betrays us all and decide to vote centre for the upcoming French elections…You traitor!).