No matter where and when you looked into her life, there had never been true happiness. She had never been happy with someone before, and for the last few years, the desire to be hugged and caressed - to be loved - had incessantly been eating her away. Way before her first disastrous relationships, she had been humiliated countless times by the men she adored, and because there was no shoulder to cry on at that time, she had saved all the tears in her already swollen heart.
Her love life could easily be resumed in one word: waiting. She had waited for lovers to come back; she had given temporary breaks to her boyfriends only to see them go; and she had been waiting for the love of her life to show up - not really the prince charming, but a guy who would care, a guy who would be there for her - but he never came.
And on this sad day, she sat on the cold marble stairs, and stared at the sky. Could he be watching the stars as well? If he wasn't, he must have seen the stars one day. She felt warm to think that the stars were something both her and her prince had shared, in a way. All the tears that had not been shed silently showed up in her eyes. They warmly caressed her cheek and jumped off at her chin to finally die on the cold marble.
"Where are you?" She muttered...
Monday, October 31, 2005
Cheap Holidays In Mauritius
The ultimate guide to cheap vacation in Mauritius
Mauritius is not an expensive destination. Here's the exchange rate for a few currencies:
Pound Sterling - Rs 37.06
Euro - Rs 54.44
US Dollar - Rs 30.76
Transportation from airport to Flic-En-Flac might cost you around US$30-50
Renting a neat bungalow for one month might cost you around US$350-1200.
Buying good food for one *very hungry* person might cost you around US$40-60 a day.
Renting a car might cost you between US$500-1200 for a whole month.
Transportation from Flic-En-Flac to airport might cost you around US$30-50
Seriously, here are the expenses me and my mom have to incur every month for living at Flic-En-Flac:
Renting of bungalow (yeah, we're renting the place, it's not ours): US$200
Food for me & my mom (we eat a lot): US$250
Phone, Electricity & Water (we talk a fucking lot over the phone): US$110
My Internet Connection (thank you, Thomas, for the shared internet): US$17
Total: US$577
Yep. US$577 a month. And that's still exaggerated. Of course, we have other expenses, but those aren't related to the cost of living around here. Heh, we're not living in a shack. There are three rooms in here, two bathrooms, one kitchen (a bit small though), a small veranda and an open garage. There's a small garden we share with our neighbours who live on top (around 4mX8m), and a cute coconut tree that gives us so many coconuts that we're bored shitless of the milk. We're at a walking distance from the beach and the nearest supermarket is around 700-800 metres away.
Now, after hearing how much people actually pay to come to Mauritius through hotels, I couldn't help but smile. I think I'm going to set up a website to help people come to Mauritius. Could make some money with that. What d'you think? Is charging US$100-200 reasonable? Hmmm... and a free test-drive (feedback & photos required) for the first customer :P
Contact me on rowan.rishigmail.com
Mauritius is not an expensive destination. Here's the exchange rate for a few currencies:
Pound Sterling - Rs 37.06
Euro - Rs 54.44
US Dollar - Rs 30.76
Transportation from airport to Flic-En-Flac might cost you around US$30-50
Renting a neat bungalow for one month might cost you around US$350-1200.
Buying good food for one *very hungry* person might cost you around US$40-60 a day.
Renting a car might cost you between US$500-1200 for a whole month.
Transportation from Flic-En-Flac to airport might cost you around US$30-50
Seriously, here are the expenses me and my mom have to incur every month for living at Flic-En-Flac:
Renting of bungalow (yeah, we're renting the place, it's not ours): US$200
Food for me & my mom (we eat a lot): US$250
Phone, Electricity & Water (we talk a fucking lot over the phone): US$110
My Internet Connection (thank you, Thomas, for the shared internet): US$17
Total: US$577
Yep. US$577 a month. And that's still exaggerated. Of course, we have other expenses, but those aren't related to the cost of living around here. Heh, we're not living in a shack. There are three rooms in here, two bathrooms, one kitchen (a bit small though), a small veranda and an open garage. There's a small garden we share with our neighbours who live on top (around 4mX8m), and a cute coconut tree that gives us so many coconuts that we're bored shitless of the milk. We're at a walking distance from the beach and the nearest supermarket is around 700-800 metres away.
Now, after hearing how much people actually pay to come to Mauritius through hotels, I couldn't help but smile. I think I'm going to set up a website to help people come to Mauritius. Could make some money with that. What d'you think? Is charging US$100-200 reasonable? Hmmm... and a free test-drive (feedback & photos required) for the first customer :P
Contact me on rowan.rishigmail.com
Saturday, October 29, 2005
The Girl From Domaine Anna
He wasn't elaborately dressed. He was wearing a pair of bermuda shorts and a simple black T-shirt. However, he had paid particular attention to his hair and had shaved himself prior to this mission. He was standing right in front of Suresh's shop in Flic-En-Flac, and from where he was, the sky was all green from the small leaves of the great tree right in front of him. He was waiting, and his heart was beating slightly faster. His eyes were straying from left to right, lingering a bit longer on the right corner near to the clothing shop.
Someone appeared. His iris contracted, and his pupil shrank. His endocrine system reacted, and spurted various chemicals inside of his body, making his heart beat even faster, and the hair on his arms stand on an end.
I came round the corner and saw him standing in front of Suresh' shop, looking breathless. I smiled and walked up to him. He seemed happy to see me, but something in his eyes betrayed an immense deception.
- Hey, wassup buddy?
- Oh, nothing much.
He could barely speak. He was overwhelmed with emotion.
"You waiting for someone?" I inquired. His eyes shifted from the leaves of the great tree to the ground, and then to the left and finally on my feet.
"Nah, not really," he said.
"Ah. Okay," I said, while I pressed my back against the column and stared at him. Something was wrong.
- Okay, here's the deal. I'm waiting for this really cute girl, and I just can't get myself to talk to her.
