book list

Also reading:

L'ARBRE DES POSSIBLES, by Bernard Werber

METS TON DOIGT OU J'AI MON DOIGT, by San-Antonio

PYTHAGORE, JE T'ADORE, by Patrick Cauvin

Fake smiles

You got 16 out of 20 correct

No pressure here, pal. We're all brothers and sisters. But can you do better?

book list

(re)Reading LA PESTE, by Albert Camus.

(re)Reading MON CULTE SUR LA COMMODE, by San-Antonio (who is undoubtedly the most fascinating and talented French writer of all times)

Reading PORTS OF ENTRY: WILLIAM S. BURROUGHS AND THE ARTS

Reading NOUVELLES SOUS ECSTASY, by Frederic Beigbeder. (I feel all ashamed and dirty to admit I'm reading this --just finished it actually. But hey, it's the first time I'm reading him and I just needed to confirm that it was as bad as I thought it was.)

of course

Columbia said no. I had no idea how I would have paid for it anyway, would they have accepted me.

The Plague

"La grande cité silencieuse n’était plus alors qu’un assemblage de cubes massifs et inertes, entre lesquels les effigies taciturnes de bienfaiteurs oubliés ou d’anciens grands hommes étouffés à jamais dans le bronze s’essayaient seules, avec leurs faux visages de pierre ou de fer, à évoquer une image dégradée de ce qui avait été l’homme. Ces idoles médiocres trônaient sous un ciel épais, dans les carrefours sans vie, brutes insensibles qui figuraient assez bien le règne immobile où nous étions entrés ou du moins son ordre ultime, celui d’une nécropole où la peste, la pierre et la nuit auraient fait taire enfin toute voix."

-- Albert Camus, La Peste.

I'll probably go to Hell now...

The last days have been weird. In spite of myself, I found myself caught in the Terri Schiavo's debate. I mean, not literally. But it's hard not to read a blog or a newspaper article in which the author doesn't put his or her two cents.

But I don't remember being scared like that in a long time. It is obviously not this poor woman who scares me but the way religious fanatics used her unfortunate situation to use their influence in spheres where it has nothing to do in the first place. I will not even mention politicians here. Their hypocrisy and greedy opportunism is a given and there is no need to give more proofs to that.

No, what really put me in a near paranoia state are all those people whose fanatism is just as dangerous as any Muslim fanatic that blows himself up somewhere in the world in order to become a martyr, have all his sins forgiven and then go to heaven and fuck dozens of virgins.

At school, our history textbooks taught us that France is the Church's little sister. I was told about Jesus Christ. Not at school. Not at Church school. I just picked up the information somehow. Just by living in a catholic country. Even now, I don't talk loud in a church or any place of cult - out of respect for the people there praying, but also out of respect for the dead (i.e. the poor workers who died to build this church or this temple); it is true though that I also keep my mouth shut in public libraries. I do not steal. And basically, I pretty much keep close to the Table of Laws when they make sense. I don't think it's a Commandment, but I pretty much Mind My Own Business. But NOT because I'm AFRAID of going to hell. Not because I'm AFRAID to piss off a wrathful fatherlike God. I follow those laws when they are common sense.

Now, we have these people who compare Pro-Choice supporters to Nazis (kinda funny because Vatican supported the National Socialist party back in WWII); we have these people who show so much hate for people who do not share their "holy" views. Where is their Christian kindness? How come I clearly read racist and xenophobic messages in those blogs written by supposedly candidate to Heaven?

So, a woman cannot die with dignity? When you read those Christian blogs, you can find medical vocabulary, medical facts etc. But if mankind had followed their cult to the letter, we would still think that the earth is flat, when anybody living in the countryside or close to the ocean can see by him/herself that it is more likely to be a sphere. We would still die from the most trifle diseases. We would know nothing about our bodies. We would still believe in Aristotelian erroneous principles. We would still think that the earth is the center of the universe.

These people want to save one life that is already gone and this they say, according to the principle of their Good Book. But what were the apostles who wrote this Good Book doing while Christ was crucified? What did they do or try to do to save Him? Why did the Pope supported the Nazis? How can you reconcile the good Christian feelings with the absolute horrors of the Inquisition? How can someone be a man of God and rape little kids? What about the Crusades? What about a Church that opposes the use of condoms, pretending to take the side of life?! What life?! Life that sings stale holy songs?! Life in which you can have sex once a year, and then just to perpetuate the species? A life of submission? What about the lives of Giordano Bruno? What about the lives of all the early scientists who had to chose between denying the validity of their own works or be killed by the Church.

