Plus de 3000 cartes postales anciennes (cpa) de Nels seront montrées sur ce site

Depuis qu’Ernest Hemingway a publié Les neiges du Kilimandjaro, nombreux sont ceux qui se sont mis à rêver d’atteindre le sommet de cette montagne située au nord-est de la Tanzanie et composée de trois volcans éteints. On compte aujourd’hui quelque 25 000 personnes qui s’y risquent chaque année. Selon le blog des Karavaniers ,  la moitié seulement atteint le sommet et 25 meurent en chemin. Est-il utile de préciser  que le défi exige de  se dépasser physiquement et moralement ?

Ceux qui ont la santé et la forme physique se lancent dans cette expérience pour se dépasser ce qui leur permet souvent, pendant qu’ils accomplissent leur exploit, de réaliser les efforts quotidiens que doivent faire, les malades ou ceux à qui la vie ne fait pas de cadeaux. C’est pourquoi l’événement est presque toujours lié à une oeuvre humanitaire.

Dans le cas de ma fille, Gina Desjardins, il s’agit d’un rêve. Il faut dire que rien ne lui fait peur. Elle n’avait que 16 ans quand elle fut victime d’un grave accident d’auto dont elle aurait bien pu  ne jamais sortir vivante. Elle s’est battue et a gagné. Du coup, elle a développé un appétit insatiable pour la vie et pour tous les moments exaltants que l’on peut vivre.

Après avoir nagé avec les dauphins sauté en parachute, fait l’essai du plus haut bungee au Canada et du trapèze, tenté le street surfing et la plongée sous-marine, ou piloté un avion,

Gina s’est montré très enthousiaste quand son père, Gérard Desjardins lui a proposé de l’accompagner pour escalader le Kilimandjaro.

Comment dire non à la fabrication d’un si beau souvenir ? D’autant plus que le défi se fait pour amasser des sous afin de venir en aide aux victimes démunis à la suite d’un sinistre. Une problématique que Gina connaît bien pour avoir souvent discuté avec son père, autrefois  expert en sinistre et maintenant franchisé d’une compagnie de nettoyage après sinistres, la compagnie Gus. C’est d’ailleurs cette compagnie qui est à l’origine de  la Fondation Gus au profit de laquelle est organisée cette expédition.

Mais pour se rendre en Tanzanie, il faut des sous. Geekette connue pour sa participation quotidienne à M. Net,  pour ses écrits technos et jeux vidéos dans Destination Via Rail , pour son blogue personnel et celui sur MSN et ses nombreuses participations à diverses émissions de télévision et de radio en tant que spécialistes, Gina organisera une soirée levée de fonds pour l’aider à atteindre des objectifs. La date n’est pas encore déterminée, mais je vous invite à la suivre sur Twitter pour connaître tous les détails.

De plus, grâce à la collaboration de Simon-Olivier Fecteau (ex Chic & Swell, réalisateur du film Bluff , réalisateur des Bye Bye mettant en vedette Rock et Belles Oreilles, chroniqueur à Informan et j’en passe) et au caméraman Leland Miller, elle a créé un petit vidéo amusant décrivant la raison de cette ascension.

Pour ceux qui aimeraient l’encourager en faisant un don, même un tout petit, invitation à vous rendre ici

Même si je vous avoue être très inquiète, je ne peux que lui souhaiter d’atteindre ses objectifs et de réaliser son ascension avec succès et, par la même occasion, de contribuer à aider ceux qui se retrouveront à la rue après un sinistre. Qui sait, ça pourrait être nous ?

David brought home a new SmartyKat SuperScratcher®.

It’s made of strips of corrugated cardboard glued together in a narrow box about two feet long. You tear off the top and pour dried catnip onto the cardboard, then set it on the floor. According to the puffery on the side of the box, it “Saves your furniture!” because “Cats love it!”

We bought a similar item last spring when William and Ernest came to live with us. But, although William used it, no one loved it. I suspect that’s because it was a high-quality brand from a real pet store and consequently wasn’t stinky enough to engender feline ardor.

The SmartyKat SuperScratcher®, however, a Wal-Mart purchase, caught William’s attention. He watched David infuse the thing with catnip, then waltzed over, sprawled out on it, and proceeded to get high. A half-hour of scratching, wallowing, flipping, and flopping ensued. Finally he turned the scratcher upside-down and dumped the catnip out.

One area of our carpet is now a sacred space.

While William cavorted, Ernest watched. Ernest doesn’t do drugs. He’s hyper enough as it is.

Later, when I reached down to give William a goodnight pat, he grabbed my arm and threatened not to let go until he’d drawn blood. I managed to extricate myself and went upstairs to bed.

But instead of falling asleep, I lay in the dark, counting the cost of leaving Mr. Hyde to his own devices for the next eight hours. How many lamps could come crashing to the floor? How many cut glass vases? How many china cheese keepers?

We have only one china cheese keeper and one cut glass vase, but the loss would nonetheless be staggering.

So I went down, confiscated the new toy, wrapped it in a garbage bag, and hid it in the small upstairs bathroom.

This morning I returned the SuperScratcher® to its place before the hearth. William walked over, sniffed it, lay down beside it, and then got up and walked away.  For the past four hours, he’s been oblivious to its presence. I suppose he’s built up a tolerance.

Last night after dinner, while the mania was at its peak, William and Ernest engaged in a no-holds-barred wrestling match. I recorded it with my new camera but can’t get it to play back, possibly because I haven’t read that chapter of the manual. In fact, maybe it didn’t record at all. The little numbers on the screen said it was recording. Today I shall work on learning the video function.

Of course, if it did record, I don’t know what I’ll do with it. I might send DVDs as Christmas gifts. But I suspect the relatives wouldn’t appreciate receiving a 15-minute video of cats in headlocks.

