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| We are renting the house for a few days, staying with friends in the meantime. This is the view (we're on the other side of the Esterel park). |
Mar 12, 2015
The view for a few days
Mar 6, 2015
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 21, 2015
Gallery (28) --- Ken Monkman
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| "Cree Master," Kent Monkman |
(right, you need a close-up; here it is:)
(more art on the Gallery page)
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 13, 2015
Shades of grey (1) --- Am I hard enough?
Yes, we're going to do it. We have a little feuilleton on the Grey thing. And we start with something nice, the soundtrack. This is from the soundtrack:
I'll never be your beast of burden
My back is broad but it's a hurting
All I want is for you to make love to me
I'll never be your beast of burden
I've walked for miles my feet are hurting
All I want, for you to make love to me
Am I hard enough
Am I rough enough
Am I rich enough
I'm not too blind to see
I'll never be your beast of burden
So let's go home and draw the curtains
Music on the radio
Come on baby make sweet love to me
Am I hard enough
Am I rough enough
Am I rich enough
I'm not too blind to see
Oh little sister
Pretty, pretty, pretty, pretty, girl
Such a pretty, pretty, pretty girl
Come on baby please, please, please
I'll tell ya
You can put me out
On the street
Put me out
With no shoes on my feet
But, put me out, put me out
Put me out of misery
Yeah, all your sickness
I can suck it up
Throw it all at me
I can shrug it off
There's one thing baby
That I don't understand
You keep on telling me
I ain't your kind of man
Ain't I rough enough, ooh baby
Ain't I tough enough
Ain't I rich enough, in love enough
Ooh! Ooh! Please
I'll never be your beast of burden
I'll never be your beast of burden
Never, never, never, never, never, never, never be
I'll never be your beast of burden
I've walked for miles, my feet are hurting
All I want is for you to make love to me
All I want is for you to make love to me
"Dear Diary" ---- Quantum learning (teaser)
Yes, folks, we have been goofing off. It's a bit more complicated, though, but the net effect is that we have no new teasers for This Is Heaven. It's not exactly a writers block (we're at 2/3 of the manuscript already), but there's the need for a creative break. So we started writing on a new---and very old project. It's prose, it's fiction, and it's YA. That's all we can tell in this era of ubiquitous spoiler angst:
(Date?)
Dear Diary :
I can’t really tell you how pleased I am to hold you in my hands, or, more precisely, have you lain out open like a “book” from the old days while sitting on an office contraption that looks modernistic but was described by Xato as an antique heirloom of “the family” when rolled into the room. Xato, who at that point had known me for several hours already, sensed my reservations and looked around for alternative sitting options, but I (who had know him for several hours already), hurried to agree and said: “It will do, Xato.”
“Whatever your preferences,” Xato replied.
Whatever-your-preference…I really ought to call him that, were it not impractical as the name of a young guy that appears on your bedside and introduces himself as your PA (“pee aah?”---“Yes, Miss, pee aah,”---“Really?”---“Oh, excuse me, Miss, that would be ‘personal assistant’”). He then apologizes profusely for the “unscheduled void” of “the family”---and in particular for the “most unfortunate” absence of “The Senator” who had “longed” to be at my side “at this critical juncture” and who had been held back “by the most urgent business of State” but who “had not failed to send his greetings in redemption.”
(Date?)
Dear Diary :
I can’t really tell you how pleased I am to hold you in my hands, or, more precisely, have you lain out open like a “book” from the old days while sitting on an office contraption that looks modernistic but was described by Xato as an antique heirloom of “the family” when rolled into the room. Xato, who at that point had known me for several hours already, sensed my reservations and looked around for alternative sitting options, but I (who had know him for several hours already), hurried to agree and said: “It will do, Xato.”
“Whatever your preferences,” Xato replied.
Whatever-your-preference…I really ought to call him that, were it not impractical as the name of a young guy that appears on your bedside and introduces himself as your PA (“pee aah?”---“Yes, Miss, pee aah,”---“Really?”---“Oh, excuse me, Miss, that would be ‘personal assistant’”). He then apologizes profusely for the “unscheduled void” of “the family”---and in particular for the “most unfortunate” absence of “The Senator” who had “longed” to be at my side “at this critical juncture” and who had been held back “by the most urgent business of State” but who “had not failed to send his greetings in redemption.”
Feb 11, 2015
We have been out to lunch in inexcusable ways, but it's not entirely our fault...