I suppose that religion might have been a good step for mankind at some point of its evolution (yeah, talking about evolution, I should have mentioned Creationism in the previous paragraph.) But really, it turned sour. Now religions (just as our current economic systems are nothing more but parasites we should eliminate ASAP.) Why should Bush hurry back to the White House to sign a law when he never bothered to shorten his weekends before to save the life of an inmate about to be killed under weak evidences?

If God exists. And if He is pissed that I doubted Him. If He is pissed that I proved my love to the woman I loved with the very same attributes He gave me. If God failed to recognize that (at least so far), even though I refused to sing the awful, debilitating songs written by his subjects; and that even though I was either too tired or too busy making a living to attend masses directed by pedophiles (ok, I know, not all priest are pedophiles, of course, but still, even though I'm not a Freudian, there's no way a life of abstinence is not fucking your brains up, especially when you have to read all the dirty stories in the Bible for a leaving.) I, in some way, did my best to live my life as best as I could according to common sense principles that happen to be vaguely similar to what He put in His commandments; if God fails to recognize that then, I'm sorry, but He is just an asshole and I don't want to be his pet.

I am not a Satanist or something. I find Sade disgusting, sophistic and boring. But at least, I managed to finish Sade's book (I only read one). Whereas the Bible... I don't know... I just have the feeling that the other apostles are way worst than Judas... Hence, I cannot trust their words. I can believe that there really was a guy named Jesus 2,000 years ago and that he was a cool, down to earth guy that somehow manage to be in "harmony" with the world or something (how I hate this New Age crap language... but English is NOT my first language and I'm trying to do my best) but I cannot believe what is reported in the Bible. Not (only) because of the events describe themselves, but because there's something wrong with this book. I can't put my finger on it. But really, I wouldn't consider the Bible a healthy reading. And I haven't even read the Old Testament... that would really scare the shit out of me.

Look here guys, I'm not saying the Torah or the Koran are better. I'm not immoral. I hold the doors to ladies (and pretty much any biped for that matter, without distinction of race or religion or sex) -- and paradoxically, I've seen my load of wannabe preachers since I'm in NYC and I've always been dumbfounded to watch them being so busy preaching that they would forget all rules of good manners and thus making a poor advertising of their Church. But, since I'm from a Latin country with a Christian tradition, I feel comfortable criticizing what I think I know. I have no doubt that there's nothing in what I have said here that have changed your opinion on anything if you are a die hard Christian who think that God created the earth in 6 days and took a nap on the 7th. I am not a Science fanatic, although I will say that so far, science (for all the shitty disastrous things it brought us) has brought more to Knowledge than Religion ever will.

When I feel like it, I believe in God. If He created the world, then He should be happy that there is not a day I don't admire His creation (for all it might be worth to him.) When I think I have to talk to him, I do it wherever I am. I think that, if he created us, he was smart enough not to create us in His image. We more likely created Him in our image. Forget about Pascal's safe bet. This is the bet that all this creepy fanatics are making. The bet of cowards. The bet of God fearing ass kissers. Where is their "true love" when they are just afraid of hell?

I believe God (if He exists) prefers those who have the balls not to choose the easy way of blind, fearful servitude. I think that He appreciates it when, watching a sunset over a cornfield or a city, you think He did a great job. I also think He just as well appreciates it when, witnessing the injustice and sadness and absurdity of our lives and the world around us, you can't help telling him loud and clear that He fucked up.

Any other God is not worth worshipping. But if you happen to think otherwise then I don't mind. As long as you respect other people's choices all the same.

There are so many Religions anyway. How can you be so sure yours is the right one. The one that will insure you a place in Heaven with all the other goodygoodies? Because you have this feeling in you that says so? This Faith? Then what about he faith of all this other people who worship other Gods? or the same God but in a different way? How can you be sure that the translation of the Holy Book you are reading is faithful to the original text? How can you be sure that this text has not been manipulated by the people at the head of your Church at some point in the past centuries, and this in order to maintain or reinforce the submission of the believers? Maybe it was even done with the best intentions in the world. But still. What if the text has been modified once and there was never an opportunity to nullify this slight alteration. What if it was OK to drink alcohol, or work on Sabbath, or not to believe what John said?

Well, anyway, was really John, Matthew etc called John, Matthew etc. back in the days or are those just westernized names? And if so, then what about the authenticity of the rest of the text?

