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goes the culture? Evening of academic performance

Credit: Nicoz BALBOA , my new idol

Come see us play . Children will be there!

Ca Catharine Cormier-Larose and Alexie Morin , Me Breast (presentation-performance)

Working towards academic research while being a parent, elements from the books must be accommodated between diaper changes. What happens when the creative space becomes a public space, it is always invaded? With texts by Martine Delvaux, Sébastien Dulude and Rosalie Lessard and projections of different works of contemporary art about motherhood (Catherine Opie, Monique Moumblow, Eyre and Janieta Guy Ben-Ner), we try to redefine motherhood cultural, integrating this performance both the fruits of our research more "academic" and excerpts from our own creations.

Catherine Cormier-Larose has two bachelor's, master's, and many books. She has published in various periodicals, including Moebius, Esse, Inkjet and UFO, and participated in two collective books ( Cats editions Rodrigol and The Black Book editions of Your Mother). She is Director of Productions Arreuh ( www.productionsarreuh.blogspot.com ) interested in the poetic and performative practices in public space. She is the mother of a girl who allows another take on reality.

Alexie Morin completed a Masters in literary studies at UQAM. She has published in various journals, including Biscuit Chinese , Moebius , Ectropion , carrier abyss and History Incredibles. It is the team's voice here ( www.voixdici.ca ) and is part of the collective Vx, which focuses on the construction of voice in writing and its relation to body language and the world. You can follow his blog at www.mecreante.blogspot.com . She is the mother of a boy who turns his artistic and human respect in the world.

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William Sampson or refusal

Source: CBC

British and Canadian citizen born in 1959, former military doctor of chemistry converted into marketing consultant employed by a state company Saudi William Sampson was arrested by police on leaving his home in Riyadh on December 17, 2000. It will be released in 2003 after 31 months of solitary confinement and countless physical, psychological and sexual abuse.

During his first week in detention, he was beaten, deprived of sleep and food, and eventually raped, before they succeed in eliciting confessions. In a confession broadcast video hallucinating February 5, 2001, I am unable to find on the Net, a bearded Sampson, identified and pitiful explains plan to support, in a broken voice, the way he organized a terrorist attack on other Westerners whose car exploded in downtown march of the Saudi capital. The day before his arrest, he was denounced by a friend, nurse, witness of the accident. Raf Schyvens, a Belgian, had tried to rescue victims before being cased by the National Police dispatched. In summary, it anything.

Still: Sampson is incarcerated and continue to torture him every day for eliciting further admissions. Later he was tried and can be sentenced to be beheaded in public. After his trial, it gets in a car that takes him to a public square deRiyad. Convinced that this is it, Sampson is almost relieved. The death made him more afraid. But it was not yet his time and the van turned around. It was returned to prison.

Then he had enough.

I could write a long time on the details of legal history, the various governments' indifference to the suffering of their own citizens when it involves business relationships with the oil country, the language of wood that is ridiculous to say that diplomats are not entirely certain that the type has not committed a crime, but for me the heart of the matter is the Supreme buggery tick Bill Sampson when he learns that his nightmare continues. From that moment, it may also excuse that it is crazy not help.

The guy decides he no longer obey. Never. He does not care to die. At the point where it is, is the bid that is death. It veutt force him to wear the thowb , traditional costume of Saudi men, it tears the clothes under the surveillance cameras. He removed all his clothes except those he wears. Whatever! When his t-shirt and boxers are too disgusting, it goes commando in his great white cell. She confiscates his soap and shampoo, it starts to expand his shit on the walls, he s'enduit whole body with it, and piss in the corners like a cat. The cell is a cell, but she belongs. His jailers do not dare touch him. He never sets on his bed. No longer sits. He paces the cell off, singing tunes of his childhood in England.

The refusal is the only word possible. Dignity and integrity are synonymous to roll in poop. This is the only way to exist. Submit, is to die to self. Bill Sampson decides he remains alive at any cost. He became rebellious half half memories édimbourgeois kid.

Is he a hero?

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Tag: Memory of Childhood and sour tangy tangle

Packaging Japanese condoms (duuh)

Like last time, but with one more layer of crunchy and unease .

I can not remember how old I am. Third, fourth year. This is another of these somewhat disastrous periods of my life where social I have nothing else to do for recreation than to walk around the courtyard of the elementary school by staying close, far behind the big wooden games and swings, deep in the wooded area where he there are tall pine trees and rock ledges that make it a little dangerous.

I do not really have trouble to anyone. I'm afraid we come see me if I remain motionless. That's why I walk. This fear is only one, a great unease, acts as an analgesic: I have no body, I do not run, I do not laugh, when nobody is in sight I lean on the fence and I look to the other side hoping to go out but not too strong.

