Le chateau de vent

datelinehollywood.com featured an article last week saying: ROBERTSON BLAMES HURRICANE ON CHOICE OF ELLEN DEGENERES TO HOST EMMYS Hollywood – Pat Robertson on Sunday said that Hurricane Katrina was God’s way of expressing its anger at the Academy of Television Arts and Sciences for its selection of Ellen Degeneres to host this year’s Emmy Awards. “By choosing an avowed lesbian for this national event, these Hollywood elites have clearly invited God’s wrath,” Robertson said on “The 700 Club” on Sunday. “Is it any surprise that the Almighty chose to strike at Miss Degeneres’ hometown?” It was a hoax, evangelist Robertson ( yes the one that called for the assasination of President Chavez) never said this in his Sunday television program. But Pat Robertson reacted to the satirical article in a very strange way. He wrote a letter to the editors of datelinehollywood.com : In the letter he states that New Orleans was destroyed because it's the "epicenter of sinful jazz music"....

I bought Camille Paglia’s essay collection “ Vamps and tramps ” in 1994 and after reading it again and again for about a year, it remained on the shelf for more than a decade. Ten years mean a lot of changes. But today I find myself reading “ Vamps and tramps ” again. I forgot how much I liked it. Paglia’s writing style is aggressive and direct. She drags you along, then surprises you with her bluntness. The essay “No law in the arena” is Paglia’s “ pagan theory of sexuality ” and largely explains her views on homosexuality, lesbianism, gay activism and theory. In 1994 I had sex with men, not with women. I could understand Paglia’s abhorrence of the closed lesbian community of the ‘90s. I was labelled “straight” by lesbians. Not even the fact that I am a woman granted me any sympathy. Maybe I was just another straight, dick-loving traitor to them. Ten years later, I have seen a fair deal of the lesbian community. I’ve discovered – for example- that lesbian bars are the same all over th...

I don't give in to her pleas. I don't even touch her. I just pull off the few clothes she is still wearing and turn up the heating. Then I sit down and drink whisky. Quietly. That gets her angry. Rage is building up inside her. Her arms are becoming heavy and she' s running out of patience. But she knows we haven't finished yet. For the first time I can see insecurity in her eyes. She has the most beautiful hips: round and brown and soft. When she moves, I can see the muscles in her upper arms move under her skin. I observe her and enjoy. She's standing upright, kicking and cursing. She's too proud and stubborn to admit that she has lost the game. I approach her and push her against the wall with my body. Brutally. She struggles and pretends to be disgusted. Our breasts touch and I shiver. She's breathing heavily into my neck, but she doesn't bite. I massage her nipples and cup her breasts in my hands. I know this turns her on. She’s getting wet now and ...

She pushes her fingers in between my legs and I can feel water entering my cunt, its heat slowly spreading itself. Each time her fingers enter me, she pushes my head deeper under water. I want to resist, but I know that the more I struggle, the longer this will take. She wants to be the boss. I will make her think she has broken me. She's fucking me rhythmically. Slow and deep. I try to concentrate on her fingers and the heavy pulsating beat of blood in my cunt. I try to relax and move with her. She reacts and pushes her hipbone against my lower back. The water level is rising and she keeps pushing me under water for longer and longer periods. The more I gasp for breath, the more she seems to enjoy it. Her breasts sway with every move. She laughs at me and tries to push 3 fingers into me. Too short, bad angle. Does she think I can come like that? She doesn't even give me a fair chance. I become frustrated and angry again. Suddenly I remember how she snapped at me in the bar. Bi...

Early sunlight is seeping in through the kitchen window. She breathes heavily into my ear. I can't move. She has me in a tight clamp. Her knees are pressing into my thighs. She tightens her grip and contorts my wrist until I yell out with pain. "I hate you." I growl. She bangs her knee into my side and I fall onto the floor, panting for breath. Then she throws herself on top of me and pushes her wet hair into my face. I can't breathe. Whisky stings my eyes and throat. I grab hold of her thighs and she starts to move. She stumbles to the bathroom, pulling me along with her. She opens the taps and tries to tear off her wet clothes. Meanwhile she pulls me by the hair and pushes me into the bathtub. I try to bite and scratch, but she's strong enough to push me under the tab. Ice cold water pounds onto my skull. "You miserable bitch...", she breathes into my ear. "I should have known. Why the hell did I come with you..." "This is why." I a...