...which google-translates into...
habuimus ad prandium inexcusabili vias tantum sed non culpam
...which google-translates into...
we had lunch at the only ways inexcusable but not a fault
...which google-translates into...
non solum ad mores edimus prandium inexcusabili culpa
...which google-translates into...
not only to the character we had lunch inexcusable fault
...which google-translates into...
non solum per respectum ad indolem edimus prandium inexcusabili culpa
...which google-translates into...
not only with respect to the nature of the inexcusable fault we had lunch
...which google-translates into...
non solum quantum ad rationem culpae edimus prandium inexcusabili
...which google-translates into...
not only with respect to the notion of inexcusable fault we had lunch
...which google-translates into...
non solum quantum ad rationem culpae edimus prandium inexcusabili
...and so, folks, we've reached a fixed point, the ninth application of the translation function is idempotent, applying the function again and again doesn't change the result:
not only with respect to the notion of inexcusable fault we had lunch
There's order in madness.
One wonders whether all google-translations reach a fixed point (exercise left to the reader).
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 8, 2015
French for beginners (Sacha)
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| (From the pages of Charlie Hebo) |
And the corresponding fragment from the Green Eyes? No prob, bro. Étant donné (given that) the depiction of the auteur (self-centered film-maker) is Jean-Luc Godart, author of Pierrot le Fou, and other nouvelle vague movies.
Here goes (beginning of Ch. 23 of Part I, titled "In flagrante masterclass"):
There isn’t much left of Gohard's casual-ceremonial ways, the dildo has him in its grip, or counter grip, whatever. And while the situation is serious enough, I can’t suppress another collateral thought, this one involving the washed-up scriptwriter and an art house flick in which Gohard would try to answer the doorbell now, dildo and all, somehow haunching to the door, shifting from leg to leg, perhaps groaning. He reaches the door, opens it, and gulps “Hilfe.” (Come to think of it, didn't Godard (Jean-Luc, not Gohard) make a movie exactly like this, with Woody Allen as a peripatetic porn star and a peripatetic flower pot that’s always blotting the view of the adult parts of the unfolding drama? Did Allen survive?)
The door bell rings again. So it’s the postman. No, it’s Sunday. No, it’s Monday. It's not for nothing that us escorts are paid well—if we are paid at all—there's so much learning by doing involved. Shall we open the door? My budging A-level instincts tell me to stay put. Godehard moans softly, it's unclear whether he's praying or trying to say something. He rolls his head, that's what Buddhist monks do a lot.
We expect the echo of a failed doorbell initiative, silence followed by departing footfalls. Instead we get the clanky noise of metal on metal. There's something tentative to this, perhaps it’s a burglar who’s been pushing the bell to see whether the residents are at home and is wielding a picklock now. Godehart can't really roll his head any more. In flagrante masterclass.
I wonder whether the burglar could sue us for emotional damage done to him as he unsuspectingly tumbles upon harmful obscenity. While I thus wonder, the door swings open and clear, female eyes, enhanced by manly glasses, come into focus. Dr. Dyke.
Godehart can't speak at the moment, but Dyke can, presumably, although she doesn't. She ceases all activity whilst her medical mind assesses the situation. There she stands. It would be an understatement to say that we stared at each other (the more so because Godehart cannot really participate, his eyes left to dangle at the pond boys on the wall).
What's the washed-up scriptwriter doing in all this? He has a writer's block, I have to carry on alone. When you're in a hole, stop digging. That's perhaps a good idea, the more so since you’re in panic and can’t recall Dyke's real name, it could be a bad idea to use her moniker at this delicate hour. When we met for the first time, Dyke and I, her first words were "Your work?" That was twelve hours ago. What will she say now? Will she ever speak again?
"Your work?" she asks.
"Welcome to Godehart Wagner's home," I reply, one of my better lines today.
"I'm unsurprised," she says.
"Que sera, sera," I say—what can I say, there's no way to take this seriously. Even the dildo victim sports a smirk on his lips, a painful smirk at that, but a smirk nonetheless. Even the washed-up scriptwriter chimes in, we hear Doris Day singing in the background.
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| "click" |
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 4, 2015
Dec 31, 2014
Last words of the year --- This is heaven
Just writing (last words of the year in the This-Is-Heaven manuscript, we're in Chapter 29, the boys prepping Godehart for the debate of the third day of the festival):
“Where did you get these undies?” Maurice asks.