And it’s possible that  the relatives aren’t speaking to me as it is. It’s possible that I have offended everyone I know. At least everyone I know on Facebook.

A couple of nights ago, I posted pictures of William and Ernest accompanied by the sentence, “I know they’re cats, but I don’t have grandkids, and I have a new camera.”

I did not mean that as a slam against grandparents who post pictures of their descendants. I like pictures of descendants. When I posted that line, I was simply trying to be humorous and self-deprecating. But, as frequently happens, it’s possible I came off as other-deprecating.

Oh well. One friend liked the album. She doesn’t have grandchildren.

And David’s brother posted a favorable comment. He wrote, “They are striking beasts.” He doesn’t have grandchildren either.

David doesn’t do Facebook, but his brother is my friend. It’s possible that he will soon be the only friend on my list.

I read the other day that the New Oxford American Dictionary has chosen unfriend as the 2009 Word of the Year.

It’s possible that I shall soon learn the definition.

William in ecstasy

No holds barred

Lest this blog be mistaken for one of the abandoned variety, I’m posting this brief pictorial update on the feline family members:

William and Ernest celebrated first birthdays in October.

Ernest

William

Ernest amuses himself by stealing ballpoint pens from tables and by sharpening his claws where he shouldn’t. William bites.

Ernest with weights

After squinting for six months, William has finally opened his beautiful green eyes; unfortunately, he usually closes them when he sees a camera.

William posing for camera

As hardworking adults, they spend significant amounts of time warding off fatigue.

William relaxing to Chopin's "Waltz in C-sharp minor," Op. 64, No. 2

Ernest sacked out on human's leg

That’s about all there is to report.

William and Ernest crisscrossed

This venue has recently been added on Expopedia, the tradefair service finder. Visit our website for more information.

Ernest N. Morial Convention Center
900 Convention Center Blvd.
LA 70130 New Orleans (United States)
More information about Ernest N. Morial Convention Center …

An overview of the available activities for Ernest N. Morial Convention Center …

• Stand construction: custom build
• Displays (design/fabrication)
• Marketing
• Rental: furniture
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• Rental: audio visual, ICT
• Consultancy
• Floorcovering / Carpet
• Standdesign / Designstudio
• Banners
• Visitors’ registration / Database
• Hostesses
• Rental: cars,…
• Printing services / Catalogue
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• Subcontractor

Coco Chanel nació el 19 de agosto de 1883 en Saumur (Francia). Fue una revolucionaria diseñadora de modas y creadora de perfumes.

Era hija de un vendedor ambulante y una ama de casa, ambos de escasos recursos.  En permanente situación de escasez, sobrellevó a duras penas sus primeros años de infancia junto a sus cuatro hermanos. Cuando tenía tan solo 6 años,su madre murió  y su padre se desentendió de ellos y los llevo cn dos tías que tenían un orfanato.

Doce años después Gabrielle dejó el orfanato y se convirtió en vendedora en una tienda de ropa de mujer en Moulins donde adoptó el apelativo de Coco con el que se le conocería y que se hizo famoso en todo el mundo. En Moulins, Coco intentó hacer una carrera como cantante de cabaret, entre 1905 y 1908, y pronto su nombre se hizo conocido entre los asiduos asistentes a las presentaciones nocturnas de bodeville. Pero esos tiempos no fueron del todo felices y Coco comenzó a decir que en realidad ese fue el nombre con el que su papá la llamaba, y que en francés quiere decir “mi pequeña”. Coco Chanel también cambiaba su fecha de nacimiento por 1893.

Los años de su juventud le imprimieron a Coco un enorme deseo de ser rica y famosa costare lo que le costare. A la edad de 20 años vivía con un burgués de nombre Etienne Balsan que tenía un departamento de estudiante en París. En ese departamento, Coco diseño y vendió sus primeros sombreros. El negocio de Coco comenzó a crecer rápidamente y en corto tiempo abrió un taller en la Rue Cambon, que Coco bautizó con el nombre de “Modas Chanel”.

En 1912, conoció a Arthur “Boy” Capel quien la ayudó a abrir su primera tienda de sombreros con su marca en 1913. Durante la Primera Guerra Mundial, Coco sirvió brevemente como enfermera. Durante la ocupación el negocio de la moda tuvo que paralizarse y Coco pasó unos años difíciles. Terminada la guerra, Capel la ayudó a reabrir su negocio de la calle Cambon. En plena depresión mundial, la diseñadora de sombreros pronto amplió su línea diseñando ropa para damas. Tuvo muchos éxitos y hasta impuso ciertos estilos como el de bajar la línea de la cintura. Sus modelos conjugaban de manera muy ingeniosa la simplicidad, la elegancia y la practicidad.

En cuanto a los perfumes, Ernest le presentó a Coco, una docena de pequeños frascos con nuevas fragancias y Coco tomó el primero de ellos. Era el quinto día del quinto mes del año, Coco dijo “Este número hará que este perfume sea verdaderamente grande.” Coco puso la esencia de este exquisito perfume en una botellita de Arte Deco con el nombre Chanel No 5, modestamente impreso en el lado. Así comenzó la leyenda de aquel líquido dorado que desde entonces ha sido el perfume más conocido en el mundo entero.

En 1922, Coco se inició en le negocio de perfumería y en 1924 se asoció con su nuevo amante Pierre Wertheimer, interesado en invertir en el ya conocido Chanel No 5. Pierre Wertheimer era el dueño del 70% del negocio, el químico el 20% y Coco el 10%. Abrió tiendas en París y Biarritz que para 1925 contaban con un equipo de 300 personas.

