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Bitter Mother's Day

Each year, the last Sunday of May, all school France to recite compliments praising the sweet tenderness, kindness, caring eternal "moms." They then offer some nice gifts makeshift classroom under the watchful eye of the teacher, according to the image of Epinal in force in our country.
The good mother, the very one described by the so-called praise, must accept these gifts with delight. Are they not offered by small loved ones, the sweet treasures that she loves so much? Since its inception, the festival celebrates mothers and motherhood much less triumphant than the all-powerful dictatorship of the child on his mother. Dictatorship gladly granted by the latter, you might say, but this tyranny, which is expressed by the apprehension of the child as the sole focus, and only worry ultimate prize of a lifetime, it is weakened for be accepted?
Mother's Day is a ritual for this reason impossible to refuse. Deviate returns to opt for a simple contemporary imagery that values caring mother and willing, happy in his disposition - which ranks all those who would propose an alternative representation of motherhood in the ranks of "Bad mothers". That only a few minutes pondering: what mother, if not an unnatural mother, her child may explain that the poem transforms the presiding genius in the home, and that the iron provided by the family meeting, away from the bridge, humiliate and maintain in a narrow domestic world and overwhelming? How do you explain to young toddlers conditioned by advertising, regimented by the institutions that masquerade under the annual hides - badly - the specter of recurrent natalist propaganda, who dreams of repopulating France knock on his belly, which glorifies the housewife and stigmatizes those who work? Being a mother is not necessarily the best role of a lifetime, and certainly not the only one? "You're going to hurt him," it makes it so fun "and these phrases are small, every year, often uttered that famous Sunday, stifle any hint of rebellion against the party who did is not for everyone.
But children are here as mere tools, manipulators because manipulated. This is of course for adults who perpetuate this scam that this speech should go. Unfortunately, all turn a deaf ear. It may well protest, the "mom" smothered in flowers, there is nobody to listen. But have you ever sought advice from mothers to "do their party?

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Paul Carbone fell from the train. His body rolls down the embankment, the skirts of his jacket floating give the appearance of a strange beetle gray. A tense arm on his stomach, just above the liver, the red hand of his own blood, and on hand, a black hole with regular borders, where death comes to surprise in the dampness of a night train Paris-Nice. Now his corpse defiled ground and scratched by brambles lies a few meters from the railway, in a pitiful and miserable little pile. * * *



She opens her eyes, and removes a specific act that the speaker crackles at the bottom of his right ear. A low whistle discomfort listening to the song, and parasite flow of images, one after another, just rhythm to his pleasant drowsiness. She turns off the equipment on his knee, leans over, opens his briefcase and pulls out a packet of copies of students, some of which are already daubed with red. She goes to work.

The train enters the station, mechanically modulated voice resonates in the car to announce the arrest. She gets up, puts on his coat, grabs her bag and down the train.

The cold slap, it brings the edges of his collar, not the press. The coffee there, the hot lights, the hiss of the percolator. A hazelnut croissant, the bus arrives in twenty minutes. On the counter, the tiny girl of the boss, sitting, chewing a sandwich with a contemplative air. She has a flower name, Capucine. Mine crumpled, smell delicious sleepy little girl, still steeped in dreams.

The bus slows down, stops at the gate of the school. It snowed yesterday, a cold moisture soaks the ground, his boots sinking. She climbed breathing hard the path to the building it will occupy today. It has six hours of classes to give Monday is a big day. She returns to her mentally schedule, number of rooms, students' names, the texts it should be photocopied. Will she have enough money to borrow some coffee? She knows that she drinks a little too much, it is certainly not very good. It recognizes a student who is waiting, standing in front of the building's entrance, perhaps the arrival of a friend. She smiled, hoping she does not greet, she did not want to talk.

The warmth of the staff room fell on her shoulders, the piece that sizzles the hum of conversations scheduled for the copier can not interrupt. She approaches the large rectangular machine, made his choice, the mechanism snaps into a small metallic noise and can get a few moments later the cup filled with hot liquid, to taste unpleasant, but still comforting . It tries to avoid his colleagues, wants to preserve this last bubble of silence before the big show - because just now, immediately, it will keep them, attract them to her, seduce them, again and again ...

The first bell rings in the hallway. She hurries to the end of drinking his coffee, throw the cup into the trash, adjusts his bag on his shoulder and headed for the stairs. Waterspouts of students rushed to the classroom, she has the impression of being grazed by a cyclone disheveled and screaming. She retains her sternly, trying to preserve his dignity - to an arrival faculty, not to show the anguish that still captures the giddiness that hugs his heart at the door, then they are massed there, smiling, cheeky, kind, if disturbing ... The second ring barely covers the hubbub, we're at it, the game can resume.

What Does Yeduc Contain?

Preamble The decision time

The spooler runs the Web
blasts if tenuous, and bites
hearts, O impatience
What choice? Dying safe
In the quiet days oppressive equal
Or live
Calling the infinite seas trembling vibrato,
When the spooler its tangled foliage
And that wire is no longer
What nodes where the heart surrenders .

Cost Of Building A Racquetball Court

Why?

New pages, space available as a skin caressed yet ...
There is always the man whom the rage to write a kind of modesty a bit deaf to all these whiteness it prepares to mark its secretions intellectual - when the thought process continues in touch when, the passivity of the idea as a mechanism meets the business of writing.
The word "writing" includes also a laborious and monastic connotations that perfectly matches what has become today the task of the writer. Where are the dilettantes
Stendhalian, what happened to the je ne sais quoi of all the great classics, the thrill of sensual pleasure that is the most aristocratic ?
Where is Montaigne, the patron saint of lovers?
The time for reflection. The author looks at writing, he listens to think - and as it does not derive any real satisfaction of course, he theorizes his book to refrain especially feel it.
That's what I've done ...