tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32107830877531529302024-02-08T19:00:55.600+00:00Dirty Grey SlateFlorémi Fasollasidohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16826723879102256417noreply@blogger.comBlogger25125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3210783087753152930.post-75782892523716724462012-11-16T10:11:00.002+00:002012-11-16T10:11:41.481+00:00My Brother's Foot [Revised]
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Florémi Fasollasidohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16826723879102256417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3210783087753152930.post-54932045118643694012012-10-16T21:39:00.001+01:002012-10-29T11:48:11.870+00:00Bones [Class Assignment]
The bone lay on the table between dishes and cutlery and clashed with the colour of the tablecloth. Sarah bent down and picked up a fork that the bone had pushed over the edge of the table. “I don’t see why,” she said, “I have to be the one to keep it.”
“It was his favourite bone,” said Tom, who was leaning against the doorframe because his shoes were muddy and the kitchen floor was Florémi Fasollasidohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16826723879102256417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3210783087753152930.post-5764916388592905402012-10-12T11:51:00.000+01:002012-10-12T11:59:12.839+01:00Tommy and Arlo [Writing Exercise]
I suffer, hey, says Arlo, look at that thing in the window. Have you ever seen one like it? Tommy says no, he hasn’t, and he doesn’t care, the gym is two blocks away and they have no money for the bus. You’re lazy, says Arlo, what we going to the gym for. For the ladies, says Tommy, and coughs up a fishbone. The woman next to them holds on to the lamppost as though it was an elbow, a gentlemanFlorémi Fasollasidohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16826723879102256417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3210783087753152930.post-60409315500887443332012-10-12T11:49:00.003+01:002012-10-12T11:50:04.929+01:00Writer's Block
So about two weeks ago I started my MA in Writing – ever since, I've had complete and total writer's block. Stage fright, I guess, or maybe the realisation that I have to take it seriously now. Either way, the suffering got pretty intense, and I've been dragging myself through my everyday activities like a wounded animal; after a while, I got so sick of myself I decided I had to do something, soFlorémi Fasollasidohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16826723879102256417noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3210783087753152930.post-77556334210897317302012-10-02T10:25:00.003+01:002012-10-02T10:57:05.898+01:00Aspiration / And God is Empty [Poem]
The sitting softens with time
yet the focus on it hardens.
The gluteus has melted away until there is an impression of sitting on bone
softly
delicately
like cracking an egg.
Gentle hands sieve out the cracked shell
and what may have remained of a dead thing
Surrounding the roaring tube
that jitters like a vacuum
the hips are spread and from them ooze the protruding legs
with this insistency Florémi Fasollasidohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16826723879102256417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3210783087753152930.post-40166881069556165872012-09-29T09:33:00.002+01:002012-09-29T20:29:07.700+01:00Recyclers
Though it is now more obvious than a few years ago, I (along with seemingly most of my generational peers) have spent my youth so far in a limbo, an ideological limbo in which any movement, any attempt at creation and at stuffing meaning into the more or less tactile carcasses of dress, of expression, of speech, of the use we make of our senses, seems doomed from the start to go up in smoke, as Florémi Fasollasidohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16826723879102256417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3210783087753152930.post-20352507178357085142012-09-26T12:13:00.002+01:002013-03-21T15:11:17.656+00:00Mermaids
I'm not sure how this occurred, but on our way into town this morning, the conversation that usually accompanies our walks turned from the physical (sharks and crocodiles, and why they're aesthetically vile, on top of being nothing but stomachs with teeth) to the fantastical, namely mermaids and why they're clearly mammals. Though this is more of a debate you have late at night when you runFlorémi Fasollasidohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16826723879102256417noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3210783087753152930.post-18024233468301014022012-09-26T11:29:00.002+01:002012-09-27T18:32:15.680+01:00Staunverbot - Nihil Admirari [Essay/Fiction]
These days, being called “impressionable” is considered an insult in the same right as “gullible”. The impressionable person is one who finds himself in awe when facing an object, concept or experience that is unprecedented within his own conscious universe.