Al terminar la Segunda Guerra Mundial, Coco Chanel fue expulsada de Francia y tuvo que vivir refugiada en Suiza. En 1954, la guerra había quedado atrás y Coco Chanel hizo un triunfal regreso brillando en las fiestas de la alta sociedad, codeándose con conocidas celebridades de la época como Marlene Dietrich, Edith Piaf, etc. Sus diseños de vestidos, faldas plisadas, abrigos, carteras, combinados con cadenas de oro, joyas y una nueva línea de perfumes que brillaban alrededor de su creación de todos los tiempos, el famosos Chanel No 5.

Coco Chanel lo tenía todo, fama, dinero, adulación, bienestar, el amor de sus admiradores y de los ricos y famosos. Lo único que ella nunca tuvo fue una propia familia, con un esposo e hijos. Coco murió todavía trabajando, el 10 de enero de 1971, siendo una mujer tan solitaria como lo fue cuando ingresó al orfanato a los 6 años de edad. A los 88 años, en el momento de su muerte, sólo tuvo una dama de compañía a su lado en su suite privada del Hotel Ritz de París. En cumplimiento de sus deseos, Coco Chanel fue sacada de Francia y enterrada en Lausanne, Suiza.

La familia Wertheimer sigue siendo la dueña de la perfumería Chanel hasta hoy día y su casa de modas continúa funcionando, ahora dirigida por su diseñador jefe Karl Lagerfeld desde 1983. En la actualidad un modelo de Chanel cuesta un promedio de US$5.000 y sólo pueden comprarse directamente en París o en Saks de la 5ta Avenida de Nueva York. Durante su carrera, Coco Chanel fue la diseñadora del vestuario de películas como Antigona de Cocteau en 1923, Edipo Rey en 1937, Renoir’s La Regle de Jeu y todo el vestuario de Katherine Hepburn en el musical de Broadway basado en la vida de Coco Chanel.

Biografia:

http://www.exordio.com/1939-1945/civilis/mujeres/cocochanel.html

I wasn’t going to give up.

I’d been so close to hearing Liv’s voice, and now I was sure I had a clue about where she was. We’d had holidays by the sea before and I knew a few places where you heard seagulls like that, but there were so many more that I didn’t know. If I gave the number to the police they could probably trace the phone, but Liv had as good as told me she didn’t want to be found.

So then why had she left a mobile number for me?

It didn’t quite add up, and that made me nervous. Did she need my help? Did she want me to get in contact without letting Mum and Dad know? And if she did, why hadn’t she taken my call? I tried so hard to remember everything I could about Shaun, but in all my memories he was only ever a quiet, interesting and basically good bloke. I’d never got a bad feeling about him, like I do about some of the kids at school. Would he really stop her from answering my calls?

I thought of Liv. Her strong opinions and her temper. How she stuck up for me when I was new at school and someone in her year found out I played with Clan characters and tried to bully me. How she always checked I was all right, when Mum and Dad were getting dramatic about the rules around the house and threatening to confiscate my games. She looked out for me, but how well did I really know her? In the last few months she was hardly around, and it’s not like we had any long talks even when she was there. I didn’t even go in her room much, except to borrow a DVD sometimes.

But perhaps I should check her room. If she’d left Shaun’s mobile number in my room, there might be clues for me in her room – something to explain what was going on. I’d just need to find a time to do it when Mum and Dad were out – but that would never happen. So the next best idea would be to look while they were asleep. Like now.

It was about midnight when I pushed my door handle down quietly and moved as slowly, and as quietly down the corridor as possible. Luckily for me, Liv’s door was open a crack so I could just push it to go inside.

The room smelled of Liv straight away and I felt a pang inside. Then I looked around at the clothes scattered around and the books and CDs on her floor and wondered where to start. I went over to her desk and pulled open the drawers, but inside was mainly make-up and stationery stuff. But there was a notebook too and I took it out and opened it. Staring back at me was a drawing of Liv’s face – a self portrait.

Then I stopped still. Why hadn’t I thought of it before? Liv went on Facebook – I’d heard her arguing with Mum about it. Would Dad have checked it already? And the police? Maybe. But it was another way to try and reach her and it had to worth a go. So I opened her laptop.

It took a while to boot. As soon as the icon appeared, I opened Liv’s internet browser and went to Facebook. Then I spent a few minutes trying to guess her password, and failing. I’d tried everything I could possibly think of when I decided the only thing left to do was join myself, so I signed up, lying about my age just in case anyone tried to stop me. Then I searched for Liv Alvarez-Banks and it wasn’t a big shock to see only one name come up. I invited her to be my friend. Now I was going to have to check my email every day, and I’d need access to a computer. Dan was going to have to help me out.

Then I updated my status with “Thinking of going on holiday. Any good ideas?” before shutting the laptop down and closing it. I guess I was in a hurry to get back to bed then because I remember turning round and in the dark my shoulder knocked Liv’s lamp off her desk and on to the floor with a loud bump.

I froze, heart pounding and the next thing I heard was Mum and Dad’s bedroom door opening and my Mum’s voice calling out “Liv?”

I did the only thing I could. As my Mum came into the room, putting the light on, I broke down on the floor and shook. Then I put my hand on one of Liv’s jumpers.

“I just wanted to remember Liv.” I whispered, my hand over my eyes.

“Oh Ernie.” My mum crouched and put her arms around me. “Of course you do.”

“I miss her Mum.”

“We all do carino.  Don’t worry, we’re gonna find her.” And she kissed the top of my head.

Yes we are, I thought as we stood up and walked slowly back to bed.

Mike Rowe Totally Looks Like Ernest (Jim Varney)

» Think you can do better? Make your own!

