Favour Without Prescription

And there is the Lebanon

We criticize all Lebanon. All. We Lebanese, we criticize Lebanese women. We accuse them of superficiality, hypocrisy, sometimes excess. We accuse men of sexism as we blame the parents for their attention often exaggerated, their interference, their severity

... Yes, we watch Lebanon through a magnifying glass. And we have the right. Because Lebanon is ours. As parents have the right to criticize their children. Like a brother has the right to make comments sometimes disturbing to his sister. Law from good intentions. The desire to protect. The legitimacy of the assertion located in the information. Simply. Because who knows better than us in Lebanon, Lebanon.

But I defy any Lebanese to accept that our beloved country abroad tip of the finger. Our women. Our men. Our parents. Because it is a scenario quite different. Right there by default. And then becomes questionable legitimacy.

Because we all love Lebanon. And I can say that the Lebanese I know, living abroad, live and by proxy through a calendar. I can assure you that although I was often tempted to go further, more beautiful and exotic, my heart, he is opposed to this desire and scrolls in front of my eyes cold and wandering a beach Lebanese often ugly, dirty, chaotic but oh I love her. Lebanese

I remain in the soul, in the head in focus, in my fake blond hair and every inch of Lebanese still polish never converted. Today

a ray of sunshine seeped into my room. And my happiness, it has found its source in Lebanon sunlight. I used the theory of proportionality to imagine myself in the sun even stronger, truer, bolder.

And my imagination could only hear the sound of spring - because spring makes noise - the noise of cars passing by delicious at spaced intervals, birds that start quietly chatting, of leaves who caress and my mother in the kitchen busy.

We criticize Lebanon. But we are. We are all the things that bother us, we are his charm, we are his mess, its chaos, its bottling his trash, his permanent danger, its warmth, its excess, its complicated structure, its eternal talks.

This morning, I love Lebanon a little more. Because there are days like this, where people like more, without knowing why.

And as there are stable partners and reasoned, that offer healthy relationships and long-term, beautiful children and beautiful notebooks and other lovers who do not promise anything at all except the fervor of the moment, there are country governments francs. And there is the Lebanon. ©

How Do I Get Pokemon On My Mac

* Colored Days (2)

ballerinas ROSE
sofa RED (my new friend for life no doubt)

skies BLUE

a cat that makes me see t o u t e s the s e c o u the e ur s! *

Toronto Pediatric Clinic

Ireland: stories, memories, stories and identities

[One of many murals in Northern Ireland: Bloody Sunday, Derry Bogside - vservat]

gradually conquered Earth from twelfth century and subject to England (to which Northern Ireland is still attached under the United Kingdom), country bled by emigration and the Great Famine of the mid-nineteenth century, states battered by a incomplete independence and partition painful leading the northern provinces to sink into a terrible war until 1998, Ireland may not be approached only in terms of this via dolorosa time throughout history. In this turbulent past, the Irish have built different identities, sometimes conflicting over the events stored in memory and sometimes reshaped according to more contemporary issues.

Stories, identities, memories of Ireland, is on these themes Laurent Colantonio, historian of Ireland , kindly answer the questions VServat, and enlighten us on how the events of spent part in this Irish, and Irish.

is fascinating to read an interview with photos on Samarra and two tracks on the playlists of Ireland

Baby Diarrhea More Condition_symptoms

Too bad for Canary Wharf

past few days probably deserve to be included in a chapter of this book fantasy that my mother called "the trials of life."

Gift spring, criminal or other food, I do not know the reason that made my whole body reacts in seconds and transforms me into a monster. I say monster because when I looked in the mirror, I see Charlize Theron. Not the Charlize glamorous and sexy on the red carpet. But the monster in Monster Charlize. If you have not seen the movie, google him (no, this is not a linguistic error. The verb "to Google" is now in the dictionary. Yes, yes ... I'm sure).

short. Apart from the aesthetic disaster which affected me deeply (I'm still a bit superficial), the real pain was situated beyond the skin and allowed me to put things in perspective.

Often in a big city like London, the organization is required. Because the minutes become precious. Metro at 7am, gym 20h, drink with friends Friday at 21h and so on. Appointments in the calendar we settle the driving pleasure of spontaneity, sleeping late and desires instant. Everything is programmed like that we can make the most of his time.

While it is by taming so that we lose really. His time.