The city has become a maze of unhappiness and loss. I'm tired of going out. I'm tired of the dark sleazy discotheques, the hard stares of strange women, the smell of old beer and stale cigarettes in my clothes. I hate the lonely weekends. It's late and I'm sitting at the counter in a lesbian bar, observing 2 angry butches pushing each other around. They're ready to start a fight any minute now. I'm thinking about going home. As usual, just as I reach for my coat, I notice her walking in. She is out hunting. She's tall and strong and moving gracefully. Her eyes lock onto mine and I try not to reveal the mixed up feeling of desire and fear inside me. She lures me out of the bar, into the black night. I can't help following her. We walk through the small streets in silence. We enter late night clubs, spy around and leave out of restlessness. Bar after bar. I know she hates to be alone. She’s always looking for company. I'm almost sure she will come home...

"Hussain Osman, one of the men alleged to have participated in London's failed bombings on July 21, recently told Italian investigators that they prepared for the attacks by watching "films on the war in Iraq," La Republica reported. "Especially those where women and children were being killed and exterminated by British and American soldiers...of widows, mothers and daughters that cry." >> Read Terror's Greatest Recruitment Tool by Naomi Klein "94,000 people -- over half of them African American --were on a "scrub list" in Florida, resulting in their being blocked from voting in the 2000 election." >> Read The Nazification of America

The end of the world. They have sheep there.

( note: this story is not new, but it wasn't on the internet anymore...) Sophie and I we had always been friends and she had always know that I wanted it to be more than that. We had tried to imagine what kind of couple we would be, but when I’d get too seriously wrapped up in it she’d laugh and say that she would never be able to have a relationship with a woman. Not a lasting one. And certainly not with the first woman she would have sex with. “I would feel liberated probably, once I’d taken the step and I would need to experiment more.” She had said. Who was I to argue. She had her career, her boyfriend and big plans for the future. I had gotten used to the idea that what I wanted I would never get. But some nights we’d go out and get tipsy and while we were talking and laughing she would become more beautiful and sexy every time I looked at her. At moments like that I was painfully reminded of my position as the rejected lesbian friend. But I never could give up our friendship ...

Part1 | Part 2 | Part 3 She comes in and closes the door. I can see her eyes quickly inspect the room, like a cat. She must feel something is not right. I'm sitting in a corner, knees up to my chest, silently breathing. I don't think she has seen me. She walks through the room and pulls a lever or something. I can really see it very well. A door slides open silently and she disappears in the kitchen. "Would you like tea or coffee?" she yells. There's no one in the room. The front door is closed. I start getting nervous. "Hellooo there, I'm talking to you." Her head pops out of the kitchen and she's staring me straight into the face. "Tea or coffee?" A feeling of uneasiness spreads through my stomach when I look into her stale blue eyes. She looks dangerous and tough and I'm invading her territory.

"You don't understand." she said. "It's not about beauty." Beauty is one one small aspect of what is hidden and can be revealed. "I need the imperfections. They function as gates to see something more than the flat reality of a moment." "But an imperfection can also be beautiful..." I answer. "Yes, exactly," She pauzed briefly, "but not necessarily. Beauty can make you experience things. Without the sense of beauty you wouldn't see, hear, feel or taste them. But beauty is not that strong. It's been abused, over-used, turned upside down, faked and forged. It's lost some of its power." I sighed and thought of ancient greek art and how its beauty still touches me. She continued, ignoring me. "In Asia, people do not pull out the hairs growing from moles or birthmarks like we do. You can see people with a birthmark or mole on their face and a string of black or grey hairs sprouting out of it. I have seen mo...