Pictures by: dunno source, elielperez Look-alike by: elielperez12 via Totally Looks Like Builder

I stayed over at Dan’s house that night. It was a Saturday so it wasn’t hard to persuade Mum and Dad, who actually seemed quite relieved to get me out of the way while they carried on the hunt for Liv.  They’d been trying her mobile phone at least once an hour and she was now an official missing person.

Dad had interviewed all of her friends, some teachers and any other neighbours and family members she might have come into contact with. Nobody gave any clues. Everybody seemed to mention that she’d been behaving differently lately, and a few asked if her disappearance could have something to do with the boyfriend who she’d been seeing for the past few months, who’d been picking her up from outside our house in his red car.

I tried to remember any strange behaviour from Liv in the past few months. Apart from the fights, I hadn’t noticed any big differences. Except that she was with Shaun. It was the first time Liv had had a boyfriend so that was definitely a difference. It seemed like they saw or spoke to each other most nights, so she hadn’t been at home as much. But then she was out a lot at friends’ houses before she met Shaun, so it was really hard to say what was going on.

The few times I’d met Shaun I liked him. He had very clear grey eyes and a battered brown leather jacket and he looked like he was in a band. They were always going round to his to work on art projects – Shaun was studying art and he often had paint marks on his clothes. Come to think of it. Liv was a bit messier since she’d been going out with him too. She always wore eye liner and black clothes with a really bright colour somewhere – like a bright red hair band or bright blue boots.  I liked the way she dressed. Since she’d been with Shaun her hair was probably a bit messier and she didn’t buy new stuff so often. I hadn’t really thought about it before though.

“OK.” I looked at Dan who was lying on his bed reading. “I’m going to call.”

Dan put his book down and sat up. I took a deep breath and dialled.

I waited.

After a few seconds there was ringing, then after a couple of rings I heard a recorded message. The same bloke’s voice as before, but he didn’t say who he was. All he said was “Leave a message.”

“Er, hi, it’s Ernest again. I’m Liv’s brother. I wanted to speak to Liv. If you’re with Liv. I haven’t told anyone I’m calling, don’t worry, and I won’t.” I paused for a few seconds, then hung up.

Dan sighed. “Anything?”

“Yes – something. I think it’s Shaun.” I dialled again and passed the mobile to Dan so he could listen to the message.

“Definitely an Irish accent.” He confirmed.

“And did you hear the noise in the background?” I asked.

“Cars?” Dan looked dubious.

“Yes, but something else too.” I dialled the number a third time, turned up the volume and pressed the phone as close to my ear as it would go. “Seagulls.”

Dan listened a couple of times for himself and gave me a clever look. “Holy shit Sherlock, I think you’re on to something.”

* * *

Princesses, The six daughters of George the 111.By Flora Fraser.

George 1 & Sophia Dorothea

George 11 & Queen Caroline

= Frederick Prince of Wales & Augusta Princess of Wales & Saxe-Gotha.

= Augusta 1737, George 111 1738, Henry 1745, William Henry 1743, Caroline Matilda 1751.

George 111 &  Queen Charlotte

=George 1v 1762, Frederick 1763, William 1v 1765, Charlotte Augusta Matilda 1766, Edward 1767, Augusta Sophia 1768, Elizabeth 1770, Ernest 1771, Augustus 1773, Adolphus 1774, Mary 1776, Octavius 1779, Alfred 1780, Amelia 1783, .

so it as ben a log time sinc i have bloged. so hai aggen, and this is ernest. did yo miess mee///

it’s okay, i mised you too. ;0

la poo poo an i are bestfreinds still. he bring me coupcakes all the time. now al poo po is always at home for to tak caree of me. ;0 grape thisnks this is so sweit. somestimes she wil stair at us and we wil say ‘what.’ and she will say ‘wat’ and then we laff becuaz it is os funy.

i loove my famly.

did you noe that this summar la poo poo flewed me to costa crika/ wel he did and we had so much funn. i did not swim thoue becuz i would sogify. it is sad because my dram is to be michale felphs. but my boduy wont let me. i cant evn swim in a plastc box becauce i would sogiffy. and grapes doesnt care tha i wouldnt sufocate becauz i wuld have a breathing hol11

in twu weks it is halowen1 ramambear last year i was batmon/ i  don know what i wil be this year becau grapes hadnt teelled me yet but i don t knowb ecause grapes is bbary busiu now. mostly it is lap op poo who plais with me. i miss her sort of  but she is a good grapes to take care of me.

is grapes a mom/ or is she a sister/ i dont nkno. i will ask her.

okay ia m back. grapes said she doesnt noe either. now waht. haha thys is funy.

ajnyways it is time for the bed11 it looks so fluby and warm. i like bed kind of but not rely because then i cane’t have fun anyimrorem only in my driams and those are not real. for exampamle. in my direms i can swym but in ral lif i cant. i wuld liaked to rather siwm in real laife. and race maichale faleps.

okay okay i ma gonin to seep now. gnodnight1 sweat dreams.

“Call it.” Dan was lying on the floor of his bedroom, getting fed up with waiting for me to put the numbers on the paper into the mobile phone we’d borrowed off Lisa from my class.

I took a deep breath and punched in the numbers. My heart was racing.

I listened. There was a long pause. No sound on the other end of the line at all. Dan’s eyes were fixed on my face. Then I heard the tone.

“It’s ringing.”

Dan nodded. My hands were sweating.

It rang for about ten rings with nobody answering. “Nobody’s answering.”

“Give them a chance.” So I held on. Then there was a click and a loud background roaring noise with a voice over the top. A man’s voice.

“Yep. Who’s this?”

I froze. My heart rate had sped up even more and I muffled the mic on the phone.