And in this organization pushed things are happening especially next to a clear reality. That of being, despite all, human. Because in giving appointments within a week or two, thus eliminating the possibility that unpredictable external event, a "force majeure" (looks like the sleeping lawyer in me), would upset the order of things and add a few adventures in his life.

Saturday morning, I put on jeans in a hurry and walked, still in t-shirt that serves as my pajamas, in the first taxi to the emergency room. I resisted even this act of reason, hating hospitals and being imbued with the arrogance of Lebanon that nothing can happen. Until I detected in the dark eyes of my friend who was staring at me almost tangible fear.

Despite the urgency of the moment, I took care to carry my glasses and my hat, the costume that day comes naturally. And then I like to imagine, as to console me for the pain (and / or ugliness), Kate Moss on the streets of Angel in disguise for not getting to recognize and avoid attracting the curiosity passersby.

(Except that I was Charlize ... Again).

I turn the chapter of incompetent doctors, syringes, which are my only phobia, the ride in the rain in the middle of sickness absence for taxi, my mother on the phone that feels helpless but still do not understand that her voice alone is my only strength, dirty hospitals and so English, the difficulty of shopping is required when barely strength to drag their feet ... I

password. Because if I mention it because it took me to live a few difficult days for me to remember that London tried - in vain - to make me forget. I mention this because even though I suffered and I still suffer, I realized that most often goes to one side of a blessing innocuous but highly valuable, that of being healthy.

I mention this because it took me to live these moments to remember that whatever the pace of his life, always finding time to give to friends and family. Because it is to them that you think when you have blue legs and heart and when you're happy.

And ... I mention this because I had almost forgotten that same feverish and tired, there's nothing more delightful than to be awarded, for heaven's gift to spend a whole week in bed nothing to do except watch Two and Half Men on TV.

That's not all. Yes, yes, it gets even better ... The oreos and all the nonsense of the kind offered and with them the fun, yes fun with a capital P, the one who gives his acceptance in the further, that that is devoid of any sense of guilt.

Too bad for Canary Wharf. ©

©

Wakacje Z Panem Bogiem

Eggplant

There are certain foods that kids do not like. The food that I could not swallow a child, was eggplant. The color, texture and taste not only repugnant to me I will not touch, but I left all those who ate.

I can not remember the exact moment of sudden and permanent shift that made the eggplant my favorite food. I do not know if this transformation occurred through natural progression or a single act and accurate. All I know is that there is enough in a dish of eggplant, with mozzarella, chicken, pizza or pasta, so I eat until they can not stop.

And this history of eggplant makes me think that there are things in life that we must learn, over time, years, to appreciate. And failing to make the necessary effort, these things often come to us for themselves, without any invitation, with age and maturity.

Because eggplant, child, was not my only enemy. There was also trouble. I remember that I often repeated this sentence at the risk of annoying my mother running out of ideas: "I'm bored."

And now in my room on a Monday morning very different as idle, in a silence that normally would have seemed heavy and difficult, I realize that with age (even if the maturity is not yet), as the history of eggplant, I begin to enjoy the pleasure of doing nothing .... ©

Bmw Concept Gina Price

Black

Veronica Servat we propose t Kings thrillers that lead us to three cities in three different periods: Boston, New York and Trieste. We follow our guide to discover all three books.