Tracks

Listening to: Tom Waits

For some reason it started at the Public Library on 40th st. and 5th. I already have a Brooklyn Library card but I also wanted a New York one. I showed a letter, filled in a form and got my red and blue library card that I immediately put to work by taking Amy Hempel's AT THE GATES OF ANIMAL KINGDOM -- a book that you cannot find under $75 (secondhand, paperback edition.)

But I'm pretty sure it started at the library. It was about to close, a huge line was forming at the desk and I was checking something on the library catalogue. An old man arrived at the computer next to mine and asked me how to access the catalogue. I quickly glanced at his screen and told him he already was on the catalogue's page. I didn't give him an extra second of my attention.

Browsing the LEO catalogue, I started to feel bad. I hadn't even looked at him. I could hear the hesitant clicking of the old man's mouse. He was still lost, no doubt. I couldn't help him, though. It's not my usual behavior. For some reason, his ignorance upset me. On the computer, I closed the window and then waited for my turn at the end of the line that was stretching as far as the elevators. A guard in uniform stood between them, making sure no book fiend would go upstairs. I was pissed at myself for being upset at the old man. As the queue slowly moved forward, the old man was visible again. His computer was the only one to still be on and he was talking to one of the library help.

I had already felt weird before the meeting with the old man. I had felt in a bubble. The incident with the old man just shut the bubble for good. I hardly read on the ride home. Hardly paid attention to what was going on around me.

Going out I didn't feel like walking straight to Grand Central. I ate a burger in a snack on 41th street, seating at a table in the back, watching cars coming out of the underground parking across the street.

When I arrived in Grand Central, I didn't feel like walking straight to the trains either. I lingered in the bookstore. I quickly looked at their fiction selection but only half-heartedly. I felt more attracted to the little notebooks and journals displayed and the photographs and architecture books. Then I started looking for the self-help section (really not my usual behavior.) There were many interesting titles there. Titles that say a lot about "us." By then I was really feeling like shit. Thinking about letters I wouldn't write. Postcards I wouldn't send. I thought about Fitzgerald who is said to have been so lonely that he would send postcards to himself. He would then read them in his shabby hotel room. Read a biography on Fitzgerald and you almost want to cheer at Hemingway's suicide.

I usually shun the "Self-help" section. Also, I usually avoid the "Writing/Publishing section." If you want to be a writer, read. When you think you've read enough, just shut up and write. You don't need to know anything else. You can even skip the first step. You wouldn't be the first one. Anyway, I looked at the titles in the "Self-help" section but there was nothing really for me. What I was looking for was LIFE FOR DUMMIES. Or something like that.

Arrived home and read the newspapers online. Then had a stroke of nostalgia and went on Arte's website, hoping that it would be possible to download the show "Tracks". But of course, it was not possible to watch the show online. This week was on Billy Idol and Adam Green, anyway. But still, it would have feel good to watch the show like back in the days. Also I would have liked to watch the report on female hackers.

1 000 Bornes

Tonight I met Leen and her friend James at Paul's Boutique in Lower East Side for a game of 1 000 Bornes. Despite my repeated warnings that I would only come and play if I had her word that I would be the winner, I lost almost every games.

We had a nice and funny evening. I met Leen where I work. She is the kind of girl who is smart enough to know that words don't kill, which I like a lot. She can make the most sacarstic and witty comments without giving a damn. According to her, she is already going to hell anyway, so what difference it makes what she says? She says that she has already chosen the decoration of her condo in hell and she knows what will be there. She said she can save a condo for me if I want.

You bet I want. The way I see things, the real estate market in Hell is really going to skyrocket big time in the near future and making a move for your future house there now is a smart thing to do.

St. Patrick's

Today is St. Patrick's day. Which means it's been a year since my buddy David came to visit and thus a year since I've last seen him. Last I've heard from him he was moving to Paris and had finished working on the DVD of Uncommonmenfrommars.

Of letters and knots - Part II

Listening to: nEvErMInD ThE BoLlOCks, HErE'S tHe SeX pIsToLS

Yesterday was not only about chilling out watching the advance screening of a popcorn movie. It included going to the laundry during the day -- always an awful experience. I should have known better but when it comes to laundry sometimes you just don't have a choice. Personally, I like to go to the Laundromat at one or two in the morning, when the place is free of running, screaming, crying kids, free of mothers spending 2 hours on the too few folding tables, folding the entire clothing collection of their whole families. At two in the morning, you don't have to wait for a dryer or a table. But yesterday was a busy day and laundry couldn't wait the night. I put some money on the laundry card, and then filled the machine with my socks and sexy underwear, and prepared the detergent and when it came down to insert the card in the machine I realized that I had forgotten it (along with the $7.50 that were on it) in the slot of the card machine. Of course, somebody had kept it and I had just took my home keys and just enough money so I had to return home to get a few dollars to pay for a new card and put money on it again. Naturally, there were also running, screaming, crying kids and sulky mothers spending 2 hours on the too few folding tables, folding the entire clothing collection of their whole families. Doing the laundry on daytime? NEVER AGAIN.