“Who am I?” I hissed to Dan, panicked. He looked unbelieving.

“Yourself you idiot!” I pulled myself together and just about managed to stutter into the phone.

“It’s Er – Ernest, I’m Liv’s brother, can I speak to Liv – please?”

I heard the swishing sound of someone taking the phone away from their ear and the next thing I knew the line had gone dead.

“Hello?” I checked but there was nobody there. “Shit. They’ve gone.”

“Who was it?” Dan could barely contain his excitement.

“I don’t know. A… a bloke – I don’t know he sounded older than Liv and he sounded like he had an Irish accent but I couldn’t be sure. It could have been Shaun.”

“How many times have you spoken to him?”

“Er, maybe three?”

Dan nodded.

“Call back.”

“No, he won’t pick up again, he put the phone down on me – he didn’t want to talk once he heard who I was.”

“Suspicious.” Dan was looking out of his bedroom window, as if he was thinking through something difficult. He really wanted to be my dad sometimes. “Delete the number off the phone’s history – it’s in the settings. We don’t want Lisa getting involved.”

He was right and I tried to navigate my way through her phone, to find the settings. But I couldn’t concentrate properly.

“Dan I heard a girl’s voice in the background just before he put the phone down. I’m not sure, but I think it could have been Liv.”

Dan looked at me carefully.

“Then we have to try calling back.”

“OK but not yet. We wait a while. So there’s a chance they’ll pick up again. I’ve just got a feeling that Liv wants me to contact her, and that she’s left me this number so I can do it. I don’t know why – but I can’t shake it.”

A car roared past Dan’s bedroom window and we both turned our heads at the same time.

* * *

Michael Chabon is interviewed at Jacket Copy on fatherhood and the writing process:

“I think in a way, that’s sort of what you’re engaged in doing as a writer, too. You come into this inheritance of things that have been done and the ways in which they have been done, and people who influence you sort of pass along what they think is important, and what they think you need to know how to do. But over time you begin to make changes, what you think are improvements or alterations, because you like the way it comes out better. In that sense, there’s less a question of rejecting or accepting the past, less an anxiety of influence kind of thing, than there is an evolution of your own culinary style as applied to language and storytelling.”

Lit.

• Granta’s got a new editor.

• For Gawker Book Club (!!), Stephen Elliot discusses The Adderall Diaries, moderated by James Frey on an open forum.  Join in the discussion, perhaps?

• Is former Saved By the Bell star, Dustin Diamond, the next Hemingway?  He’s not, but The Daily Beast wonders anyway if you can differentiate the two.

• HTMLGiant’s Literary Doppelgangers: Nietzsche’s moustache and bison.

• Ten Similarities Between Grand Theft Auto and Inherent Vice include “Corny, Corny, Corny Jokes” and an “incoherent plot you don’t really care about because it is so much fun.”

Film

• Next to contribute to the widely loved children’s book-turned-big-budget-movie trend is Wes Anderson with Roald Dahl’s Fantastic Mr. Fox.

Food

• In search of real chocolate: The Smart Set’s Meg Favreau mourns the FDA’s lack of proper specifications for the wondrous food — and provides a “Screw you Hershey’s! Cup” recipe if you’re interested.

Politics

• “We simply disagree that he has done nothing,” says the Nobel committee on Obama’s controversial Peace Prize triumph.

• Khalid Shaikh Mohammed and four others currently being held at Guantanamo Bay may soon be flown to a courthouse blocks from Ground Zero to face trials.

Il vecchio e il mare

Alis stava in piedi sul sentiero che dal baretto conduceva verso l’oceano. Era nervosa e quel mese di Maggio certamente non l’aveva aiutata a superare le difficoltà della vita: della sua vita.
Passeggiava, Alis, nella tranquillità che Cuba raramente è in grado di offrire; passeggiava verso la barca che l’avrebbe ricondotta in Europa con l’intimo desiderio che l’oceano, in quel Giugno tropicale, placasse i suoi nervi.
“L’oceano” pensava Alis, “era sempre pronto ad offrire un’altra spiaggia su cui approdare; era sempre pronto ad accogliere nel suo rabbioso spumeggiare l’odio dei mortali”.
A braccetto con questa misera speranza, Alis salì sull’imbarcazione e prese immediatamente posto nella cabina numero ventisette. Si sdraiò sul letto e le venne in mente che doveva sentirsi un po’ affamata: non mangiava da tre giorni. “Via la rabbia, via l’odio, via la fame…”.
Se non ci fosse riuscito l’oceano, almeno le restava ancora un’altra pagina…

“Stai tranquilla, non e’ niente;
e’ solo vita che entra dentro.
Il fuoco che ti brucia il sangue:
quella e’ l’anima.
Puo’ anche non piacerti il mondo
o forse a lui non piaci te,
comunque questa e’ un’altra storia
questo e’ Hemingway”

Nello stesso Giugno, nello stesso anno, qualcuno fissava il mare. Non da Cuba, ma dalle mutevoli coste catalane.
Sdraiato laddove la collina si poggiava dolcemente sul mare, nel “Parc de Montjuic”, Ernest fissava il mare passeggiando tra i ricordi. Barcellona gli aveva sempre fatto quest’effetto.
Ernest era in città (gioiello catalano!) da tre giorni, ma questo lui non poteva ricordarlo. Portava con se solo un’immagine e un sapore: tori e tequila.
L’arena era tutta in piedi e, dopo interminabili istanti in cui l’aria pareva immobile, il mattatore chiese il suo tributo alla folla. Quando Ernest iniziò ad applaudirlo nel delirio collettivo bevve l’ultimo bicchiere di tequila ’sale e limone’ nella speranza che quel filtro potesse rimuovere i ricordi di una vita: acqua tra le dita.
Se non ci fosse risucita la tequila, almeno gli restava ancora un’altra pagina…
 

“Ma stai tranquillo non e’ niente;
e’ solo vita che entra dentro.
Il fuoco che ti brucia il sangue:
quella e’ l’anima.
Puo’ anche non piacerti il mondo
o forse a lui non piaci te,
comunque questa e’ un’altra storia
e’ solo Hemingway”

(Grazie ai Negrita per aver composto quel capolavoro rappresentato dalla canzone “Hemingway”, nell’album “Radio Zombie” del 2001 dal quale ho preso spunto per raccontarvi questa storia).