is to read on Samarra

Abdominal Pain Scenario

By Harley Davidson

It is true that I have not written in awhile. The reason is neither secret nor poetic. I simply have nothing to say. However, I tried. I sat many times before my blank and my pen (by the way ... Microsoft Word and keyboard but it is less pretty) in the hope that the words flow. But the words did not sink. Then I tried to look vaguely remembering a beautiful sentence Valery: "A real writer does not find his words. So he seeks. And it is better. "
I seek. I'm looking for a beating heart. Because the find, or better yet, find the "best," I declare, perhaps, by the strength of the thoughts of Valery, true writer. But I quickly finished my computer close by. And plunge into a sleep. This time ... real. Valery
But if those evenings I was sorry, Proust always came to comfort me. And then I slept with a smile of complicity between Marcel and my lack of creativity. Because Proust said: "It is our passions that outline our books, and the rest of the writing interval. I liked to I think living my passions. And count on the moments of rest and any future, that I did not want to rush to write black and white what the life of me exciting.
Yes, my absence could result in a trance. Trance face of life, animals and excessive laughter, discussions and five in my little London flat, dreams, uncertainties, fears, youth.
Because I found the passion in a sense much broader than the love of a person. Yes, I discovered a love of life. Through my friends.
This week was heavy, long and painful. But a glimmer at the bottom of tunnel gave me the energy needed to survive. And more. The chewable. This small spark
called Gaëlle. It's his birthday. And of course I gave him no choice. She was to spend the weekend with me in London. What we would do not matter. Since we would be together.
the menu? Nightclubs, pubs, walks and secrets. Sure. He had to catch all this time that we had separated.
arrived Friday. And with it the excitement of two days of happiness guaranteed.
Except that what we had neither foreseen nor considered also arrived. One of these shots supposed to make life stronger but we often make just tired and feverish.
Birthday Gaëlle had fallen into the water. And alone in my room I thought of this misfortune to be sick alone in a foreign country, in a cold city, without her mother, without her family doctor without hugs as effective - if not more-than antibiotics. My eyelids
end up falling fast. But in my head sounds a song, a song sung loudly by my friend the day before in the Italian restaurant on the corner, swinging his long hair and black by rapid movements of the head. Yes, this song resonates and me gives the strength to face my empty room. And my mouth will draw a smile as unobtrusive as stupid as the voice of Gaëlle already en route to Paris fills my night: "I do not need anyone on a Harley Davidson."
Yes, tomorrow morning we will win. And I will support the starter again. To again ... leave the land. ©

Blueprints For Outside Wooden Bench

Geography "John Brown's Body" or the beginnings of the Civil War

you know John Brown ? The father of 20 children, born in 1800 into a family that believed that slavery was an offense against God, joined the colony of freed slaves from North Elba in upstate New York in 1848. He became friends with writer abolitionist Frederick Douglass .

John Brown, a defender
the abolitionist cause.

few years later in 1859, he sets out to gather around him an army of slaves to defeat the Southern slave system. His coup in the armory of the village of Harpers Ferry, Virginia , leads to his loss, he was hanged on December 2, 1859 . But the myth was born, crossing the Atlantic and inspiring even the great Victor Hugo .

In a fascinating article, which takes us through the history of the United States in the early nineteenth century to the eve of the Civil War, Blot using the song "John Brown's Body" tells the story of John Brown and shows us how the slavery was the point of attachment of nerve tension between North and South who eventually plunge the country into civil war from 1861.

To understand how the United States were disunited read the article on Histgeobox

Lord Of The Rings Hentie

rainbow

Some fish will fly now at the workshop green witch.
They will be available for sale in this beautiful boutique in Lille.

* In the previous post you gave me very pretty color bubbles to interpretations that I presented to you .. I show you soon the idea behind my head .. *

a project that takes shape and I am preparing with great pleasure .. scheduled for mid March to follow. *

good Sunday!

Mononucleosiscondition_symptoms

° oO ° o0

research grounds for making a new mobile
play with color stains, water and overlays
create a lightweight material and translucent ...

what it makes you think?

good Sunday!

Where Can I Play Pokemon Silver Online

Bad Timing

London is a city which has the advantage (and disadvantage ..., dare I say) of being a transit town. Indeed, there is always a cousin, aunt, friend, acquaintance passes for a romantic weekend for shopping, for a meeting in Canary Wharf or to visit the Queen.

And suddenly, the friend - or worse, the "knowledge" that suddenly becomes "best friend" - expected to be put our lives on hold, that we miss work, gym, nap and household, to welcome with open arms, offering him the couch and take out Big Ben (which I still have not seen - in brackets!).

short, if I mention this because my colleague (and friend, not knowledge!) Italian has the experience. Last weekend, she received a call from her first love. Italian dark it was a broken heart a day. He tells her he is visiting London and he'd like to do a 'catch-up over a drink ... "or a coffee, he takes good care to add ...

But between the glass and coffee, a big difference. And this beautiful Italian like in the movies, also has some intelligence. He leaves the choice open and casually plays both the indifferent and the sweeper.

Marianna comes to me and summed up in a hurry the last episodes, between buying a share and a call from a client. It wonder if I think she should see it. And I say yes. Not because I think, but because I know she does not care about my opinion. But I think

. I think this boy is a recurring character in our conversation on Saturday nights, and Sunday brunches. The boy who makes more the effect of old, but has still left a trace in his memory, even if the memory of a walk to the port of Venice.

Yes I think ... And I wonder what look like their reunion. Because she talked a lot about me. And I like to imagine them whispering in Italian des mots d’amour et des caresses platoniques. Mais je ne comprends pas l’italien.