The loss of surprise and wonderment to the more and more common tradition of “unimpressedness”, especially in the academic world,Florémi Fasollasidohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16826723879102256417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3210783087753152930.post-68147824437525002512012-09-23T11:56:00.000+01:002012-09-23T13:26:10.348+01:00Arte Metropolis – Luxembourg
Ah, Lëtzebuerg, eternally wedged between borders, though in this short documentary about the luxembourgish art scene featured on arte's programme Metropolis, these borders are temporal rather than spatial: 6:07 – 18:40 (French and German)
Florémi Fasollasidohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16826723879102256417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3210783087753152930.post-75908395877144227492012-09-20T23:34:00.002+01:002012-09-25T13:14:25.316+01:00Returns
Lately, it seems I've been obsessed with a topic that, strangely enough, is very hard for me to write about: the notion of homelands, mine in particular. Like the most basic version of a crazed Odysseus, after having been swept away from home by the hand of fate [academic convenience], I've started holding on to this ideal of the homeland, tentatively at first, then with increasing fury and Florémi Fasollasidohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16826723879102256417noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3210783087753152930.post-77904914371868077402012-09-18T23:31:00.002+01:002012-09-19T09:32:38.422+01:00Speaker's Block
There are things that are close to me, very close to me, like, blood-related, and that I still know virtually nothing about. When I say nothing, I mean very little besides the narrative threads my brain has spun between the scattered bits of information I managed to extract from fellow family members by tricking them into reminiscence. One of those things, the one I'm referring to here, in my Florémi Fasollasidohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16826723879102256417noreply@blogger.com0Luxembourg49.603590524348704 6.124877929687548.939359024348704 4.8614504296875 50.2678220243487 7.3883054296875tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3210783087753152930.post-862315763248288032012-09-14T12:27:00.004+01:002012-09-14T12:50:36.976+01:00Laura (Fiction)
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Florémi Fasollasidohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16826723879102256417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3210783087753152930.post-7161986487383030102012-09-03T16:58:00.001+01:002012-09-05T10:59:09.576+01:00New Dream in Town
Upon visiting “the capital of capitalism”, I must have caught some sort of virus, or maybe a new dream-production-team, because the programme offered to me for my personal nightly entertainment this summer has been weirder than usual. In the past, my dream-catalogue has consisted of biblical references, Beckettian minimalism as staged by Robert Wilson, Lynchean distortion and decadence, Film Florémi Fasollasidohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16826723879102256417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3210783087753152930.post-56522732932404175092012-08-28T07:31:00.001+01:002012-08-28T07:31:35.207+01:00Phantom Limbs
Jetlag sort of creates a temporal phantom limb. After two days of complete sleep-deprivation, (we decided that not going to bed before our 6a.m. flight would increase the chance of actually managing to sleep on the plane rides – it wasn't the smartest thing we've ever come up with, to put it mildly) I fell into bed, eyes burning, brain laying hallucinations with the speed of a doped-up chicken Florémi Fasollasidohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16826723879102256417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3210783087753152930.post-47641158420344430172012-08-26T02:21:00.000+01:002012-08-26T02:21:55.213+01:00Leaving America
After 6 weeks, I'm leaving. Vacation's over, there's things to do in England and Luxembourg, and, over the past 3 years, my life has, without consulting me, developed the unspoken rule that I don't get to be exposed to sunlight for more than a couple of months a year. My emotional climate isn't thrilled by this at all. Either way, I'm leaving America and I already know I will miss it. Not Florémi Fasollasidohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16826723879102256417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3210783087753152930.post-45683344962359730902012-08-26T02:17:00.002+01:002012-08-28T07:48:41.972+01:00Advice
Edit: This was meant to be posted earlier this week, but it just never seemed to happen. Either way, have some sleep-deprived rambling.