                                                                                                                                             A.J.Ayer

I stood outside my Dad’s office for quite a long time looking at the patches of peeling paint on the door.

Every now and again my dad would stop tapping at his keyboard and I’d move to knock, then he’d start again and I’d lose my nerve. Why was I so scared to talk to him about this? It was just Dad. But deep down I knew why it was so hard to approach him about Liv – it was because I knew something he didn’t, and I didn’t want him to know that. I had to tread a careful path here and that was what was making it hard.

Then the trainer that I’d been digging into the hall carpet slid and hit the door and my dad called out.

“Ernest? That you?”

“Er, yes…” I had no choice but to walk into the room, embarrassed. “I was just wondering what you’re doing.” I decided on the spur of the moment to play it innocent.

“Emailing a report to the station of the conversations I had with Liv’s friends. Have you got homework?”

“Done it.” I lied.

“Well I just need some time to finish this.” He turned around to face his screen again.

“OK. Dad?” He looked up again. “Do you know anything about the people who killed Sammy Jackson?”

There was an uncomfortable silence while my dad studied me in surprise.

“No, I’m not working on that. She was in your year wasn’t she?” I nodded. “Your mum told me her funeral’s going to be next Wednesday – we should all go if we can. But right now I have to make sure Liv comes back home safely.”

“Yep. I want her to be safe too.”

“Good lad.” My dad returned to his report and I walked slowly out of his office. My mum was asleep upstairs – or she was supposed to be but I could hear her on the phone every now and again, probably to one of her sisters. My auntie was watching Cornonation Street in the living room. I decided to go upstairs to my room and think.

* * *

I love my room. Some people could call it messy, but it’s just because I like to spread my stuff out. A lot of the stuff is plastic Clan characters who have big battles against each other that usually last about a week. I use all the other stuff on the floor as the landscape and obstacles that they can use in combat. Scar lives outside the main camp and quite often the others will go to his hideout to ask him what they should do. He can be quite hard to find, and not just anyone can talk to him – they have to earn it. He’s been a lone fighter all his life and he’s extremely wise.

It was only after about half an hour of battle that I rolled under my bed to Scar’s hideout to find him. One of the Clan’s young apprentices needed to talk to him because the camp was in danger – the enemy was sending a new army to attack and the camp was arguing about how to defend themselves and he was the only person who’d know what to do (I always leave visiting Scar as a treat, so it never gets boring.) It took me a second of looking at him to see what had happened.

In his tiny plastic fist, where there was a round hole for a staff or a spear, there was now a small roll of white paper. I touched it with my finger and pushed it slowly. It slid free.

I set Scar back in his hideout, put the young apprentice down on the carpet and stayed flat on my stomach with my legs sticking out from under my bed. Then I opened the very small scroll of paper.

On it, someone had written some numbers in blue biro. A telephone number – it started with a zero. A mobile number, but not one I recognised. My heart pumped quickly as I thought about someone else being here, under my bed, leaving this note in Scar’s hand – someone who must have known I’d find it here. Who else ever came down here?

I really, badly hoped the note was from Liv. Whoever it was from, they’d left me a number, and there was only one thing to do with a telephone number, wasn’t there?

Back in the late 90s, when I was just starting out what’s turned into a 13-year career (so far, knock on wood) in journalism, I had a job interview for a reporter position at a relatively large metro daily. I won’t say which one, but it was a century old back then and today it doesn’t exist any more, having merged with the other daily in town years ago. At the interview, the managing editor said he didn’t have much time to talk to me. Then he lectured me for 20 minutes about his newspaper’s proud history and fine staff, asked me one question and then told me to leave some clips with his publisher’s secretary.

His question: “Are you a reporter, or are you a writer?”

I stared at his desk. Stacks of paper, a plant, no bling to speak of, miles of stained oak. No answers, either. “Uh, I guess I’m both,” I said.

“There’s a difference, you know.”

“Yes, I know.”

At the time, I thought I did. Bob Woodward, for example, used to have the rep of being a great gatherer of information, an expert at cultivating sources, a helluva REPORTER, but no William Shakespeare. Remember in All the President’s Men, some on the Washington Post staff wondered whether English was Bob’s first language? At the same time, I am today as I have always been moved by great journalism because of the writing. I’ve had the honor over the years to work with some talented reporters, columnists and even editors. I read The New Yorker regularly, not just for the fiction, but for the reporting, Seymour Hersh and the like. Some of the pieces by the reporters, feature writers and photographers at the York Daily Record, my new home, are breathtaking. However, I’ve read some pieces at other papers where the reporters got great information — you could tell they’d busted their asses — only the writing didn’t convey it well enough.

But none of it, good or bad, is fiction writing. Not just because fiction isn’t true. The fact of the matter is, in most respects, I wouldn’t call newspaper journalism creative nonfiction, either. There’s a gulf between newspaper journalism and creative writing. And while it’s possible to excel at both, being adept at one doesn’t necessarily mean you’ll do well with the other.