* He When I was little, people took me for a boy. They always did and I didn’t really mind. I wore boys’ clothes and played football. And then I discovered I was into girls. No big deal. My coming out wasn’t that hard. I had my first girlfriend and my first broken heart. The man of the newspaper shop still called me "sir", although I was 16 already. I still didn’t mind. Regularly my best friend and I would have these hilarious dressing up sessions in our parents’ bedroom. It was awesome. We would end up parading around the house as two gentlemen in suit and tie and mimicked all the men we knew. Then my friend got seriously involved with a girl who told her she was behaving too masculine and she stopped dressing up. We still talked about it often though and I think she really missed our sessions. I never stopped doing it. It gave me a kick to invent a character and adjust my features until I resembled the man I had in mind perfectly. I got really good at it and learned how to ...

"Sometimes I wish I was married." she sighed. "Why?" "I would love to be part of a dual entity. The hypenated combination of 2 names. The illusion that you are no longer alone in this world. It's so easy to just give in. To give up all that you are and become part of that person you love. It's an almost religious belief, beyond all rationality: to trust another person with your life. To hand over the steering wheel voluntarily to a pirate. To risk being pushed up a small wooden gangway and into the sea, after being stripped of treasures and ornaments." "The hyphen is there for a reason." I tell her. "In our world only genes can unite. There is no everlasting, complete, balanced union of passion and love, only collaboration and support or hate and battle." I pause. "I was married once, you know." She looks me in the eye, surpised. "I shoudn't have done it, I know. But I wanted the fairytale. I liked the beginni...

Dear Mr. Tunick, On saturday May 7th, you plan to photograph your new work of art in Bruges. Coincidence, but that day is Gay Pride day in Brussels. So - rain or shine - it's choosing between art or pride... What a pity. I have this vision of 10 000 naked gays :-) Participate in Bruges, Belgium for an installation by contemporary artist Spencer Tunick Take advantage of this unique opportunity on Saturday, May 7, 2005 - rain or shine. Participants will only be nude for a short period of time and in exchange for taking part, you’ll receive a photograph of the installation by the artist. Participants will be contacted closer to the date of the installation with further instructions and arrival time. Only participants will be allowed in the vicinity of the art event. more info: http://www.corpusbrugge05.be/pages/start.asp

Tuesday Apil 12, controversial an radical feminist Andrea Dworkin (58) died. Check out the profile in The Guardian . I started reading her website . Dworkin completely opposes pornography. I don't watch porn so I haven't really thought about it that much. I never claimed porn was bad because I don't want to be regarded as a conservative or anti-sexual, but Dworkin is right. It's not about conservatism, prudishness or narrowmindedness but about how women are depicted. Check this article , The Porn Myth, by Naomi Wolf. It's about Dworkin's views. (via bnox)

April is the cruelest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain. T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land. An ideal moment to reread this marvelous poem. And it's on the internet, notes and all !

I took some time off last week, hoping to relax and unwind while finding my way through an endless maze of small and very old streets in a sunny southern town. After some time I knew the maze by heart and could blindly find my way, but the more I strolled around and led my companions to unknown corners and hidden treasures, the more I felt it. The feeling. Inside. This wasn't me. A totally new feeling crept into my brain. A tormented, contradicting, ever-changing moodiness. It started slowly and at first I thought it was just my brain getting even with my body, because I was neglecting my own personality, under the influence of my older and perhaps rather dominating companions. Because I was walking around with my hands in the pockets of my jeans for minutes without noticing. Usually I mind not doing the hands routine, because it's so cheap and macho. So I reckoned the gloominess was an effect of neglect, of posing like something other then I was. But the feeling remained. Even...

A reply to this: http://mastuvu.typepad.com/monuments/2005/03/dust.html Home is where the heart is, they say. I never left home. Maybe my heart is stacked somewhere on the worn wooden shelves of the public library, where I work. Neatly classified under "medical". I was born here and when my time will end, I know it will be here. I don’t care much about travelling or moving to a big city, like so many young people do now. I prefer a quiet life of candlelight evenings and walks along the coastline. After a storm you can find treasures there. Silver spoons with imprints of a foreign ship’s name, bones of seagulls tied up in seaweed looking like precious jewellery. And once in a while a bottle. Intact. When I long for something more, I have my books. They are my children, my lovers, my companions on cold nights. Sometimes I read them tenderly, my fingers caressing the spine while my eyes gaze into an endless new world. Sometimes I devour them urgently, driven by a hopeless need...