It is nighttime, I am sprawled on the couch, and embedded in the majority of my muscles is a taut, biting pain. I try not to move too much, as even the weight of my near weightless laptop on my thighs generates discomfort. The source of all this soreness? A Florémi Fasollasidohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16826723879102256417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3210783087753152930.post-90956248717617498872012-08-25T04:20:00.000+01:002012-08-25T05:49:56.944+01:00Insincerity
Some of us, insincerity runs through like bad blood, its ink sinking into our veins, indelible scripts that cover our skin from below, marks invisible to most but screaming out at us that this is what we are. Insincerity, for some of us, is not a choice, it is not a cluster of words spat out to confuse, diffuse, or to protect ourselves, it is a sense of who we are no matter the accuracy of what Florémi Fasollasidohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16826723879102256417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3210783087753152930.post-68964329031769787262012-08-23T02:23:00.003+01:002012-08-25T04:21:10.026+01:00Too Bright on Earth
Sometimes, you are walking, or driving, during the day, and all of a sudden it strikes you that today, daylight won't do. The feeling in your gut, the sounds that hit your eardrum, all make little sense in daylight. Today, you need daylight to give way to night. This need is an aesthetic one. You are not goth, and you are not hungover. Still, the light feels foreign to your pupils, and yourFlorémi Fasollasidohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16826723879102256417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3210783087753152930.post-91970749925335974792012-08-20T02:52:00.000+01:002012-10-12T14:03:44.300+01:00The Unlikely Topic of Guns
Earlier this week, I did something I never thought I would do. I shot a gun.
Keep your pants on, it was under supervision. By a marine. And I didn't have to aim this gun at a person, because I was on a shooting range, with targets made out of discarded election signs, and a handful of gun-aficionados with an impressive panoply of gear and gun-related accessories, not unlike that of D&D Florémi Fasollasidohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16826723879102256417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3210783087753152930.post-40327602450347649282012-08-13T22:04:00.000+01:002012-09-25T13:47:23.936+01:00Uprooting Practice
Some of us make everything we undertake or experience into a quest for ourselves. Our selves. When doing something, we wonder "Is this me? Is this who I want to be, in the end? Does it fit the person that I am?" And although, for some of these things, the answer is 'no', we find ourselves doing them anyway, out of necessity, out of a sense of duty, or because we can't say 'no', we can only feel Florémi Fasollasidohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16826723879102256417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3210783087753152930.post-24851201268778443402012-08-02T10:17:00.004+01:002012-08-02T22:54:49.786+01:00Museums
We went to the museum today, Seattle Art Museum, or Sam, as I was told to call it. I realised, upon stepping inside, into a vast grey hall with cars dangling from the ceiling, that something in my internal rhythm had just changed: my pace was slowing down, the humming in my ears was fading. This might have to do with the quality of the insulation used in the building process, but, as much as I Florémi Fasollasidohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16826723879102256417noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3210783087753152930.post-45257458802838343552012-07-28T04:07:00.004+01:002012-09-25T13:40:28.905+01:00Alie-Nations
I've been living in the States for the past 3 weeks, the Pacific Northwest more precisely – and by 'living' I mean 'occupying someone's spare room' – and wondering why, with my European eyes and my European past, I am not feeling nearly as alienated as I thought I would and nothing is quite as drastically different as I feel it should be. I tell myself it has to do with seeing all of 'this' (theFlorémi Fasollasidohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16826723879102256417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3210783087753152930.post-62019802946062226702012-05-13T00:40:00.000+01:002012-08-20T04:48:42.670+01:00(Welcome?) Changes
I think it was around February, maybe March, when I applied
for a ‘Writing MA’ at my current university. And yesterday I got an email
telling me my offer was finally made unconditional, which means I’m in. The
selection was based on portfolio, so needless to say I am relieved as hell.
While this does not mean that next year will be a relaxing one from a workload
point of view (I’ve heard this Florémi Fasollasidohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16826723879102256417noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3210783087753152930.post-18787290028633941902012-05-11T11:45:00.001+01:002012-07-20T05:00:52.840+01:00Claire Bretécher
Comic books are just that – books. And a lot of people read them the way they would read books: some read them the way one enjoys a novel, for pleasure. Others read them in a more academic way, analysing them critically as though they were tokens of the concerns and desires of a certain period of time, a certain demographic, etc. Basically, comic books and cartoons, like any other art form, can Florémi Fasollasidohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16826723879102256417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3210783087753152930.post-84641824223564269002012-05-10T17:05:00.000+01:002012-05-10T19:06:22.157+01:00Introductions
I’d say they are due, as I don’t dabble in social media
other than the real world. I am a post-grad, but I’d hate for that to define
me. It has molded me, certainly, but so have a variety of factors. One of them,
certainly, is living abroad. I haven’t lived at home (with my parents, that is)
for over five years now, and every time I come back to their house I feel more
and more like a guest. Florémi Fasollasidohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16826723879102256417noreply@blogger.com0Luxembourg49.815273 6.12958349.487429 5.4978690000000006 50.143117 6.761297