For me, the big difference has always been degree of distance. As a reporter, dealing in facts, you’re on the outside. Regardless of how great an interviewer you are, it is impossible for you to get inside your source’s head. You can observe and provide objective detail, and the discovery of those details and the dissemination of them is the essence of the art. But you can’t say “I” in journalism and mean anybody but yourself. In journalism you are an objective observer of something that cannot involve yourself (all debates about whether true objectivity exists aside).

As a fiction writer, and often as a creative nonfiction writer, the story doesn’t just involve you. It is you.

It’s a problem that’s plagued my writing and it’s difficult to overcome. Fiction writing is a totally different art form from journalism. The two are only related in terms of words. Sometimes in terms of narrative (there’s some really great narrative journalism out there). But in terms of voice, character, point of view — there is no relation.

I know there are a lot of writers who started out as, or became at one point or another, journalists. Hemingway. Steinbeck. Graham Greene. In A Moveable Feast, Hemingway speaks almost disparagingly of his journalism — it was something he had to do for the money. Instead, when he lived in Paris he was learning to be a fiction writer. I don’t share his disdain for journalism, but I do agree that the two are totally different art forms.

I used to think writing fiction meant reporting a story in your head. It’s more than that. It’s INHABITING a story in your head. It’s BECOMING your sources. I’ve been advised by writing instructors to forget everything I learned about journalism when writing fiction.

Writers? Reporters? I need some input here, folks. Am I right? How can you be both a journalist and a writer? Is the separation as stark as I believe it to be?

David Hempleman-Adams

 

By Cara Sulieman

AN EXHIBITION celebrating the 100th anniversary of Captain Scott’s journey to the South Pole opens tomorrow (Fri).

Photographs on display include those taken by Herbert George Ponting during the tragic expedition in 1910-13 and Frank Hurley’s snaps from Ernest Shackleton’s expedition in 1914-16.

Also on display are the flag given to Scott by Queen Alexandra in 1910, the Union Jack given to Shackleton by King George V and books from the Royal Library, including a copy of ‘Aurora Australis’, the first book to be printed in the Antarctic.

The show, being held at Holyrood Palace in Edinburgh, was opened by explorer David Hempleman-Adams who was the first man to reach the four geographical and magnetic poles.

All died

Captain Scott set sail for Antarctica on his ship Terra Nova in 1910 with the aim of becoming the first man to reach the South Pole.

But in March 1912 – after Ponting had left the expedition – all remaining team members died on their journey back from the pole.

Herbert Ponting captured around 2,000 glass plate negatives in his time on the trip, including images of the landscape, crew, and wildlife.

Australian photographer Frank Hurley joined Ernest Shackleton on his expedition to the South Pole in 1914.

In October 1915 the ship started to sink after getting trapped in the ice.

Royal Photographic Collection

Despite losing most of his equipment in the wreck, he managed to salvage 120 plates and a small pocket camera which he used to document the rest of the trip – despite the low quality of the images.

The photographs were all presented to King George V and form part of the Royal Photographic Collection.

The exhibition runs in the Queen’s Gallery in Holyrood Palace from October 2 until April 11 2010.

See more of our pictures at our Flickr site and videos at our dedicated channel,  Deadline TV.

As it turned out, sitting next to my dad in the front seat of his car made it easier to answer his questions, because I didn’t have to look at him.

He’d been waiting for me at the school gate and as soon as we pulled away he started.

“Have you noticed your sister hanging around with anyone unusual at school lately? Any people you didn’t recognise?”

I thought quickly. At school nothing had changed.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“And has anyone at school said anything to you about where she might be?”

“No.”

“I’ll be talking to her friends later this evening just in case.”

“Are you going to be looking for her yourself?”

“Yes. But first we’re trying to find out where she might have gone. None of our neighbours and nobody in the family has heard anything from her. We think she’s gone with Shaun.” Dad was quiet for a while. “Diane Stevens – Paul’s mum – says she saw Liv getting into a red car with a group of people a couple of nights ago, we think that was Shaun’s car.”

So they’d probably gone somewhere Shaun knew about. Maybe he had a friend somewhere, or a relation they were staying with.

“Ernest. If there’s anything you think of, that you remember, that might help us I want you to tell me straight away.”

“OK.”

And that seemed to be it – it wasn’t as hard as I imagined. Dad went quiet again and we sat in silence the rest of the short way home.

My auntie was at home with my mum when we got into the house, and my mum jumped straight up.

“Have you got news?”

“No.” My dad walked into his office – a small messy room opposite the living room – and started making phonecalls.

My mum looked awful. Her eyes looked red and she was restless, rolling her rosary beads through her hand and looking from the window to the phone to my aunt as if one of them was going to come up with an answer for her. I stood in the kitchen doorway not quite sure what to do, half eavesdropping on my dad as he rang around Liv’s friends one by one to ask if he could talk to them.

“Ernest I can do you some tea if you’re hungry.” My aunt had a hand on my mum’s shoulder.

“No it’s ok, Dan said I could have tea at his house. He just lives round the corner.” I don’t know where it came from, that lie, or why, but I didn’t really want to hang around in the house.

“OK well that was kind, but I’m going to walk you there.” My auntie Sheila said with a serious look in her eye.

“It’s ok, I walk there on my own all the time.”

“Ernie don’t argue today cariño.” My mum put her hand across her forehead and I knew not to push it.

So auntie Sheila motioned to my dad and took me down to the end of our road, giving me the same sympathy all the teachers at school had, and I tried to seem grateful. I couldn’t wait to get away though.

“It’s that blue door there.” We could see Dan in the front room and he raised his hand to wave.

“OK love.” Shelia kissed me on the top of my head. “Will you give us a call when you’ve had your tea?”

“Yep.” I swung rucksack high into the air and as Dan opened the door I walloped him round the shoulder with it. “Ready for work?” Then I remembered. “By the way I need my tea first.”