Yesterday was also about going to the agency in the late morning to check out that letter.

Inside the white envelope was a blue single page letter and on the blue single page letter it said... well, it didn't say no, which was a good thing. The Immigration didn't turn down my request. But you could tell they weren't totally convinced either and they made that very clear in very few, straight to the point words.

So they want me to write them to explain the whys and the how comes. Sure I can do that. I can write a letter.

They must receive the letter before May 30th which means that, at least, I can stay that long without being illegal. I bought myself some time (as well as a loadful of stress in the couple of hours following the opening of the letter, until the brains kicked in and clarified the situation.)

NB: I've never been illegal here. Not one minute.

Ring Two

Of letters and knots

My stomach is in knots. I use the literary agency as a P.O. Box and I got an email yesterday evening from my ex co-workers to let me know that I got a letter from the Immigration.

Hopefully, they agreed to give me a new visa...

Attended Amy Hempel's reading yesterday and she is the most charming person. Got her new book signed. I asked her if her publisher talks about reprinting AT THE GATES OF ANIMAL KINGDOM, and she said that they plan to republish it next year in a book that would gather together all of her short stories collections published so far.

Double shift

Today clearly was a slo-mo day. The kind of day you have when you worked double shift the day before. Except for feeding and taking care of myself, I haven't done anything. Not even reading.

Sunday I worked for Brunch and then I worked for dinner too. At 2 we were about to close the place when my boss decided he wanted to watch the first half of that English soccer game. So we did. Drinking beer. Then the guy who used to be the bartender here dropped by and the next thing you know it's 5 am, you're exhausted and drunk.

But I couldn't sleep this morning. Woke up at ten and couldn't fall back to sleep even though it was clear I was in no shape to be of any use. I haven't even read today.

I thought that maybe tonight I'll sleep early but it's 3 am and even though my eyes need to rest, I don't have the feeling it's going to be easy to fall asleep. I don't know why.

Amy Hempel

Amy Hempel will be reading at the Barnes & Noble in Astor Place tomorrow at 7:00 pm.

Under the Bridge

October 2004 - Under the Williamsburg Bridge (Brooklyn side)

Can so much time have passed since I took that picture? Could it take me some many months to finish that black and white film?

I'm kinda proud of it: at night, no flash, staying perfectly still in an uncomfortable position for about 3 seconds...
http://cecyllee.blogspot.com/2004/10/brooklyn-la-nuit.html

Observatory Roof

This is the kind of news I like to read.

Reasons to Live

Read REASONS TO LIVE by Amy Hempel and loved it.

Derrida

Watched the discussion between Jacques Derrida and Regis Debray. I wanted to put the link here, but the video is no longer available on the web site of France 2.
It was the first time I saw what Derrida looked like.

dog

There's a dog in the apartment, now. Did I tell you? A big boy. A white American bulldog. Nobody had told me anything, as usual. The way I met the dog is I was getting out of the bathroom after a shower. I had already unlocked the door and opened it ajar as I was picking up my shampoo and stuff. Then I turned around -- towel, clothes, toothpaste etc. in hands -- and that's when I saw the dog. It had pushed it's huge white head and pink nose in the opening of the door and was looking at me.

I stepped back in surprise, "Putain." All things considered it is a reaction to be expected when a dog you don't know suddenly appears, his heavy jaw at balls' height, staring at you with his unreadable eyes.

Grand Army Plaza

It's like I'm touring the City's public libraries. Today I went to the one at Grand Army Plaza in Brooklyn. When I stepped out of the subway stairway, the wind was so cold and strong that it left me gasping for breath for a few seconds, like a fucking fish on the bank.

The same thing happened as I left the library at nine o'clock. Because of the cold wind, I just stood in front of the impressive dark and golden entry, trying to breath.

Public Library

Putains d'accents... tant pis. On fera sans. Je reviendrai les mettre plus tard.