Elle m’avait raconté qu’elle avait fait tomber un jour, à dix-sept ans à peine, l’une de ses boucles d’oreilles dans la voiture du beau. Elle avait ensuite tenté de le contacter à maintes reprises. Un peu pour la boucle d’oreille. Un peu pour entendre sa voix. Toujours pour sa voix. Toujours en utilisant le prétexte de la boucle d’oreille.

Mais les femmes s’impatientent. Et les femmes ne doivent jamais attendre. La boucle d’oreille fut jetée par mon amie. Et j’aime à imaginer le bijou reposant au fond d’un canal. Mais Marianna aurait trouvé the idea too banal. She had probably chosen the first bin. It is a practical girl.

The next day, the D-Day, I'm going to see the juicy details that would be perhaps a Tuesday morning gray and gloomy. She tells me, the cheeky smile and perfect hair, that this poor guy came, after all these years, announcing his love for her .... And report her lost earring once that he had kept.

She replied with a tone that I imagine both impregnated with disgust and pity, that now is missing hers.

Bad timing. ©

©

X Treme Curves/ Leigh D

gaze skyward

two skies, one drops swatch of blue-gray-white-
One scrambled and heckled by wind, north
The other announcing a beautiful sunny day, a little further south.

between Lille and Toulouse exchange heavens

a thought one to the other . For you small
Mulot *

Sebaceous Cyst. More Condition_symptoms

"Clandestino" impossible or migration, by Manu Chao

From the song "Clandestino" Manu Chao, Veronique Servat we moved on histgeobox focusing depth on contemporary migration:

"Migration is part of the history of mankind since its earliest days, movements of ancient peoples to major departures from Europe to America. Today they are at the heart of political and social debates of the North reflects the importance of these flows in the landscape of a planet globalized mobility.

Yet Been living with borders also monitored? In some places, security arrangements deterrent stack and are supported by cooperation policies anti-immigration, not to say anti-migrant.

In 1998, Manu Chao released his first solo track "Clandestino". It guides us in this world where the flows of capital, goods and information are massive while the free movement of men and solidarity are undermined, reflect the image of a world ever more unequal. "

Listen to the song and read this fine article on VServat histgeobox

Prints For Rabbit Cages

If I had slept for four days ...

If I had stayed four days, I could not understand why the streets of Beirut were deserted, the streets of Cairo and Tunisia rabid transformed. I could not understand why young Syrian whisper shyly invitations to revolt, and why Jordan decided to change his prime minister this way. I would have thought even in dream, and I snapped their fingers so that it ends. An Arab world which has so far floated peacefully in corruption, suddenly vomits its bid. A people which has been used and abused at once denies its injustice and asks God to bless him. People living in fear far the largest, showed themselves tolerant. But young people are willing to brave the war. Because they are poor and unemployed, because they are poor, whatever their ages, because they must submit. To the gods, to master. If I had stayed four days, I could not understand the logic of the market, and show why the bankers worried. I hated to miss this change, and do not live those moments. I could not understand these acts of rebellion sudden, and why there is suddenly a smell in the air jasmine.

I look at pictures and scenes, and I find myself torn between the joy we feel when we tasted the freedom and apprehension of the post. Shared between the enthusiasm that these men must feel these young women, children and the pain that comes with the pain of combat. I listen all around me my European friends who advance principles beautiful and praiseworthy, those of democracy, equality, justice. I listen to them talk as if reciting a textbook of political science or constitutional law. I pity all of naivete. Because I can not help to remember, almost by repressing the idea that comes to disturb me, for that freedom is granted, it must know the subject, able and willing to decide.

The Arab revolt today. He rises. He shouts. He probably believes. A comedy would not be passionate. Spreads a smell, a smell of flowers, and as a decoy, like that, without notice, without agenda, awakens a long-hidden pain and can no longer be supported. What scares is uncertainty about who will replace the culprit. Will he choose to wait, like this, by an act reactionary and unreasonable? Will he manipulate the crowd as it handles a virgin girl with words dreamers ... and especially liars? Does it benefit from its weakness, fatigue, the cry of SOS?

Arab countries, they all reached majority at the same time, at the same time, by pure coincidence? Some would they be influenced by their neighbors so they can not afford to pay the price of freedom?

Are they now adults, adults and vaccinated? Or is it a crisis of adolescence? A crisis that parents do happen ... Until we go again.




©

©

Ovarian Cysts More Condition_treatment

... for the new year of the cat, rabbit starts ...
one year dreamy, gentle and quiet
*
cat portrait given by my grandfather "Zouzoutte 2nd name The nice."

