Margui Speaks Up

MOURNING OVER  BENOIST MANDELBROT'S DEATH MAY HE REPOSE IN PEACE AMONG ENDLESSLY REPEATING DELIGHTS.  MERCI   Paris, October 2010 

I do not know any of the opus number of classical scores: I can of course tell you that a Bach is a Bach, and that a Beethoven is what it is, and so on. But do not tell me a number, hoping to hear me singing; and do not interrupt my song, asking what it is! Still, there are some mysterious moments in which I hear a music, and I have always had it inside me. I find it again as I would find a towel that I know, a home towel, on a foreign table. I have it as the odour of your own apartment. It springs out of me and we never left. This happened tonight http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SrumQ7upLSM&feature=related It is a weird sensation; I do not know it formally, but it is a part of my person. It is like an ancient memory after an accident. Indeed, the accident is time. Never did I hear so much music as when I were an unconscious child. Children are immobilised, they have nothing to do, they have a strong perception and a voracious memory - if you wash them with music, it...

This film may have well have been produced by a Frenchman, and smuggled as Belgian, just for a French to make another joke on the rudeness of their neughbours. You see it and you think: well, French are not so wrong about Belgians after all, thos film is just gross! "Vampires" means nothing. The idea is pretty cool and promising: a Belgian TV makes a documentary on the Belgian Vampire community. Cool! Imagine, you spectator, the modern vampires reduced to live in Belgium, and to be perhaps beaten by large blonde men full of beer and boast. Nobody shall thake them too seriously down there! Or, cool, imagine the fun of getting to know the everyday's troubles of a vampire in modern society - how to get breakfast, how to go to lunch with human colleagues...or, again, how the contact with humans if possible, or, how really threatening they are, or, what they want... Nothing of al that. Nor a technical expanation, or a moral...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1SBXU2ES5Rs&NR=1 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_lTS9lc9ZU0&NR=1

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1SBXU2ES5Rs&NR=1

Ne tremblez pas, mais je dois le dire: Audrey Tautou est anorexique ou presque. C'est ce qu'on découvre avec étonement lorsqu'elle rentre sur scène avec un pauvre jupon sans manches: on admire d'abord la ligne filante, l'irresistible courbe de ses hanches, mais quand on passe aux bras la magie est brisée. Et alors on comprend sa vitalité et ses mains trop grandes: elles sont les dons d'une folle. On comprends alors aussi son role d'hirondelle dans Amélie, de fiancée pure, d'enfantine, de poupée en Maison de Poupée. Et le coeur du spectateur en est transporté. Cela a sans doute un role dans l'emotion que la pièce provoque, outre que les lumières, parfaites, encomiables, le décor mémorable et la bande sonore très, très appropriées. Musique contemporaine très bien choisie, on est meme effleuré par l'idé qu'Ibsen aie pu les suggerer lui-meme dans la pièce. Les décors sont classiques, adhérents au texte, et cela donne toujours. Laura (Tautou) e...

The main difference between philosophy and sociology is that sociology has as its highest objective the description or explanation of the organization of the human crowd, whereas philosophy may (or not) produce an image of human assembly as one consequence, among many others, of the explication of a unique first principle which informs the whole reality. Therefore sociology may be more "vraisemblable", but is paradoxically more myop. Sociology looks more appealing and popular - it can explain you why you would better gift your nighbour with a box of chocolate rather than with a fridge (A.O. Hirschman, Felicità privata, Felicità pubblica), or why you tend to refer to your family rather than your boss to adress a problem if you are a conservative. Sociology gives you the feeling to catch the complexity of the mud you are into, in the social mess. To me, it has always secretely looked like the test results of a feminine magazine - i...

so. Because we are fed up of mourning over nothing. Because people die, grandfathers die, and the real mystery is to see a strong personality, which represented a wall in the whole mansion of your life, pass away, suddenly disappear, come back to nothing. People grow and root themselves in this world, and then suddenly leave. We are not eternal, and this conscience and awareness which accompany us in the world, is to be swept soon. Consequently, thought about giving oneself death, or the feeling of absurdity facing the desappearing of someone, is a sympthom that we are out of place.

If you want to kill awareness if you want to stop your nightmares Just drink and sleep, or try not to fall asleep Once you have fallen you're in the dark tunnel where you can't move, where you can't say "you, dark obsessions, I'll now sweep you away" The fixed thought you couldn't move at daylight, is there now, under his grave survived, was nourished and grew up fed of your effort to throw him away Now it is his empire - when your guard is loose he will come at night and make you his he will flourish on your brain and corpse and make you his Colour voices dark and eyesights everything it will take and turn against you after many hours of despair morning'd come again and find him pale Just for a while - he's rooted on your mind and waits for you again to fall asleep at night to suck your veins. Don't sleep and make you weaker or sleep and take some poison for your brain kill your mind and try cover your awareness...