- I know the girl?
- You don't know any girls living in here, you bell-end.
Although his comment felt like an arrow in the heart, it was kind of true. I didn't know any girl from around here. In fact, I knew only a bunch of folks living in Flic-En-Flac.
- So she lives in here, eh?
- Yeah
- Would it be that girl by the way?
A slim figure had appeared round the corner. She was dressed in a pink top and black trousers. She had short hair and was pretty fair. The rosy umbrella she was carrying would've made her look like a normal person in the crowd, but she was nonetheless beautiful and extremely feminine.
My friend's jaw had dropped, and I feared his foolish expression might ruin his chances - if he had any. The girl walked right underneath the great tree, and sat down. She was right in front of us, but she hadn't noticed the two guys watching her.
- Stop staring at her like that.
- Shit man. She's cute, isn't she?
- Yeah she is. Go talk to her, else I'll write about it in my blog.
He stared at me with menacing eyes. The threat of having his mission failure laid out on the internet was sort of motivating.
- Okay, dude, help me out. What do I say? How do I begin the conversation?
- Just go there, and talk. I dunno, say something interesting. Tell her you like her umbrella.
- Fuck, fuck, fuck!
He placed his hands in his pocket, and I saw his eyes focus on her. He was going for the kill. I hoped he wasn't really going to tell her he liked her umbrella.
A white van with the "Domaine Anna" logo printed on the side stopped right between him and the girl. The object of all his desires rose and climbed in the van. I felt really sorry for my friend. The van drove away, and I could see him standing there, frozen. I walked up to him and patted his back.
- There's more fish in the sea, dude. I'll go back home and make a new post on my blog.
Someone appeared. His iris contracted, and his pupil shrank. His endocrine system reacted, and spurted various chemicals inside of his body, making his heart beat even faster, and the hair on his arms stand on an end.
I came round the corner and saw him standing in front of Suresh' shop, looking breathless. I smiled and walked up to him. He seemed happy to see me, but something in his eyes betrayed an immense deception.
- Hey, wassup buddy?
- Oh, nothing much.
He could barely speak. He was overwhelmed with emotion.
"You waiting for someone?" I inquired. His eyes shifted from the leaves of the great tree to the ground, and then to the left and finally on my feet.
"Nah, not really," he said.
"Ah. Okay," I said, while I pressed my back against the column and stared at him. Something was wrong.
- Okay, here's the deal. I'm waiting for this really cute girl, and I just can't get myself to talk to her.
- I know the girl?
- You don't know any girls living in here, you bell-end.
Although his comment felt like an arrow in the heart, it was kind of true. I didn't know any girl from around here. In fact, I knew only a bunch of folks living in Flic-En-Flac.
- So she lives in here, eh?
- Yeah
- Would it be that girl by the way?
A slim figure had appeared round the corner. She was dressed in a pink top and black trousers. She had short hair and was pretty fair. The rosy umbrella she was carrying would've made her look like a normal person in the crowd, but she was nonetheless beautiful and extremely feminine.
My friend's jaw had dropped, and I feared his foolish expression might ruin his chances - if he had any. The girl walked right underneath the great tree, and sat down. She was right in front of us, but she hadn't noticed the two guys watching her.
- Stop staring at her like that.
- Shit man. She's cute, isn't she?
- Yeah she is. Go talk to her, else I'll write about it in my blog.
He stared at me with menacing eyes. The threat of having his mission failure laid out on the internet was sort of motivating.
- Okay, dude, help me out. What do I say? How do I begin the conversation?
- Just go there, and talk. I dunno, say something interesting. Tell her you like her umbrella.
- Fuck, fuck, fuck!
He placed his hands in his pocket, and I saw his eyes focus on her. He was going for the kill. I hoped he wasn't really going to tell her he liked her umbrella.
A white van with the "Domaine Anna" logo printed on the side stopped right between him and the girl. The object of all his desires rose and climbed in the van. I felt really sorry for my friend. The van drove away, and I could see him standing there, frozen. I walked up to him and patted his back.
- There's more fish in the sea, dude. I'll go back home and make a new post on my blog.
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
Amazing Twist of Destiny
By what kind of twisted fate did that pair of electro-punk yellow-black rayban sunglasses end up on the old man's face?
Sorry sir, but you seem to be wearing some kind of rayban sunglasses. Do you mind if I laugh and write about it in my blog?
A detailed examination of the old man would leave us baffled. You wouldn't know he's very old until you actually see his face and hair, but if you start to examine him from his feet, nothing could have indicated that his nose would be supporting an object initially created for aviators and now perverted by fashion.
His black shoes and gray trousers would definitely have him settled in the "non-fashionable" category at first glance. His white shirt (with all buttons properly in place) and hands dangling on both sides would still make of him non-fashionable. Plain shirt, plain trousers, black shoes. Nothing good so far. A two to three day dirty beard, skin visibly wrinkled - and a rayban neatly settled on his nose. Yes. Rayban. And I'm talking about the kind of thing Michael Jackson wouldn't dare wearing five years ago. No, something is wrong.
The old man, tired of his dry attempts at luring younger women, decided to go for a change in dress-style. He sat on the bench at Vandermesch and "analyzed" the couples walking by. Most girls and women were going out with men who owned and exposed their rayban sunglasses. "Yes" he thought. "Those things are the modern signs of male power and accomplishment. I must buy a pair of those." He decided that he was right (after all, wisdom comes with age) and went to get the first pair of rayban sunglasses he came across. Although it didn't improve his cataract, he was now walking with a pair of rayban sunglasses.
Amazing! Women are now staring at me!