Leigh-d/xtreme Curves

new year "gamut"

admire the delicate colors,
the soft light ...
and inspire them to germinate ideas.

by Ditte Isager , Danish photographer.

(via nouschineandsons )

Wedding Program Wording Examples

Mission "Red Cross" Dear Captain

A term used by Italian girlfriend and described so well this cause I'm single with my personality ... but I realize more and more, and to my surprise, common to all the girls I know.

Yes, this mission to save life, to change, to reveal, behind a grumpy and selfish character, background and pure altruism.

This arrogance of power to influence, change, alter, release ... This desire to be the engine of a metamorphosis, the analogue of beautiful things, the rationale of a being, the muse of an individual previously imbued with the ruse.

All the girls want to ca. And all the girls think. They could for their beautiful eyes, their attention, the dance of the hips, angelic smile, their difference and their mere existence change this bad boy so far. And they try their luck.

Driven by an instinct perhaps by a mother and probably somewhat carnal desire, they have eyes only for those who only destroy his way, whatever his age, heart girls.

They say, with a haughty and chin slightly raised, glass in hand and smile malignant, for them, this guy wants to cross oceans insolent.

Then they will put the necessary effort, they consider different approaches, as Machiavellian as sincere, much more to gain than to please him.

Because they want to be the first. The first to be dug in the permanent transience. Bad Boy and converted is the dream of every girl.

The Red Cross mission ... what a beautiful expression. A mission under the banner of love, perhaps. Surely the arrogance. Can we change someone ... really?
Is it love each other? I know. Is it a personal challenge? Surely.

But is it worth? I do not really believe.

Why change the world ... when there are at every street corner, in every bar in every subway station, and on every street and many sincere people who do not require all this way.

This would be too easy, they tell me. And I debate.

But even me ... even I wanted once, with all the conviction that goes with it and perfect abstraction of failure, transforming an offender into a prince.

And in our usual coffee, about a late lunch after a Friday evening abusive, three, we talk with laughs and frights this nonsense tough.

The conclusion is uncertain. The conversation I hurt. Because I did not realize until then that this game was not clean to me.

And I decide, in my heart, eyes that shine have suddenly understood everything, the bad boys ... put a cross. Red. And then I move.

Prior to realize that it's my heart that decides ... often. And it has never been intelligent.

Rouge. Anger this time.

Definitely. Nothing depends on me.

A Marianna and Julia ...

©

Killing Me Softly Free Movie Online

days *

Odalisque, Matisse -1923 -

few days of calm with Mary " Mouse ",

opportunity to submit Lille (and the blue sky for one day only)
discuss, do even aware
laughing, drinking tea
,
to dream ...
what fun really! *

with a little advance, that my summertime pretty Mouse!
some colors in the image of these few days together.

*
and then schedule "tree coloring" butterfly , arrived in the mail yesterday and immediately hooked! Thanks again
Sibyl, I like it a lot ... *

and then a nice meeting this week with a tea Mulot, poppy and blabla .
a joyful moment to repeat soon!

Jthm Johnny The Homicidal Maniac

is an article I read on the site of L'Orient Le Jour. As every morning, and before anything else as urgent as it is, I cross diagonally and Lebanese news bed with depth and precision page "views".
The item I want to talk, did not fail to attract my attention.

Entitled "Christian in my country, I soon felt concerned. Being Christian and being (unfortunately ...) of his country. Mr.

felt called to counsel women. As if he had any idea what it means to be a woman. Lebanese woman and a fortiori.

After reading his article, let me very clumsy, I could not help but dive into a new confusion, that of not knowing if I feel the urge to laugh or cry. And normally, my reactions are spontaneous.

I wanted to record a comment directly responsive, passionate, violent ... but I recently learned that to be heard must be controlled. So I chose the nice words. But now on my personal site, I would like to share with you, Mr. "Captain", impressions of a Lebanese woman. And Christian.

You say that the family should be governed by a single head. And this idea is not completely stupid. Even dictatorships (" enlightened" to quote one of my professors in law) proved to work well.

You say that Lebanese Christian women are becoming more liberated (I did not quite understand the need to specify the religion ... but nevermind).

You say it takes only one master is on the edge of the boat (the man) and that the woman would then play the role of co-pilot (I admit I found the words "cute").

you consider that the emancipation of women, access to a status equal to man, his ambition, his success are the causes of the failure of some marriages (the number of "growing" as you say although the term "crescent" seems more elegant my dear captain).