I have been to Paradise tonight. I have rejoiced like a Walhalla generating Gods. Really. I have listened to Aldo Ciccolini at the Salle Pleyel, Saint-Saens Concerto number Four for Piano and Orchestra. Listening to that has been like flying - like a dream of a deep deep sllep, bur colored, peaceful and clear. This man has conceived and performed with such a masculine attitude and a formidable control . everything was clearest and sliding like oil in the mayonnaise. He was like swinging on the notes... Ho ascoltato Aldo Ciccolini alla Salle Pleyel stasera. Non mi era mai successo di ascoltare un concerto così, tanto più che io conosco bene Aldo, il suo modo di prendere la musica, come pensa le cose prima e mentre le suona, e quindi potevo solo intuire, dal muto prodotto finito, il pensiero e la vita che vi era maturata dietro. Il Quarto Concerto di Saint Saens è di una difficoltà tecnica spaventosa, ma nulla era rimasto dello sforzo tecnico. Lo sforzo tecnico era stato sciacq...

That night, I wanted have myself a real good time... so I bought for 5.5 Eur a ticket for the concert in the Auditorium of the Louvre Museum, in the framework of the so-called Vendredi du Louvre. The Hungarian Quatuor Takash was playing, in a minimalistic, wrapped auditorium.   The deconcerting point of this concert was that this people, when they play, they really bacome a sole animal with four legs, and they have an extraordinary coordination. They began with a contemporary music piece, by Rihm, something too uniform and uninventive to be as long as 40 minutes. But the very amazing part of it was seeing this quartet not missing a beat, and staying all glued-up together. They were puppets in the hand of a sole big player, they were as together as the seaweed under the water, independent but all moved by the very same and invisible exterior force, uniformly, at the same moment and in the same way. This force acting in the material void, which seemed to animate t...

C'est le premier film par Jean Pierre Jeunet qui parle de mort, c'est un film mort, substentiellement, où la poésie est réduite en frivolité, les philtres colorés de la machine à prise ne produisent que de monochromes et des hyper-foncés, où il n'y a plus de paix, mais seulement hysterisme. La seule chose qui nous rappèle le bon Jeunet balancé de Delicatessen et Amélie sont les reprises de la ville, Paris, et de la Seine en particulier, avec ses beaux quais. Ainsi, je crois que certains parties ont été travaillés près du siège du parti communiste (et Pont de Crimée, Pont de l'Ourcq, Quai de la Marne). Il y a bien des clichés, et beaucoup d'auto-reférences: un mec qui échappe dans une maison en se cachant dans la corbeille (comme en Delicatessen), la reminiscence du cirque avec la contorsioniste, une auto-reference de Pinon dans Delicatessen, qui joue l'ancien artiste les larmes aux yeux, (une grande partie du cast est celle de Un long dimanche de fian...

Two films by Jean-Pierre Jeunet, the creator of the well-known Amelie Poulenc, has existed even before the film popped out, and namely produced two main works, of which I will talk tonight: La Cité des enfants perdus (The city of lost children), 1995, and Delicatessen, 1991. Albeit la Cité is more recent than Delicatessen, Delicatessen is so very much better, since it reaches an equilibrium that is later only aggravated, broken, stigmatized. The two films mirror each other, albeit Cité is about children and dreams, and Delicatessen about selfish adultness. But, apart from this, everything returns: the grotesque, the little flourishing in a disintegrated, post-apocalyptic world of innocence and freshness, unconsciousness, and a final destruction triggered by the divine, unconcious operating of the sinergy of two innocent human beings. http://www.bbc.co.uk/films/2001/02/08/delicatessen_1991_review.shtml Recurrent themes in the two films are the circus, the underground living, the ...

Dear all, since layout is hardly achievable from these column, this blog may possibly emigrate to another provider, like, after all, his owner - which has migrated to food providers across Europe since 2007. This unless some conservative thoughts knock to my head, some heart-affairs with Google does break into, or any of my readers suggests me how to achieve an acceoptable layout (i.e. ...having the paragraph actually being there, how they are in the draft!). Walls do not make good to anybody - walls of words, neither. And I am all for the good, so... Margui

I am again about the idea of death. this is just phantasizing for the moment, but the dark thought that there is no real place for me in this realm is coming to knock to my brain again. And I am finding it somehow seductive. And it was in an attempt to divert my attention from this circle that I invited myself to the Comedie Française tonight, havung a nice ticket for 5.50 Eur. A real deal. Someone told they are good at traditional French theatre, such as Molière, and very bad at the rest. This is a lie. I saw tonight " Figaro divorces " by Odon von Horvath, a Hungarian Jew dead at 37 in Paris in 1938. It is a pièce about a couple of aristocrats forced to fleed when French revolution irrupts in their town. Their respective personal servants, Figaro and Susanna, drive them out of trouble and lead their journey. The story is delicate and sharp enough to give you the sense of a disapted life, the one of the fleed noble, who lets his wife die because he is not capable to ad...