Yes, it was working. Because he was brought up in the old way, he decided to have at least 20 eye-contacts on different days with a woman before trying to talk to her. He didn't have much luck with Ginette, who seemed genuinely interested in him. Ginette, 1m74, always wearing heels and with curly black hair, after detailed inspection unfortunately turned out to be a post-op transsexual, formerly known as Gino. Disgusted, the old man changed spot (it broke his heart because he wouldn't see the 1m22 small-breasted cutie with whom he had accumulated five eye contacts) and moved to Flic-En-Flac.
Yes, there are cool people living in here.
Sorry sir, but you seem to be wearing some kind of rayban sunglasses. Do you mind if I laugh and write about it in my blog?
A detailed examination of the old man would leave us baffled. You wouldn't know he's very old until you actually see his face and hair, but if you start to examine him from his feet, nothing could have indicated that his nose would be supporting an object initially created for aviators and now perverted by fashion.
His black shoes and gray trousers would definitely have him settled in the "non-fashionable" category at first glance. His white shirt (with all buttons properly in place) and hands dangling on both sides would still make of him non-fashionable. Plain shirt, plain trousers, black shoes. Nothing good so far. A two to three day dirty beard, skin visibly wrinkled - and a rayban neatly settled on his nose. Yes. Rayban. And I'm talking about the kind of thing Michael Jackson wouldn't dare wearing five years ago. No, something is wrong.
The old man, tired of his dry attempts at luring younger women, decided to go for a change in dress-style. He sat on the bench at Vandermesch and "analyzed" the couples walking by. Most girls and women were going out with men who owned and exposed their rayban sunglasses. "Yes" he thought. "Those things are the modern signs of male power and accomplishment. I must buy a pair of those." He decided that he was right (after all, wisdom comes with age) and went to get the first pair of rayban sunglasses he came across. Although it didn't improve his cataract, he was now walking with a pair of rayban sunglasses.
Amazing! Women are now staring at me!
Yes, it was working. Because he was brought up in the old way, he decided to have at least 20 eye-contacts on different days with a woman before trying to talk to her. He didn't have much luck with Ginette, who seemed genuinely interested in him. Ginette, 1m74, always wearing heels and with curly black hair, after detailed inspection unfortunately turned out to be a post-op transsexual, formerly known as Gino. Disgusted, the old man changed spot (it broke his heart because he wouldn't see the 1m22 small-breasted cutie with whom he had accumulated five eye contacts) and moved to Flic-En-Flac.
Yes, there are cool people living in here.
Sunday, October 23, 2005
Dot fell in the Net
The lazy drunken bastard rose from the dusty corner where he had settled to enjoy his cheap wine. Wine, as everybody knows, is best enjoyed in the corner of a forgotten shop far away from the Capitalist world. He was the kind of guy who was unsure whether he had to take his responsibilities as an individual in society, or just give up and let the tides of misery carry him around. He had been working as a maritime broker but he wasn't very sure why he didn't have the job anymore - he had lied to everyone and had already started to confound reality with the numerous versions he gave for being jobless.
His legs were carrying him nowhere, and he allowed himself to be guided by the wind. Far away, an engine roared, and a car appeared. A youngster's head popped out of a window and he heard:
-Ta, clochard! To fer villain lor la rie!
Clochard. Tramp. He turned back to look at the tramp the young man had been making fun of. There was no-one but him on the road. His eyes darted from left to right, more and more desperate to see the tramp. Could it be? It was slowly dawning on him that he was the tramp. Tramp. What had happened to the once brilliant and good looking Roy? Tramp. What would his family think? Tramp. He would never get laid again.
The last bits and pieces of his own self-respect faded away with the wind, like the fine grains of a sand-castle.
His legs were carrying him nowhere, and he allowed himself to be guided by the wind. Far away, an engine roared, and a car appeared. A youngster's head popped out of a window and he heard:
-Ta, clochard! To fer villain lor la rie!
Clochard. Tramp. He turned back to look at the tramp the young man had been making fun of. There was no-one but him on the road. His eyes darted from left to right, more and more desperate to see the tramp. Could it be? It was slowly dawning on him that he was the tramp. Tramp. What had happened to the once brilliant and good looking Roy? Tramp. What would his family think? Tramp. He would never get laid again.
The last bits and pieces of his own self-respect faded away with the wind, like the fine grains of a sand-castle.
Saturday, October 15, 2005
Finally 20, now I can pretend to be 21
Hello world,
I'm finally 20. Today's my birthday, and I just came back from KFC. I had lunch with SunflowerAveish, her sister Arsha, and one of their friends.
I came a bit earlier, and I met Sunflower on the way. We settled down and got ourselves some food, and she lit a small candle on top of a tiramisu cake, while singing happy birthday. It was really unique, and I loved it. I can't remember a cuter birthday ^^
I'm happy, and I feel like the merry-go-round-15-year-old-britney-adoring-silly girl. No, heh, of course, I'm not like that. Sunflower and her sis have been really adorable today, and I'm just happy. Of course, you can't ever be completely happy, and for some mysterious reason, Vidi is totally mad at me. And she doesn't want to say why :\
Dom's coming over tonight. Maybe we'll get drunk. I'm constantly receiving sweet messages from my friends - thanks everybody. I'm just waiting for one person's message actually... hehe... I think she's out camping :(
I'm finally 20. Today's my birthday, and I just came back from KFC. I had lunch with SunflowerAveish, her sister Arsha, and one of their friends.
I came a bit earlier, and I met Sunflower on the way. We settled down and got ourselves some food, and she lit a small candle on top of a tiramisu cake, while singing happy birthday. It was really unique, and I loved it. I can't remember a cuter birthday ^^
I'm happy, and I feel like the merry-go-round-15-year-old-britney-adoring-silly girl. No, heh, of course, I'm not like that. Sunflower and her sis have been really adorable today, and I'm just happy. Of course, you can't ever be completely happy, and for some mysterious reason, Vidi is totally mad at me. And she doesn't want to say why :\
Dom's coming over tonight. Maybe we'll get drunk. I'm constantly receiving sweet messages from my friends - thanks everybody. I'm just waiting for one person's message actually... hehe... I think she's out camping :(
Friday, October 14, 2005
The Quick Brown Fox
By the time this post will be up, I'll be 20. So far, I have had no manifestations of superpowers, and I think I might just need to live the rest of my life as a programmer.