Also, you accuse the wave of liberalization as a primary source of the decline of family values and a negative impact on education children.

short, I'm not going to summarize your article well detailed as those who have not read have understood the message.

Let me now present to you my opinion on the subject.

I'm young. And I'm single. I can not pretend like you know what a life together and that requires a marriage (are you married?) But I will try from the top of my 24 years, to share with you my analysis .

Dare argued that women should only be mother and wife and abandon his status as a woman short and second career woman, would assume the following points:

- The success of man (so it has the luxury of not contributing to the financial needs of the household) because you have completely forgotten that the living conditions and the Lebanese economy dictate, often combined efforts of both parents. And yet ...
- The lack of ambition of the woman (for the latter to rejoice in his idleness)
- The folly of man (so he could hear a woman with a little more s'abêtissant every day) with all the consequences would be visited a couple stupid kids
- Archaic vision of man, his lack of confidence, etc.

I could go on for pages and list pages. But I hurry to reach my conclusion that will prove you wrong swimming.

I could tell you about my mother, a successful career, marriage and flawless four children do not suffer from lack of affection or complex, but you do not know to be guaranteed.

I could talk to my director at the office, beautiful woman who hangs pictures of her husband around and comes back in time to get his daughter out of school, to cook for her small her husband and spend the evening with family. This woman has something to tell her husband returning home, and not be restricted to trivial and irrelevant stories of neighbors and neighbors. This woman is a role model to her 8 year old daughter. Who taught him, without saying but the living image of a woman model carried.

I could tell you about the mother of a friend. A woman I admire and I respect that. A woman with impeccable values and faith untouchable who has educated two children (now adults) who succeed in life. Who lack neither love nor attention nor support financial or moral support or emotional support. These children who have excelled in their studies and also stand out in the workforce. I can tell you, Mr. Captain, and I want to assure you that their mother had breached no duty towards his home, and is now head of a court Lebanon.

Yes, these women make me dream.

Children make me dream too.

And a successful marriage.

But I can not allow myself to read an article written by a man, and daring to give advice to women.

What do you know her?

There is no recipe for a successful family.

Ultimately, the woman can work or not, man can also stay at home, why not?

One head ... I will. But it is at least ... Well done!

Please do not talk about Lebanese woman, Christian released. Talk about women at all.

And better yet, do not talk.

Excuse my arrogance. It must be my age. But Captain, you seem to know the water and want only the crossing, I end with a verse from a poem that inspires me Marbeuf:

"And the sea and love to have the bitter division,
He who fears the water, it remains to shore. "
Hi Marin.

Note: To access the article, visit www.lorientlejour.com Click "Debates" and "Opinions" and then "Christian in my country."

©

Well Wishes - In The Time Of Death - Says

I'm here to tell you that I'm

I came to tell you I'm
Yeah I'm sorry to tell you that
OF I'm
Because you told me too much.

Serge Gainsbourg. I wanted to meet you. ... And yet you're ugly.

I wanted you to know. Because you belonged to a future time, and you dared do and say in public what the others thought immodest. I love your face, your messy hair, nonchalant your approach, your singing voice, your definition of love and your words plainly.

I specially sensitive to a particular song: "I'm here to tell you I'm going. "Paradoxical

Words that make me almost ill. Because at your farewell, Serge, I believe only half. Why would you go to confront the woman you love ... if you really left her?

And I find myself in these words. Because that's what I do. Every time. I may be crazy.

Yes, I'll find him. I'll see when my skin rejects it, while my heart hates him, while my reason it is more reason.

I'll find him. And as I am ashamed of what I do, I shall advance this excuse as low as pathetic, I can not find that to say that I leave.

I give him an appointment as for the injury. But it hurts me that I first.

I mistaken my pride and my pride, and I treat myself to a moment at his side, convincing me that it is better for me to go. This time for good. This deserves a final insult.

I find myself facing him, and I offer him a face cleansed by tears, I told him it's over, and this time I succumbed to its charm. He nods

as I knew. He smiled as I feared. And I swear to myself never to return.

And yet ... and yet ... I will return. I know. But still ... just to tell him I'm going.

game unhealthy and destructive. From an impossible love but so predictable. Because I resource at his side. And I did that kiss for release.

Yes, I leave. And I'll go see it to tell him. Thousand times if necessary. To make sure he understood my words.