Ben wears different briefs today, not the muchacho graffiti, but a pattern-repeat design of naked men in celibate poses printed Delft-blue on a white background. “Oohh,” Ben says, walks stiffly up to the counter. Godehart follows his every movement, the tight procession of the bubble butt, the spiel of Ben’s triceps as he works the percolator can, a stray ray of sun meandering on his skin (not to mention the effortless stretch of his abs under the band of the wallpaper briefs).
“Where did you get these undies?” Maurice repeats.
“Bonus payment,” Ben answers.
He disappears in my chamber, returns with a slip of paper, check-size, hands it to me. "Three thousand dollars," I read. "Name field blank. We can cash it immediately."
"Oohh," Ben says.
These were a few words from the second part of the GREEN EYES. And you know what? Part I is available as ebook now, here, under this link:
“Where did you get these undies?” Maurice asks.
Ben wears different briefs today, not the muchacho graffiti, but a pattern-repeat design of naked men in celibate poses printed Delft-blue on a white background. “Oohh,” Ben says, walks stiffly up to the counter. Godehart follows his every movement, the tight procession of the bubble butt, the spiel of Ben’s triceps as he works the percolator can, a stray ray of sun meandering on his skin (not to mention the effortless stretch of his abs under the band of the wallpaper briefs).
“Where did you get these undies?” Maurice repeats.
“Bonus payment,” Ben answers.
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| Design by Alessio Slonimsky |
He disappears in my chamber, returns with a slip of paper, check-size, hands it to me. "Three thousand dollars," I read. "Name field blank. We can cash it immediately."
"Oohh," Ben says.
These were a few words from the second part of the GREEN EYES. And you know what? Part I is available as ebook now, here, under this link:
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 25, 2014
Find a caption
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| "That has to be the smallest I've seen in my life." |
"Bacchus and Ariadne," (1621) Guido Reni (1575-1642)
Dec 24, 2014
Jamie 1.0 (teaser)
Today, our new flash story appeared on the pages of Gay Flash Fiction. Here's a teaser:
“I’m married to this gentleman,” I say to the immigration officer on SFO and point at Chang behind the yellow line. She beams at us and waves him forward. Some court has just overturned California’s ban on gay marriage.
“You’ll be staying in the city, right?”
“The first few days.”
“If you like go places, you must have lunch at the River’s End. You know the Russian River? She draws a map on a sheet of immigration paper.
We rent a cheap place in Guerneville (on the Russian River), an hour and a half north of the city. I’m working on my book, Chang is tending to the kitchen garden we inherited from previous tenants.
The weather is California-perfect and I’m sitting on the porch. I get up at 4 AM to write and can’t concentrate in the afternoon. The place next door is (even) more run-down than ours. And makes angry noises. It moans and cusses with the voice of a middle-aged woman---about---Jamie. A boy sits on a camping chair outside. His face is blank. He gets up and disappears.
Repeat, basically, for several days or weeks. We’ve met the woman in the meantime. We talked once, which was a mistake, we’re her enemies too, now.
“Jamie is a sweet name,” I say to Chang, “she must have loved him once.”
For the full story, follow the link. NB: The first paragraph is true-true. This really happened to us on our arrival in San Francisco this spring.
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| Jamie |
“I’m married to this gentleman,” I say to the immigration officer on SFO and point at Chang behind the yellow line. She beams at us and waves him forward. Some court has just overturned California’s ban on gay marriage.
“You’ll be staying in the city, right?”
“The first few days.”
“If you like go places, you must have lunch at the River’s End. You know the Russian River? She draws a map on a sheet of immigration paper.
*°*
We rent a cheap place in Guerneville (on the Russian River), an hour and a half north of the city. I’m working on my book, Chang is tending to the kitchen garden we inherited from previous tenants.
*°*
The weather is California-perfect and I’m sitting on the porch. I get up at 4 AM to write and can’t concentrate in the afternoon. The place next door is (even) more run-down than ours. And makes angry noises. It moans and cusses with the voice of a middle-aged woman---about---Jamie. A boy sits on a camping chair outside. His face is blank. He gets up and disappears.
*°*
Repeat, basically, for several days or weeks. We’ve met the woman in the meantime. We talked once, which was a mistake, we’re her enemies too, now.
*°*
“Jamie is a sweet name,” I say to Chang, “she must have loved him once.”
For the full story, follow the link. NB: The first paragraph is true-true. This really happened to us on our arrival in San Francisco this spring.
Dec 23, 2014
Dec 22, 2014
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