I sincerely don't know what to write in here. Totally clueless. My last day as a 19-year old. Goodbye, 19-year-oldness. It was nice to lie about my age and pretend I was one year older the whole time. Damn.
I sincerely don't know what to write in here. Totally clueless. My last day as a 19-year old. Goodbye, 19-year-oldness. It was nice to lie about my age and pretend I was one year older the whole time. Damn.
Thursday, October 13, 2005
Letters From A Ghost
They say that after you kill someone, you are forever haunted by a ghost.
I was walking down the semi-deserted streets of Flic-En-Flac, cheap techno music blasting through my ears. I had that music going to firewall the foul atmosphere that was trying to penetrate me. My mp3 player flashed. Too late. The battery died out, and there were no barriers to stop those memories. I felt them wrapping around me, like tentacles gently caressing their prey. That heavy atmosphere: The murder, the atrocity of the crime. Killed. Twice. Betrayed. It all came back to me, how I was wandering through the streets, looking for my murderer. Hoping, crying... and this foul atmosphere, this suicide-inspiring atmosphere, where I lost my soul.
I was but a ghost, wandering aimlessly through those streets. I have some of the worse memories of this place: Of those badly lit streets, of this air - always smelling the same day after day and never changing. I can't believe it. I had victimized myself, pointing my finger at my killer, expecting that criminal to feel sorry.
Today I realise how wrong I had been. I should have cornered the monster somewhere, slapped it hard across the face. I should have punched, kicked, been violent. Peace is old-fashioned, deprecated; it's a war out there, and I am sick of being your average nice guy. Bitch. Yes, I should never have let you go out of here unscathed. I should have made your life a nightmare, made you pay.
But it's useless. I can't get my revenge now. So, every night, I will walk through those badly lit streets, hoping to see the spectre of you, so that I can stare at you with red eyes; yes, I loathe you, and day after day, my thoughts eternally come back to the sweet thoughts of torturing you. I have not forgotten, I will never forget. And if one day our paths ever cross again, I will no more be the semi-transparent ghost. I will make sure that you pay this time. You will pay, and very dearly. You very well know that I can forgive, but never forget.
Each side might claim that righteousness is in his camp, but I don't care. The moment I will swing the blade over your neck, I don't care whether you are innocent or guilty. Yes, I have no whatsoever regard for good or evil when it concerns you. I will swing the katana with full force, taking care to linger for a moment while the blade cuts through you. And even if my life has no sense after your head heavily thumps onto the ground, I will be satisfied. Killing is needless, but killing you has a sense, dear murderer.
I know that when you read this, you will wonder whether I have really written about you. Yes, I speak of you. All the juries in heaven and hell might declare you innocent, but I don't care. I won't be a victim anymore, I won't point fingers. I will just swing the blade, and clearly state what I think from now on. Pray to your God that our paths never cross again. But I know - I feel - that it will.
Every dog has its day, every ghost has his revenge.
I was walking down the semi-deserted streets of Flic-En-Flac, cheap techno music blasting through my ears. I had that music going to firewall the foul atmosphere that was trying to penetrate me. My mp3 player flashed. Too late. The battery died out, and there were no barriers to stop those memories. I felt them wrapping around me, like tentacles gently caressing their prey. That heavy atmosphere: The murder, the atrocity of the crime. Killed. Twice. Betrayed. It all came back to me, how I was wandering through the streets, looking for my murderer. Hoping, crying... and this foul atmosphere, this suicide-inspiring atmosphere, where I lost my soul.
I was but a ghost, wandering aimlessly through those streets. I have some of the worse memories of this place: Of those badly lit streets, of this air - always smelling the same day after day and never changing. I can't believe it. I had victimized myself, pointing my finger at my killer, expecting that criminal to feel sorry.
Today I realise how wrong I had been. I should have cornered the monster somewhere, slapped it hard across the face. I should have punched, kicked, been violent. Peace is old-fashioned, deprecated; it's a war out there, and I am sick of being your average nice guy. Bitch. Yes, I should never have let you go out of here unscathed. I should have made your life a nightmare, made you pay.
But it's useless. I can't get my revenge now. So, every night, I will walk through those badly lit streets, hoping to see the spectre of you, so that I can stare at you with red eyes; yes, I loathe you, and day after day, my thoughts eternally come back to the sweet thoughts of torturing you. I have not forgotten, I will never forget. And if one day our paths ever cross again, I will no more be the semi-transparent ghost. I will make sure that you pay this time. You will pay, and very dearly. You very well know that I can forgive, but never forget.
Each side might claim that righteousness is in his camp, but I don't care. The moment I will swing the blade over your neck, I don't care whether you are innocent or guilty. Yes, I have no whatsoever regard for good or evil when it concerns you. I will swing the katana with full force, taking care to linger for a moment while the blade cuts through you. And even if my life has no sense after your head heavily thumps onto the ground, I will be satisfied. Killing is needless, but killing you has a sense, dear murderer.
I know that when you read this, you will wonder whether I have really written about you. Yes, I speak of you. All the juries in heaven and hell might declare you innocent, but I don't care. I won't be a victim anymore, I won't point fingers. I will just swing the blade, and clearly state what I think from now on. Pray to your God that our paths never cross again. But I know - I feel - that it will.
Every dog has its day, every ghost has his revenge.
ASP Sucks
I'm sure nobody really wants to know how I struggled with ASP and an MSAccess database to generate my funny horoscope - which I couldn't make to interact with my blog because of the added banners given out by the free asp hosting space that I have.