Silver screen. yes. Another story (if you like the dirty kind, because let's face that's what most of you want...) at Dykes and the City's Free-for-all-friday . It's called "Shower scene".

Inside it's cold. I can feel a draft streaming along my legs when I close the door. I enter a small living room. It's still dark. The curtains are drawn. Everywhere I look on the floor, the walls and the sofa against the wall on the right I see carpets. Thick, wool carpets embroidered with the strangest motives of hunters and helicopters and colourful exotic flowers and riffles and baseball caps. Shiny black tattoo-like designs and ancient alchemist's signs on wine red ruggs. There is not a single space on the wall or the floor that's not covered. Next to the sofa is a big rock, granite. I assume it serves as a table. There's an empty coffee cup balancing on it, cigarettes and a water pipe. There's a table and a rack against the left wall barely supporting all the books stacked on it. Some big and dignified with leather covers and in between and atop of them old worn and torn paperbacks. There must be a door somewhere. I have to hide.

Run away from all your boredom Run away from all your whoredom and wave Your worries and cares Goodbye All it takes is one decision A lot of guts, a little vision to wave Your worries and cares Goodbye Placebo - Slave to the wage

There’s a million questions I have asked her in my mind, but now I don’t know what to say to her. I’m slowing down, counting my steps. Then, finally she opens the door, carrying a big crate of empty bottles. She curses when she can’t pull the door closed behind her. She tries to swing it shut with her foot but it bounces back again. She starts towards the street with the bottles. She doesn’t notice me. A man passing yells at her and she looks up. They know each other. He crosses the street and she puts down the crate. It’s about 50 meters towards her front door. I do not hesitate. She’s standing at the street corner and talking to the man, nervously hopping from one leg onto the other. Hands in her pockets. It’s cold. She laughs and kicks the crate with the tip of her shoe. The grass is covered with ice and I hear it crack under my feet, when I approach her front door. Nobody sees me when I enter. All sounds are muffled in the grey morning weather.

I’m not a stalker, far from it, but I must admit she's been provoking an unhealthy obsession in me. For some weeks now she makes me adjust my routines. For example when I go to work, I get off the bus one stop early so I can walk past her apartment, hoping she might come out so I can see her. She lives in the apartment block next to where I work. It’s a shithole, a social welfare apartment of the worst kind. The car park is a garbage dump and the walls of the apartments look like they’re made of paper, graffiti tags scrawled all over them at eye-height and a bit lower imprints of dirty shoes from angry adolescents. The whole street is immersed in a feeling of desolation and hopelessness. It must be horrible to live there. If I’m lucky, once a month on Tuesday, she puts out the empty bottles just when I pass. She’s blonde, of average height. Her hair is short and spikey. She wears trainers and almost no jewellery, except for a series of earrings in her left earlobe. She's not wh...

I’m on top of her, leaning on one arm and moving my hips and body against her so I touch as much of her as possible. Her skin is soft. She’s moving too, close against me. We’re rubbing harder, feeling the skin touching. Pressure shifting. She makes me sigh and breathe hard in her neck. I know my hipbone is not in the right position to stimulate her well enough. But that doesn’t matter. I don’t want to fuck her straight from the hip. I want to slither along her body, slide into the curves and curl up in her arms. I want to be wet and sweaty and smell the sex. I want to forget time. I can feel lust crawling under our skin, warm and glowing but making me shiver. Is it because we fuck without dick that sex becomes such an experience of total freedom, of complete abandonment of everything we know? I massage her lower back, press my fingers into her spine, where the Chinese believe the power of the dragon lives. Because fire and passion do not live in the heart but there between...