It's winter. Probably the late winter because the snow is like salt in the crust. A crust of six, seven, eight inches thick depending on location. We can break it except by jumping in with both feet, I'm not.

There is another little girl sitting along the fence. When I meet her, I know, we are of the same year. Impossible today to remember his name or his face. Air busy, industrious. Kneeling in a crater: it broke the crust of snow and it recasse pieces of the diameter of his arm, shapes it by passing them through holes in the fence Frost. I must have said it could not constitute a threat, because I'm doing something I never do normally. I talk to him. I asked what she makes.

"Condoms," she replied. And she offered me to participate.

So I sit in India in the snow and I started carving ice condoms using the same moves back and forth in the closing Frost that the other girl. Others come join us and when people ask me what I did say " condoms, in complete ignorance of what a condom.

*

Answers: Philippe cruel ; Clarence remains in the theme Tops , Anne takes a shot old, Simon has a parapraxis ; Emeleh is innocence, with ; Gustavo a-do-ra-ble ; Iris is keep .

Answer, too!

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For the first time, Bock and I could get out free. Baby rode on his year, he drank a glass like a big bad my stepmother could keep it for one night, so we unfolded the park in her room with confidence. When we left we could already hear the cooing of bliss, it was beautiful to hear, and Eloi MamanVivi singing the same octave The haphazard . We left Lachine, worse was to remain in the West in an emergency, because we thought the time was right to try a purlin which our buddy Clarence spoke often, Burgundy in St. Henri. Twenty minutes of biking in the mother-at least when you're drunk. It was not too satisfied because not like too hip places that receive good reviews full page in the View, but Max was fond of eating meat and I all I wanted was finally a big pint of stout over a Another big pint of stout and so on, with perhaps a small shot of scotch from time to time to get drunk faster. Worse of Newcastle. Worse for India Pale Ale in the late evening light when nothing else would come down. I had no intention of missing my brush, I made that so much oil the stomach with a lot of fish and many chips. But really, the waitresses, they were too vulgar and after supper they fled in a tavern and I found myself on the Molson Ex pitchers to nine dollars, it tasted a little series, the worse I was still pleased Bock is that the Canadiens will be issued in final East against Ottawa after Ovechkin will be viciously brought out the shoulder by Plekanec. I always knew he was a little crooked, her. We kept still a bitter memory of the match in September when it was finally eliminated after a hat trick of Kovalev healed from his injury to a foot and more Russian and more phlegmatic as ever. Bock the more disappointed than me. I had watched all this a little further, I found it unreal, my son was asleep not because of the teeth. Anyways, about half past two I felt like a firecracker smoke is worse than me on Bock we left off on Notre Dame to find someone who sells. In the alley next to the Burgundy I spotted a guy with a plaid shirt the worse Bock gave me a nudge, "CHECK, it seems EDDIE VEDDER INTO A NIGHTMARE 'bad me I yelled" CAN WHAT TO BE THE WEED "then went up to the nearest, but it was cut made by another dude , worse then I have trouble telling it all because I made progress not bad the worst Jack began to type, I felt dizzy, I'm holding a lamp post, it became surreal, fake Vedder himself was yelling to be true Vedder - Y'avait as mistaken identity, at large - worse deal fag Hawaiian FUCK! I thought I hallucinating, I had not heard that since primary school I knew just a bad guy in town able to leave that expression too bad really think being insulting, I yelled "CLARENCE, I want to smoke" but there Bock picked me up by the shirt, saying "it's not him, it may not make it as SEEDS, come on bitch human leads up to the pot'd have better luck with the gang of acorns to host Civic that just passed. " We left a couple of blocks further on Bock pissed on a bike seat gel bad I thought it was so twisted that I had to lift my skirt to make in the gutter. It was wonderful, so it all made me think of old times that I pushed my handsome husband under a viaduct to make me right away another child with her beautiful pink and erect penis.

ADDITION:

To read the series from the beginning: Imbroglio in Brousseau; Misunderstanding in Saint-Henri ; brat in Townshippers ; mess with Émiliyamelle .

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GAO Xingjian, The Soul Mountain, Dawn, tranduit Chinese by Christmas and Liliane Dutrait

Ink. Gao himself.

"The sun will reappear soon and illuminates the mountain in front of me. The air is so pure, the coniferous forest below the cloud layer at this time offers a touch dark green so clear that it forces me to rapture. It is like a song that quiet would rise from the bottom of the lungs and spread along the shadows and lights, changing the tone in the blink of an eye. I run, I jump, continuing the changing shadows of the clouds, taking photo on photo.