* * *

Eating fish and chips round at Dan’s house was good. It was comforting. It was probably the best I’d felt since the news about Sammy – Dan’s mum was friendly and always let us watch TV in the kitchen – and they had a big hairy dog called Spider who I liked.

As soon as we were left alone we got planning. It wasn’t a complicated one – we were going to find the house Chris told us about and knock on the door and ask to speak to the girl who’d seen the people who’d seen the accident. We left Dan’s house in a good mood – excited because we had a plan and we were really doing it. And this was important. It was for Sammy, who was more Dan’s friend than mine but she was someone we both knew and liked, and although I didn’t make a big deal about it I knew it was partly for Liv too.

We found the house without too much problem – just where Chris said it was, opposite the park, next to the shop. We decided that Dan would ask the questions, and I’d help if he needed me. So I stood back and waited as Dan rang the bell and we heard voices inside.

The woman who answered was small and stern. She looked suspicious right from the start, and when Dan told her what it was about she point blank refused to help us. She said her daughter had enough trouble coping with such a traumatic event and being interviewed once already by the police without  needing any extra hassle from us. Dan tried explaining that we wanted to help, because we thought we might be able to investigate a connection, but the woman just said we should contact the police. My heart sank. Then she said that was enough and we should go home and she shut the door before Dan could say anything else.

He looked at me amazed. This wasn’t part of the plan. We hung around outside the house for a while, trying to look up at the bedroom windows without being seen, but a man that must have been the girl’s dad spotted us and looked pretty serious so we left.

“What do we do now?”

“There’s no point going back there.”

“We could find out which school she’s at.”

“We’re not going to stalk her.”

“We could write her a letter.”

“Ern if it’s information we want, you’re the one who can get it. Your dad.”

“He doesn’t leave important stuff out for us to see. It’s in a secure system.” I gave Dan a look.

“Yes maybe. But I still think he’s the way to get it.”

Dan didn’t really get that my dad didn’t go into details with us. If anything, he tried to protect us from the work he did. He kept it separate, and if we had questions he tried to answer them but he never gave away secret information. I respected him for that, and I wasn’t about to go searching through his stuff. I didn’t think I could do that.

OK so once or twice I’d gone into his office when he was out and had a look around, but that was just innocent curiosity.

“I don’t know. I have to call home and get picked up. They’re not taking any chances this week. Talk tomorrow?”

“Yeah. We need to think again.”

We went online and looked up Clan stuff until my auntie turned up. As I was leaving Dan muttered under his breath “Ask your dad.”

Family tree names

Joe & Lou        =  Herbert, Julia, Beth, Martha, Evie & Ernest

Ellen & William =  Bert, Alf, Maud & Sidney.

Beth & Bert = Reg, Stan, Maisie, Alf, Freda & Queena (twins)

September 27, 2009

Dear readers,

I’m working on reviving Ernest’s blog. As the year went on it lost some of its humor and became more of him screaming. Still, if I barely have time to blog here it will be even harder to keep up there. Hang in there, Ernest fans. Speaking of Ernest, the giveaway is like, two months late. Unfortunately my to-do list is always a mile long and unfinished. I’ve been meaning to clean my room for two months as well. Hopefully I’ll get something done this weekend. Seeing as I’m sitting here, blogging, that’s unlikely.

Goodness. I’m attempting to write to my Chinese penpal for the first time, and she’s already blatantly said that she will not “disclose” her name and other information. Way to set up a barrier before we even start talking. Now I have nothing to say to her except a few juvenile questions about hobbies and her favorite movies.

All this Club Retrospect-ing has sparked the return of 21 Jump Street in my brain. It’s a guilty pleasure.

Guilty Pleasures

• 21 Jump Street
• The Pink Panther (2005)
• Mr. Bean’s Holiday
• freaking out because Johnny Depp was five miles away and I missed him – again.

Last night an idea came to me so I got up from bed to write it down. Listened to “Continuum” – it was like a time machine back to late nights in 8th grade. That and “Divinidylle” bring back that feeling.

Gahhh I just started listening to Chet Baker (some simple six degreeing will tell you how I got there). I like this.

Watching the trailer for “Coco Avant Chanel” (looks interesting – also, “An Education”), I thought of how interesting her life was even before she was famous. Then I thought of other biopics like “La Vie en Rose”. and how interesting their lives were even when circumstances weren’t. And I came to this conclusion:

You should live as though you knew someone was going to make a movie about you.

Love,
Katherine

P.S. A dramatic reading of “Boom Boom Pow” will do you good.

O TIBA é um lugar de encontros, criado em 1987 por Rose e Johan van Lengen, voltado para a realização de uma consciência ambiental mais plena. A sede do TIBÁ fica em Bom Jardim, 150 km do Rio de Janeiro. Seu idealizador, Johan van Lengen é o autor do famoso livro “Manual do Arquiteto Descalço“, que aborda diversas técnicas de tecnologia intuitiva e bio-arquitetura. O TIBÁ ainda é composto pelo mestre da técnica de agroflorestas Ernest Götsch e também Marcelo Bueno, fundador do IPEMA (Instituto de Permacultura e Ecovilas da Mata Atlântica).

No site você consegue ter acesso a muitas fotos dos projetos que rolam no local, alem de ter acesso aos cursos que são ministrados frequentemente. Infelizmente os cursos não são gratuitos, mas também não saem muito caro, praticamente o custo de comer e dormir bem. O único problema são os horários, que alguns acabam tomando mais de dois meses de duração.

De qualquer forma, vale conhecer o projeto desses arquitetos que veem na sua profissão uma forma de inovação e renovação das tecnologias.