So I walk. I walk without looking back. A little to do as Gainsbourg. ... Who loved him that long.

I'll go see it. One last time. This time is the charm. I'll go see it and I'll tell him out loud. I will not answer the phone. I met another man. And it's over now.

But like the song, I remember the happy days and I cry. So I'm going to check, in cons heart, there is really no hope of saving the past.

And then a smile. A casual caress. A look pushy. An endearing memory. A fragile promise. A passionate kiss. Make me forget everything. These wounds that I'm inked forever. These betrayals I thought insurmountable. These mood swings that broke my heart.

Yes, I forget everything. And I just tell you ... I tried. Really. I tried all my life. But I can not really leave.

And when I go ... only for better return.

Beirut. ©

Ruptured Ovarian Cyst Pain

colored light as a ...

range of pen
an idea that gradually comes to life ..
*
behind my window, warm, I see the blue sky makes me believe that spring is here ..
a little patience.

Enterprise Teck Decks Toys

Liberal

To Mr.

My parents always seemed to be the best. When I was a kid at school, I was plagued by a fear unreasonable and disproportionate, that of coming home and not find them. Quick, quick, too fast, I hunted the idea in my head for fear of having ignored the power to transform thoughts into reality.

I spoke, I spoke a lot. I always speak the same. At breakfast I told them everything from clothes to the teacher's comment no more of the class. I did not finish my meal and never j'agaçais my brothers, my sister and my parents by my chatter exaggerated. I appreciated especially

car trips with my mother. Enclosed dans sa caisse, elle n’avait d’autre choix que de m’écouter.

Avec le recul, et l’âge, j’ai réalisé que derrière ce rôle qu’ils se devaient de prendre, ils restaient un homme, une femme, comme tous les autres, avec leurs peurs, leurs blessures, leurs efforts, leurs faiblesses, leurs ambitions, leurs rêves. Et je m’en voulus d’être souvent passée à coté.

Mais s’il y a une chose que je leur reconnais, c’est de nous avoir offert, dès notre plus tendre enfance, la liberté.

La liberté de jouer dans la boue, avec les chats et les souris. La liberté de marcher seul to the cinema, when our neighbors were our age go to bed at 18 hours. For us, the evening was only beginning. Freedom later to studies of our choice. I chose the Law. In a family that has a head for science. Freedom, much later, to fall in love with the boy for whom my heart was pounding. It is nice, stupid, dirty or ugly.

And this freedom, I could not shake them.

She especially when amplified alone in a foreign city, I was able to experience it in its more elaborate version. Because even the eyes of parents, then walked away. And my freedom, I am soaked. I devoured as to explore its limits. And especially mine. I boasted, I abused, I sang it ... and I even wept often. When alone in a dark street, when the cold slap me, when my courage and escaped me when loneliness overcame me, I hoped, so deeply, be protected.

And yet ... and yet, even if I have it, although I've always had, I realized why she had been granted. This dangerous weapon which often requires beware. This prerogative intangible and priceless enjoyed the powerful and dreamed of states, individuals and children .... This natural and inalienable right which is the focus of international talks, wars, revolutions. Yes, I understood why my parents have always considered worthy of this blessing ...

I understood too late perhaps. Or have I understood too soon. I understand and I smiled. I understand and I blushed. My parents knew that on a solid foundation on well established principles, freedom could not hurt us. Because she had inked on her as a contradiction, its own limitations.

Yes, I'm liberal. I'm as liberal a single Lebanese woman living in London can be. Because I choose my friends, I live alone, I dance, I cry, I drink ... and I make my own choices. I love the light dresses, walks at night, yellow shoes, the music at any time of day and night, loves senseless debates daring, obstacles, too ambitious ambitions and challenges. Life. Life. Life.

And during a dinner with a man who looks like me, a man who comes from my country, living in the same city and who has in the eyes the same desires, I replied that yes, I love Beirut. But unfortunately I do not like him more. Because I am indeed very liberal. But I have a lot of principles. While Beirut is conservative. But has more often, and unfortunately, principles. ©

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A kiss to my mother

This year, the Easter holidays will be long and very festive. In London, taking three days off, we get to link two long weekends of four days each. Because the Easter weekend is followed by the marriage of Prince. And of course this deserves a holiday. Congratulations William and Kate. And thank you! The result? Eleven days in Beirut, of course!

That said ... The formula is not as simple and joyful than it pretends. Because there are two obstacles to overcome.