The last thing I did today was to get some dirt in order to cover up a geranium branch that I found fallen from a windiw in avenue de Choisy yesyerday. A burial, indeed, but one which gives life and new dignity to this fallen geranium. I will call him Jon or Edmond, or Egmont. I am happy we are two in this room, now. He is happy and red, and promising. Before that I was at the Panthéon, and precisely in rue de la Montaigne de Sainte Geneviève, where I spotted a Tibetan restaurant - well, we think a lot on Tibetans, but not that they eat something that they are used to prepare themselves - this is why I got surprised to find that restaurant, probably. Before that I was in a record-shop, open at 10 pm, full of dear old stuff, especially classical and jazz. The owner was dressed as cyclist and just come back from a 210 km tour until the (northern French) sea. He was making jokes at me, a bit blutantly, so that I was happier before, when I discovered a café called La Méthode just in ru...

Paris - full of irony and sensuality. One good reason for which I accepted to move here is that I found an ironic eye on my would-be colleagues, and people I encounter. A sort of badly conceived gaiety, which puts what you are actually doing in a broader context of light life. I do live next to the Liberty Statue - the original. It seems small and nobody cares, everyone is looking to the other side, to the lights of the Tour Eiffel. I admired the Tour Eiffel from a bridge on the green and silent Seine tonight, The tower was golden yellow in the blue-black sky at 9 pm, and seemed an A hanged from above. Women in Paris go and co-habit with fiancés at the age of 20 - which lets me speechless. Inhabitant women are statuarious, with straight strong legs and think hair, they speak of good wealth and fertility and their skin is bronzed - they seem like young reliable horses and you are afraid they might walk on you on the street if you do not watch out.^p My neighborhood was full of elec...

By Clara Schulze Italian TV news failed to adequately report on the latest scandal surrounding Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi – namely, the alleged attempt by a real estate manager to bribe the premier using women instead of money. The newspaper “La Repubblica”, which has instead extensively covered the story, also pointed out that 4 Italians out of 5 do not read newspapers, but rely entirely on TV news. This may be a common international trend, but in Italy it is a reason for worry since 85% of major Italian TV news are owned by Silvio Berlusconi himself. It is part of Italian culture to take an anti-scandalistic perspective on happenings, especially if they are unrelated to political performance. Still, it is true that the non-existence of a decent political opposition in Italy has helped the deterioration of political accountability and transparency and this has been reflected in the quality of information available to citizens. The character that media communication has tak...

I took some white bread and went say my goodbyes to all the grey ducks of the lake Serpentine But someone had fed them, so they'd went away thus turning that party into'a lonely stay The heat was just fading, the day almost gone the day was reflexing the mirroring sun In such pond of light was my mind then all stuck beginning to think to my old yellow duck That love which was crossing the Channel and Alps had now become weaker and come to a halt The bread that once fed all his shuddering soul now seems to this duck distasteful and cold The passion of senses will fade with the time I sit now lonely at the Serpentine The threats and the whispers now, man, come in vain The party is over, it's now time for pain Apollon and Venus had paid for this play rewarding us both with sucj wonderful days The drama is now over, the curtains now close The Serpentine rocks me, the sky smiles, all rose.

Drunkenness . Withdrawal of awareness. Lowering barriers. Yesterday night, a Friday night of course, in a warm Northern city full of ghosts, I wandered on buses and buses together with a drunk man. We were heading home. His colleague had tried to put hands on my hips, unsuccessfully - I had seen flows of coppery spirit flow in their throats - they smelled of strawberry as there was red bull in them. Strawberry and liquorice: Jaegermeister . He was already a bit high, but in control - he lost awareness in 11 minutes by drinking extremely fast and taking others' drinks. I guess that you compensate the tolerance of alcohol with the heightened ability to swallow fast - so you can get drunk anyway. I could not swallow a pint of water in 15 seconds, as he did with beer, shots and spirits. The volume of the music was high, he tried to get two pints of beer after the bar closed. He pissed on the street, graciously, while I was throwing away one of them. His irides were a bit ...