Can anybody lend me an asp.net page with a MySQL server database?
No?
Bastards. Anyway, check out my predictions for the week on the right. Hehe.
Can anybody lend me an asp.net page with a MySQL server database?
No?
Bastards. Anyway, check out my predictions for the week on the right. Hehe.
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
Literature of Sarcasm
Definition of sarcasm (wikipedia) : Sarcasm is sneering, jesting, or mocking a person, a situation or thing. It is often used in a humorous manner and sometimes expressed through particular vocal intonations. Sarcasm is often expressed in ironical statements. It can sometimes be the sincerest form of discourse for the emotionally fragile. This is often done by simply over-emphasizing the actual statement, or particular words of it.Rowan: I'm listening to local Mauritian music
Mandy: amazing
It was a day like any other. A few of the cash-out terminals were closed at the local Spar and tourists dressed up with dumb-ass hawaiian-style shorts with flowers (note: nobody will doubt your sexuality or clothing tastes if you're wearing shorts with sunflowers in a tropical country) were queueing up to pay for their stuff.
There was an old man behind me, staring at what I had bought. Bread, canned tuna, cheese - and a huge roasted chicken. I could already feel his questionning eyes going from the chicken to my face - my face, and then the chicken. What he was thinking, I already knew.
- "Sorry mo cousin, mais to enne Indien toi?"
And there we go. Again. Yes, I look like an indian guy - oh wait - I'm one. Like 40% of the local population. I could feel something inside of me, some kind of hot lava boiling, producing thick black bubbles of sarcasm. Bursting on the surface and liberating green mortal sarcastic fumes, feeding my brain some of the most luciferous replies. It was the fasting period, for the believers. No meat, no fish, no shit. Sierra Mike Delta, n00b.
I hate the holier-than-thou attitude. Be it with your fucking O/S or your religion. No, I don't believe in God; I think it's really stupid to. I don't believe that God monitors what you eat (or shit for that sake), he doesn't have food-sniffers installed on us, reporting any ingestive activities.
Yes, old man. I am an indian guy. However, because of my upbringing, I eat pretty much everything. I enjoy weekly satanic rites and I have bat's balls drying on top of my house. Excellent food, I must say. I also eat human flesh while you fast, to balance out good and evil in the world. Would you like to join me tonight?
My eyes suddenly flashing with a strange light made the old man swallow back his thoughts.
Say it, just say it! The wolf wants the lamb tonight...
It was my turn. I smiled at the woman, and she smiled back. I kicked everything in a plastic bag, paid with cash, and strolled away, a strange light still lit in my eyes.
Sunday, October 09, 2005
What you need to visit
After writing so much about style and shit, here's two sites worth visiting...
1. Sunflower Aveish's blog.
If you've been to my blog a few months before, you'd have seen what I wrote on Aveisha. Yes, well, to sum it all up, Aveisha is Vidi's hottest cousin. She's hard to read and understand, mainly because I believe there are some things she never talks about. She's got a mysterious edge, and well... she's got style. Yes, she's also got style as in a cute girl with style, but I'm talking about writing style. English. Good English. Beautiful, wonderful, naturally flowing; it feels almost as if you could ignore the flowery language, and become part of it all.
There's so much to say about her, and what I think about her. But just read her blog. Ah, and yes, fuck you, S; and Soggy - just listen to her. You've won a fucking lottery ticket man. It's no good to break innocent flower's hearts.
2. Bottomless pit
This dude got style. Fuck. I'm almost jealous of his English. Read it. Now!
1. Sunflower Aveish's blog.
If you've been to my blog a few months before, you'd have seen what I wrote on Aveisha. Yes, well, to sum it all up, Aveisha is Vidi's hottest cousin. She's hard to read and understand, mainly because I believe there are some things she never talks about. She's got a mysterious edge, and well... she's got style. Yes, she's also got style as in a cute girl with style, but I'm talking about writing style. English. Good English. Beautiful, wonderful, naturally flowing; it feels almost as if you could ignore the flowery language, and become part of it all.
There's so much to say about her, and what I think about her. But just read her blog. Ah, and yes, fuck you, S; and Soggy - just listen to her. You've won a fucking lottery ticket man. It's no good to break innocent flower's hearts.
2. Bottomless pit
This dude got style. Fuck. I'm almost jealous of his English. Read it. Now!
Flic En Flac as a residential place
After you have gone through the realisation that people actually live and carry out their daily routines in really sweet tourist spots such as Flic-En-Flac, I'll tell you more about how it is to live in the place itself.
I moved in here a few years ago. The house wasn't big nor small - it was an OK place for me. After spotting a nice residence for my PC in the house, I started bringing in my stuff from our older shack. What's interesting is my parent's ability to make maximum use of resources and efforts to produce the worse possible results. Okay, well, it's not that great to blame everything on my parents, but well...
Week after week, we went back to our former residence (which we were renting, and still are renting actually) to bring in stuff. I kept bringing books, hardware and all kinds of stupid things which should have ended up in the thrash. After around 2 months, we had moved 80% of our essentials, and we started out life in Flic en Flac.
My house is located on top of some kind of hill, which means that you've got to sweat buckets of water on midday to get to my casa on foot. I recently discovered a shortcut (which goes through some kind of bushy terrain with a kinder slope) but in the ol' times, my dad was still around to carry us up and down on his monstruous 4x4, now notorious in the region for its menace to public safety.
My house is part of a 4-house complex (staring out of the window: no, complex isn't the right word) and for about a year, we lived here alone. Afterwards, came three german guys who got married with Mauritians. They were quite friendly, especially the guy who lives at the first floor on our side, Thomas. Two of them left, and there's only Thomas and my family left in here. Thomas is a really nice guy, and god knows about the number of times he helped me out. I'm currently using 1/3 of his internet connection, which means that I've got around 12-17kb/s download on good days.