New York est encore une fois sous la neige. Cooooool...!
Hier je suis alle a la bibliotheque sur la 40eme rue. J'ai travaille a la traduction du bouquin jusqu'a la fermeture a 21 heures. J'y retourne aujourd'hui sauf que cette fois je vais a ma preferee--celle sur la 42eme rue.

Oscar

I was supposed to work Saturday but I had to call my boss and ask if I could work Sunday instead. I had forgotten that Sara had invited me to see her friend's Jeffrey Sweet's play THE VALUE OF NAMES. It actually turned out that we did the trip to White Plains in the same car as the playwright.

I like this guy Jack Klugman a lot. I discovered THE ODD COUPLE only about a year ago. It's strange to like a TV show that was aired 30 years ago. The last episode was aired months before my birth...

I don't think I have seen Klugman in any other show before I went to the play, so of course for me he is the one and only Oscar Madison. The sloppy sport writer whose bedroom looks pretty much like mine. Klugman has this incredible presence on stage.

I always make a fool of myself when I meet people I admire a lot. With time (well, since I'm in NYC at least, 'cause that's where I have met most of them) I have learnt to keep it simple. Shake hands firmly, look in the guy's eyes while thanking him for his work. Of course the guy has heard that 1,000 times before, plus it's not original and he probably won't remember you. But it's better to get the message through than try some eccentric thing that totally undermine your credibility. Eventually, I missed the opportunity to shake hands with the old man.

The way things turned out, I didn't happen to talk to him or even shake hands. We were supposed to go to that Italian restaurant not far from the theater, so I saw no point in staying in the theater's hall after the show to get an autograph. Can't remember the name of the restaurant. We went there, anyway. At the far end of the open dining room, there was a huge, round bank door. We were supposed to eat there with the crew. Inside the safe there's a little room with a long table. But there were too many people for the little room and the person who drove us wanted to go home early so we finally headed back to the City.

It felt so great to escape from the City. There's still snow everywhere at White Plains. Well, not everywhere, maybe. But it still looks quite white up there.

Bellevue

The room is small, and is not meant to be a room for interviews. There's a coffee machine and files on a round tables against the wall covered with sheets of paper, blue and yellow.

She says she's sorry. She says the room is all she could find for the interview. We sit down at the table and she starts asking me questions. That's when I realize I didn't prepare anything. And also that maybe I should have. It's the first time I speak to a shrink since I'm a grown up. It's a strange experience. Since I haven't prepared anything I start talking in a million directions at once, making funny parenthesis here and there because the interviewer is about my age and female and sort of cute and I can tell she likes to laugh. In the middle of two sentences she writes something the sheet of paper she holds close to her chest so that I can't read what she's writing, and then I think about A CONTORTIONIST'S HANDBOOK and I freeze. I think about the stupid stuff I said and the thousands more about to come out of my mouth; about the way I sit and how my legs are crossed and what the fuck I'm doing with my hands.

The reason I'm here for is an ad Sara sent me. Bellevue Hospital is looking for volunteer translators for their Survivors of Torture program. I thought why not. I sent an email with my resume. Didn't hear back from Bellevue, which is usually what happens after I sent my resume somewhere. So far so good. And then they replied and here I am. She says that they have a debriefing program for translators. They want to make sure that working for them isn't going to make even more crazies that their fellow shrinks outside of the hospital will have to cure.

MTA

I stepped on the platform at Brooklyn Bridge, the subway doors closing shut behind me with their usual singing "ding-dong." I didn't feel like walking NY style. I wanted to stroll along the platform to the stairs, climb the steps one at a time -- this kind of things you know.

I had a flashback of summer in the South of France, Mistral playing with the trees, bees buzzing over lavender, the distant echoes of a basketball on the nearby outdoor playground that you can only access by climbing over the school's roof. Kids racing on noisy mopeds.

When I came out of the subway I stepped aside, looked up and smelled the air. But the Brooklyn air wasn't smelling anything, not even food or exhaust. It seemed suspicious. I suppose I miss being in open space. I mean, Central Park is big and all, but it's just not the same. Not that I feel claustrophobic in the City. But maybe it's time to go to Coney Island to get some fresh air and turn my back to buildings.

For no reasons I thought about this today -- and I had to check my notebook to make sure there was a little mark next to my entry to confirm that it was a fact and not the product of daydreaming: A few months ago, as the train was crossing the Williamsburg Bridge, I saw a small seaplane taking of from the cold waters of the East River and flying over the bridge to wherever it was bound.