The first obstacle lies in the office. It is time to ask his boss (and firmly) to be granted 3 days of leave that bind the two weekends. He must convince his colleagues, most of which (all in fact ...) are more senior, they should remain to cover my absence and I, deep in the hierarchy, I deserve this luxury. I would not hesitate one second to play that manages to turn every time to charm my audience, run out of tears and the words powerful, passionate, touching my attachment to my land, my painful separation from my family, my expatriation to London. And I'm leaving in a speech ending, patriotic and determined, which will be interrupted by my boss, who, tired of my ride, resolves to let me go.

happy with my victory, I'll sit my butt in front of my screen, and send some emails to my friends who ecstatic, like me, plan the lavish celebration. I would file a few tips that work every time: my cousin got married (if you listened we really had understood that it was only 7 years old and she can not marry 7 times in a year ...), my brother finished university (in April?) and my best friend passed the bar (So what?).

short. Now it's done. I smiled stupidly but wisely not to irritate the prisoners in April.

Needless to say, the few hours after this announcement are lightweight, head in the air and very distracted. But the words here and there in the Lebanese newspapers that I read online and in the international press, take me back to reality quickly. And I remember the second obstacle, which my still applies to repress consciousness.

Danger. Revolution. Indictment. Regime crisis. Big words that sound strong but are actually impregnations of cowardice.

The voice of my father on the phone sounds calm and rested. He said he had lunch with my mother in their big empty house with their four children. He told me that there's falafel. He said he is heartened by the fact that we all live abroad.

me it does not comfort me at all. Because already they are. And if the country is really in danger, I'd rather be with them there, my house, how to look through my TV screen, some clue that would resolve the uncertainty. The uncertainty of the existence of a government, its lack of impact on peace, the uncertainty of the return of an indictment, the uncertainty if it is eventually published.

My phone rings and me away from my thoughts. My friend, I feel quite optimistic, which already buys its tickets online, wonder if he takes BMI or MEA, and if we go on April 22 or 23.

Frankly, I can only hope that during a rest interval between a crisis and a war, I can go for a kiss to my mother. ©

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1871: The Commune in images and music

In pictures ...

The Paris Commune has resulted in the destruction of several monuments of the capital. The Palais des Tuileries royal residence which was at the end of the Louvre has been burned by the Communards May 23, 1871, during the "Bloody Week." What he was still, after many debates, razed in 1883 (the cons a painting done in 1880 ). See on the map above its exact location. To learn more about this event, see this article on the blog of my colleague, "Camille Desmoulins" . See also some representations on the site by the image history. Some would even rebuild the Palace in the same, but that seems unlikely ...



Another monument damaged, column of the Place Vendome , atop which stood a statue of Napoleon . Column calving is May 8, 1870 by the Communards as a symbol of the Empire (Napoleon III was in fact dismissed after the defeat of Sedan September 2, 1870). The painter Gustave Courbet, a prominent representative of realism in painting and close to the socialists, was later charged with having been, at best, complicit in the decision. He was sentenced to six months in prison.

At the time of the Paris Commune, photographs are taken. You can see by looking this link.

As for songs ...

Jean-René Caussimon a song written in 1975: "La Commune is struggling." With this song, reminds us Julien Blottière histgeobox on the various events of the "Terrible Year" (Victor Hugo): Franco-Prussian War, Siege of Paris, Paris Commune and repression by the "Versailles".

Another song is a direct part in the history of the Commune is " The cherry season ," whose lyrics were written by Jean-Baptiste Clement in 1866. The latter, very committed to the left, asks Antoine Renard to his poem to music. The song becomes a sort of anthem of the labor movement and the Commune. Jean-Baptiste Clément is also present on the barricades with Louise Michel, a key figure in the insurgency. The lyrics are full of metaphors suggesting a bright future, that of workers, so poetic.

The success of the song has not waned thereafter, even if those who were thinking probably hummed little to its political dimension. Many singers have interpreted, Yves Montand Dassary, I've prepared a playlist up to you designated your favorite version ....

Discover Playlist Time cherries with Nao Wadayama

Recently, the group Black Desire completed version. The political dimension is evident to them, especially since the other title on line wants to be very explicit: "Winners and losers." Below, "Time of the Cherries.

Learn more about "Le Temps des Cerises" on this site

Let's talk to end the BD Tardi after the novel of Vautrin, The Cry of the People , which the Commune is the "character" principal.

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* * not having foot

weightless feel lighter, swim, float
let go, listen ... *