During week-ends, Flic-En-Flac is pretty crowded. Most of my male friends have constantly been inquiring about the number of hot babes that can be spotted around here - and the answer is - yes, there are hot babes around here, but you'd be lucky to spot one who's not accompanied.
I don't like going out on week-ends, mostly because of the huge crowds on the beach and the legions of cars with blasting Sega/Ragga/Reggae. On week days, and especially in the morning, Flic-En-Flac is peaceful and all calm. There are a few cars here and there on the beach, and you can actually hear the waves crashing on the shore and the wind brushing through your body. The water (although a bit cold) is quite inviting, and the sand one of the warmest places to rest your butt.
There's the Spar, the local supermarket, where most people get their stuff. There's a casino next to the spar, all ready to lick dry the last cent out of your pocket, and the Arena night club, the best place to shake your butt in Flic. Entrance to Arena costs around 200 bucks, while it's 100 bucks for entrance in Summer Beach, a little bit further down the main road. The Manissa store remains open till quite late (I'm not sure till what time though. I think it closes down at 21:00 or 22:00) while the Buddha Beach Bar remains one of the best places to get drunk.
Flic en Flac doesn't come only with advantages. My friend Cuan got robbed twice while living in here: he lost his digital camera and loads of other valuable stuff. We haven't had any problems with robbers ever since we're here - maybe because out of all the houses in here, ours is one of the smallest and crappiest.
Coming to Mauritius is quite expensive. Especially if you're staying in one of the huge hotels around here. However, if you know your way around, it might cost you ten to twenty times less...
I moved in here a few years ago. The house wasn't big nor small - it was an OK place for me. After spotting a nice residence for my PC in the house, I started bringing in my stuff from our older shack. What's interesting is my parent's ability to make maximum use of resources and efforts to produce the worse possible results. Okay, well, it's not that great to blame everything on my parents, but well...
Week after week, we went back to our former residence (which we were renting, and still are renting actually) to bring in stuff. I kept bringing books, hardware and all kinds of stupid things which should have ended up in the thrash. After around 2 months, we had moved 80% of our essentials, and we started out life in Flic en Flac.
My house is located on top of some kind of hill, which means that you've got to sweat buckets of water on midday to get to my casa on foot. I recently discovered a shortcut (which goes through some kind of bushy terrain with a kinder slope) but in the ol' times, my dad was still around to carry us up and down on his monstruous 4x4, now notorious in the region for its menace to public safety.
My house is part of a 4-house complex (staring out of the window: no, complex isn't the right word) and for about a year, we lived here alone. Afterwards, came three german guys who got married with Mauritians. They were quite friendly, especially the guy who lives at the first floor on our side, Thomas. Two of them left, and there's only Thomas and my family left in here. Thomas is a really nice guy, and god knows about the number of times he helped me out. I'm currently using 1/3 of his internet connection, which means that I've got around 12-17kb/s download on good days.
During week-ends, Flic-En-Flac is pretty crowded. Most of my male friends have constantly been inquiring about the number of hot babes that can be spotted around here - and the answer is - yes, there are hot babes around here, but you'd be lucky to spot one who's not accompanied.
I don't like going out on week-ends, mostly because of the huge crowds on the beach and the legions of cars with blasting Sega/Ragga/Reggae. On week days, and especially in the morning, Flic-En-Flac is peaceful and all calm. There are a few cars here and there on the beach, and you can actually hear the waves crashing on the shore and the wind brushing through your body. The water (although a bit cold) is quite inviting, and the sand one of the warmest places to rest your butt.
There's the Spar, the local supermarket, where most people get their stuff. There's a casino next to the spar, all ready to lick dry the last cent out of your pocket, and the Arena night club, the best place to shake your butt in Flic. Entrance to Arena costs around 200 bucks, while it's 100 bucks for entrance in Summer Beach, a little bit further down the main road. The Manissa store remains open till quite late (I'm not sure till what time though. I think it closes down at 21:00 or 22:00) while the Buddha Beach Bar remains one of the best places to get drunk.
Flic en Flac doesn't come only with advantages. My friend Cuan got robbed twice while living in here: he lost his digital camera and loads of other valuable stuff. We haven't had any problems with robbers ever since we're here - maybe because out of all the houses in here, ours is one of the smallest and crappiest.
Coming to Mauritius is quite expensive. Especially if you're staying in one of the huge hotels around here. However, if you know your way around, it might cost you ten to twenty times less...
Saturday, October 08, 2005
The Loud Silence
While hordes of youngsters were swarming towards Arena, the local nightclub, I was sitting in a badly lit living room with my mom. We were silently eating the bread and honey-chicken, taking a sip of wine from time to time. We didn't dare to look at each other, most probably because we had discussed about that enough. Yes, the big plate of chicken had been divided into two, instead of the usual three. Even if the third portion would normally go into the fridge, it would still have normally been divided into three.
But now, it looked pretty much final. That was it. After one week of absence, we had silently understood that the chicken would almost always be divided into two equal parts from now on. One for me, and the other one for my mom. So would the bread - yes - we should buy less bread. We don't need that much anymore.
The meal was excellent, but there was this silence which loudly accompanied us throughout the meal. I wish we hadn't joked about it so much. Maybe we could've saved something for dinner: a joke about his new girlfriend, or a joke about his damn car. We don't care. Or we don't show that we care anymore.
My mom's not that good at hiding her thoughts. The constant questions she keeps asking always betray her brain activities. I have questions too, but I dare not ask them to the concerned person. It's not that I'm afraid of asking them, it's just that I'm scared of starting a conversation; I hate conversing with people who think they're always right. The whole purpose of conversation is to share experiences or convey new ideas. Not to force the other one to accept that his opinions are right, and that we should be adjusting to his school of thought. Hell no.