The gray fog came back in my back, regardless of ditches, crevices in the ground, trunks of fallen trees. I have no way to flee before him and he catches me, without hurrying. I'm buried in fog. The landscape has gone before me, everything is indistinct. Only the heads remain in my feelings that I have experienced. I remain perplexed as a ray of sun breaks over me and illuminates the foam that covers the ground. Then I discovered under my feet with a strange plant world, too, its chains of mountains, meadows and groves of green sparkle. By the time I squatted, the fog returned and spread everywhere, like something out of a magician's hand, leaving only an indistinct gray range. "

So far, this book is a marvel that makes me want to write an article and go to China. Two characters travel : One of them fled his old life in the mountains and forests, after fears of losing as a result of a false diagnosis of cancer and the other is already a seasoned traveler who seeks to restore a meaning to the concept of travel by visiting the famous mountain of the Soul, and meet its inhabitants to the enviable life of all and who have never seen (or few) visitors.

One side explores a titanic nature where trees have thousands of years, mountains thousands of feet, with scientists taciturn, the other one visits the villages their hostels, train stations, historic sites decorated with characters that even the locals do not know decipher. Yet the stories are many: as river remembers dozens of suicide, such a street has seen thousands of New Year's parades. The brides fleeing and rivals alike hunks from one century to another. Their history is so long, the Chinese are not jaded either. They are like at peace with the idea that they are not unique, never originals. It's okay. Not enough to make it a depression.

**

In the quoted passage I like to find a literary form in its physical concept that struck me and serve me in writing my memory: that of scale invariance. This principle is that land surfaces have, no matter what the distance they are observed, the same degree of roughness. This means that if I watch the side of a lake of space, the ratio of angles, curves, bays will be roughly the same as if I gaze from my kayak. I will find again the same proportions, the same crevices, so I accosted in a bay and my field of vision is reduced to few meters of beach. Of his three distances, if I try to copy the line of the lake, j'obtiensle same drawing.

All that to say that our traveler is almost three thousand meters above sea level, fascinated by the green trees. When the fog rolls in and he can not see the other side of the ravine in front of it, the snowy peaks, he found the same green and the same relief on the ground, in moss and stones. Just like me, when I was little and amuse me I lay on the ground to look through the grass and imagine I was watching a forest strange and strangely familiar. Look at the picture of Gao, top: it operates exactly the same effect. We think it's a mountain, but why would not a small hill with a pond? For that matter, what prevents us from believing that this is not a small puddle of water that would look at ground level?

**

I read books translated from languages that I will never know and I can not really suspect in mind. I am trying to locate records in the process. Here, nature is perpetually animated, sometimes aware of herself and sometimes driven by the hand of a kind of divinity magician and singer. It's beautiful!

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Time flies

The weeks and months scroll rapidly.

We are already in April.

Since February, meetings and trade shows have succeeded: Cruseilles, Annecy, Evry, Sallaumines, and finally Wittenheim Montereau. Beautiful encounters, moments of emotion, laughter ...

A new title: Unleashing Rahi Casterman.

Momo little prince of blueberries, which continues to win your votes, will soon have a sequel. "Momo poppies," released in June from Syros and surprises you.

released in September "Rue Stendhal" Casterman always had some right to read the first chapter.

you soon

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Top reflection the continuous and discontinuous

this isn't happiness. Nidzgorski ™ Peter

From ffffound.com

The discontinuous world raises incomprehension. It is a cliché to say huge, complex and elusive. Life as billions of separate phenomena, made possible by exceptional conditions: a staggering improbability. The figures are frightening.

*

The batch is so normal that it is hard to describe, even harder to understand it causes problems. There are even too many examples. It is intuitively perceive its existence as a result of days of events, the world as a empilade objects, places, people. There could have nothing more to say, if it was fear.

*

So many reasons to separate anxiety: me, my country, my identity, that of others, though incarnate the evil brought home by others. War as a means of subduing evil, to identify, isolate, destroy.

* Receive the world as an object is an incomprehensible mistake. It put itself in a position total vulnerability than waiting for someone, priest, doctor, teacher, politician, creative - than any specialized - explains.

*

The wide world is shrinking constantly. It is crossed by air in less than a day. Before you travel, you will see the front of his hotel on the street, in real time. If we had time, we could see the whole Earth. Everything is known. All we are given.

*

Among past and understand what it does not anymore: the production of food, building a house the functioning of his own body, baby. The specialty of each becoming increasingly clear, the responsibility of everyone's life is fragmented: how do you know who I am to eat, which put a roof over my head, which looks after me? The path is what I blocked.

*

If the accumulation of knowledge leads to confusion, perhaps we accumulate does not have good knowledge. Maybe it does suffer from a methodological problem and should replace the word "accumulation" by another.