If I've been stoic to my dad before, now is the time to be even more. I sincerely don't want him back with us. Even if I have to go and live under a bridge for the next few years, I'm not willing to see him here again. Do bridges have broadband by the way?
My door's closed. My mom's in her room. It's been like that for the past few months. Each one of us dealing with his or her own life. Except that we meet, from time to time, in the living room, to discuss what happened.
Things like that happen to people all around the world, but I never really thought about this happening to us. Note that I've imagined impossible scenarios: Saddam nuking flic en flac (because he'd be pissed off with PePe's pizzas not having home-delivery schemes), or a huge tsunami wiping Flic out of the map (Women and chil... erm... Hard-Disks and RAM modules first), but not that.
Hold on, if you think this is affecting me emotionally, you're wrong. Financially - maybe. But not emotionally. Still, it's a bit weird to see the family size suddenly reduced. I have to find a way to kill this loud silence, ringing in our ears all the time. This loud silence, eating me away, very slowly. I want to stab that silence, and loudly exclaim that I don't give a shit about what's happening here. I want to slowly strangle it, and feel a new true wave of peace settle over the house. Murder the silence, in a very evil way; my eyes suddenly volcanically red, menacing to pop out of their sockets, while I press my hands harder and twist my face in an ultimate strangling effort: DIE, SILENCE! But no, those are just sweet fantasies... Isn't this when people decide it's time to move out? I don't want to think about that, but maybe it's time to try radiating ourselves with cheap radio music.
But now, it looked pretty much final. That was it. After one week of absence, we had silently understood that the chicken would almost always be divided into two equal parts from now on. One for me, and the other one for my mom. So would the bread - yes - we should buy less bread. We don't need that much anymore.
The meal was excellent, but there was this silence which loudly accompanied us throughout the meal. I wish we hadn't joked about it so much. Maybe we could've saved something for dinner: a joke about his new girlfriend, or a joke about his damn car. We don't care. Or we don't show that we care anymore.
My mom's not that good at hiding her thoughts. The constant questions she keeps asking always betray her brain activities. I have questions too, but I dare not ask them to the concerned person. It's not that I'm afraid of asking them, it's just that I'm scared of starting a conversation; I hate conversing with people who think they're always right. The whole purpose of conversation is to share experiences or convey new ideas. Not to force the other one to accept that his opinions are right, and that we should be adjusting to his school of thought. Hell no.
If I've been stoic to my dad before, now is the time to be even more. I sincerely don't want him back with us. Even if I have to go and live under a bridge for the next few years, I'm not willing to see him here again. Do bridges have broadband by the way?
My door's closed. My mom's in her room. It's been like that for the past few months. Each one of us dealing with his or her own life. Except that we meet, from time to time, in the living room, to discuss what happened.
Things like that happen to people all around the world, but I never really thought about this happening to us. Note that I've imagined impossible scenarios: Saddam nuking flic en flac (because he'd be pissed off with PePe's pizzas not having home-delivery schemes), or a huge tsunami wiping Flic out of the map (Women and chil... erm... Hard-Disks and RAM modules first), but not that.
Hold on, if you think this is affecting me emotionally, you're wrong. Financially - maybe. But not emotionally. Still, it's a bit weird to see the family size suddenly reduced. I have to find a way to kill this loud silence, ringing in our ears all the time. This loud silence, eating me away, very slowly. I want to stab that silence, and loudly exclaim that I don't give a shit about what's happening here. I want to slowly strangle it, and feel a new true wave of peace settle over the house. Murder the silence, in a very evil way; my eyes suddenly volcanically red, menacing to pop out of their sockets, while I press my hands harder and twist my face in an ultimate strangling effort: DIE, SILENCE! But no, those are just sweet fantasies... Isn't this when people decide it's time to move out? I don't want to think about that, but maybe it's time to try radiating ourselves with cheap radio music.
Thursday, October 06, 2005
A Shot At Style
A quick shot at writing in french... my french's way better than my english.
Assis sur un méchant fauteuil, je me grattai et me demandai s'il y avait vraiment utilité d'écrire toutes ces bêtises sur le style. Mais bien sûr que oui. Le style, on l'a tous, il suffit de le réveiller; entrer tout doucement dans la grotte où dort la bete, et à l'aide d'un bâton pointu, le reveiller. Prendre soin a ne pas introduire le baton dans les orifices arrieres de la bete.
Oui, on l'a tous le style. C'est l'inspiration qui nous manque. L'inspiration qui apparait tout comme la fée clochette, et qui se pose sur notre épaule, pour tout doucement nous chuchoter des mots gentils à l'oreille... L'inspiration, c'est quand l'exhibitioniste enfile un slip vert le matin avant d'aller a la rencontre des nones de l'église; c'est quand le musicien de hard-rock ajoute un soupçon de violon dans sa composition; elle nous arrive de nulle part, nous chuchote des mots doux a l'oreille - et voilà! Les Fleurs du Mal, Le Père Goriot, La Porte Etroite... pour ne nommer que quelques uns des chef-d'oeuvre de l'inspiration. Et je dis bien que c'est l'inspiration qui a écrit ces livres, et non l'auteur. L'inspiration écrit a travers l'homme, elle parle, transpire et chuchote des idées, et c'est l'homme qui donne naissance aux images, aux sons, aux mots et a la littérature. L'inspiration est comme une femme invisible, coquine, qui ne visite que les quelques amants qui sont prêts a l'écouter. Elle arrive tard le soir, ou apres la dernière goutte d'absynthe, et enroule son bras autour de l'artiste. Elle approche son visage illuminé et l'image, le son et les mots naissent d'eux-mêmes.
Elle ne se donne pas a n'importe qui, l'inspiration. Et elle ne courtise point. L'inspiration, on ne peut pas l'appeler, ni lui addresser des lettres d'amour. Elle ne vous répondra pas. Elle arrive et part de son propre accord. On en tombe amoureux, on la chante, on pense à elle, on a besoin d'elle. Mais c'est ça, l'inspiration. Elle s'en va et vient... comme une maitresse qui n'est plus sûre si elle veut vous quitter ou vous aimer.
Assis sur un méchant fauteuil, je me grattai et me demandai s'il y avait vraiment utilité d'écrire toutes ces bêtises sur le style. Mais bien sûr que oui. Le style, on l'a tous, il suffit de le réveiller; entrer tout doucement dans la grotte où dort la bete, et à l'aide d'un bâton pointu, le reveiller. Prendre soin a ne pas introduire le baton dans les orifices arrieres de la bete.
Oui, on l'a tous le style. C'est l'inspiration qui nous manque. L'inspiration qui apparait tout comme la fée clochette, et qui se pose sur notre épaule, pour tout doucement nous chuchoter des mots gentils à l'oreille... L'inspiration, c'est quand l'exhibitioniste enfile un slip vert le matin avant d'aller a la rencontre des nones de l'église; c'est quand le musicien de hard-rock ajoute un soupçon de violon dans sa composition; elle nous arrive de nulle part, nous chuchote des mots doux a l'oreille - et voilà! Les Fleurs du Mal, Le Père Goriot, La Porte Etroite... pour ne nommer que quelques uns des chef-d'oeuvre de l'inspiration. Et je dis bien que c'est l'inspiration qui a écrit ces livres, et non l'auteur. L'inspiration écrit a travers l'homme, elle parle, transpire et chuchote des idées, et c'est l'homme qui donne naissance aux images, aux sons, aux mots et a la littérature. L'inspiration est comme une femme invisible, coquine, qui ne visite que les quelques amants qui sont prêts a l'écouter. Elle arrive tard le soir, ou apres la dernière goutte d'absynthe, et enroule son bras autour de l'artiste. Elle approche son visage illuminé et l'image, le son et les mots naissent d'eux-mêmes.
Elle ne se donne pas a n'importe qui, l'inspiration. Et elle ne courtise point. L'inspiration, on ne peut pas l'appeler, ni lui addresser des lettres d'amour. Elle ne vous répondra pas. Elle arrive et part de son propre accord. On en tombe amoureux, on la chante, on pense à elle, on a besoin d'elle. Mais c'est ça, l'inspiration. Elle s'en va et vient... comme une maitresse qui n'est plus sûre si elle veut vous quitter ou vous aimer.
Style
Style. Writing style. Very few authors have a real writing style. You'll know when an author has a writing style when the words, expressions and ideas naturally flow in the text. He/she might be able to jump from one subject to another faster than a bunny about to have sex, and still keep the ideas flowing naturally. Regardless of the subject at hand, you feel like you can't get your nose unglued from those words... those new words, funny expressions - you'll find new uses for words, extremely appropriate expressions which you've never heard of before, and above all else, you would really feel affected by the words, sentences, chapters or stories.
You've got style when you write:
"What would my heart not give to be able to tell you those three words."
Instead of
"i luv u :)"
Yes, it's beautiful. What would my heart not give; Not give to what? To tell you those three words... and then you're saying "I love you" without even writing it. Where are the good authors? Yes, I admit it. Harry Potter is nice, and so is The Da Vinci Code. But those books focus much more on the plot, and not the language used to detail the story.
The perfect book for reading would be one with a good story and twist, and written in a sensible, good, and beautiful English. Or other language.
I realised that there IS something else apart from the story in a book just today. For the third time, I'm reading "Composition Francaise" by Jean Cau. He's a french author, and fairly well known. The thing is, there is no head or tail in that book; it's a "diary" where he writes all sorts of nonesense. Apart from what he's writing, there's something sublime in the way he details things and events. Or his use of words and expression. And even his damn sarcasm.
I wonder what he'd have said about blogs if he were still alive today. Style, he wrote, exists when a music rises slowly from the text, a coordinated melody in between words and sentences. YES, he had style. Even if he was writing bullshit about art (which he did actually) it's still interesting. He explores all kinds of topics, with a funny point of view and style, and it just keeps your nose glued to the book.
I wish I had a writing style. Although I almost always write in English now, I just can't detect the slightest trace of a writing style in here. Maybe I should try french.
Oh well...
Jean Cau died in July 1994.
You've got style when you write:
"What would my heart not give to be able to tell you those three words."
Instead of
"i luv u :)"
Yes, it's beautiful. What would my heart not give; Not give to what? To tell you those three words... and then you're saying "I love you" without even writing it. Where are the good authors? Yes, I admit it. Harry Potter is nice, and so is The Da Vinci Code. But those books focus much more on the plot, and not the language used to detail the story.
The perfect book for reading would be one with a good story and twist, and written in a sensible, good, and beautiful English. Or other language.
I realised that there IS something else apart from the story in a book just today. For the third time, I'm reading "Composition Francaise" by Jean Cau. He's a french author, and fairly well known. The thing is, there is no head or tail in that book; it's a "diary" where he writes all sorts of nonesense. Apart from what he's writing, there's something sublime in the way he details things and events. Or his use of words and expression. And even his damn sarcasm.
I wonder what he'd have said about blogs if he were still alive today. Style, he wrote, exists when a music rises slowly from the text, a coordinated melody in between words and sentences. YES, he had style. Even if he was writing bullshit about art (which he did actually) it's still interesting. He explores all kinds of topics, with a funny point of view and style, and it just keeps your nose glued to the book.
I wish I had a writing style. Although I almost always write in English now, I just can't detect the slightest trace of a writing style in here. Maybe I should try french.
Oh well...
Jean Cau died in July 1994.
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