Breakfast Voyeurism

Marc caught us early this morning, as we were getting ready for orange juice and 'papski'.

Enough papa! That will do.

Valérie Rouzeau

Cécile told me I would like it; I have learnt to trust her judgment. I've been waiting for this book to arrive for eight weeks now, and it's finally here. A slim volume of poems that is already changing life. Funny how you sometimes know a book is going to have that effect before ever setting your hungry eyes on it. These are gems. The cover alone is a pleasure, with its autumn leaves look, but what's inside is oh so much better.

Je n'en peux plus
Je vais mourir ou faire quelque chose d'incongru
C'est une herbe qui dit ça
À moi

(Et je m'arrache du pré)

And some glosses for the non-francophones:

I can't stand it any more
I am going to die or to do something incongruous
It's a blade of grass that says this
To me

(And I tear myself away from the meadow)

If you like, you can find more here (without glosses though).

Pace-maker

I have been trying to pace myself here, and stop at one blog entry a day, but the urge is too strong, and besides, what's the point of pacing, it's not like inspiration will run longer if I chop it up. Right?

Ten minutes ago (that short???) I probably gave you the impression we had a difficult day. That was just the afternoon, though, the morning was lovely. See for yourselves:

'Kijk, Oma zit op mijn trui!' (Look, there's Oma on my sweater!) (in reference to bit of fluff from Oma's boa-sweater which she was wearing yesterday, and from which said bit escaped while Oma was cooking. It was found this morning by Isabelle under the kitchen table: 'Kijk, stukje Oma!' (Look, a piece of Oma!). The fluff was then religiously carried about in Isabelle's hand for a while, before being given pride of place on her brand-new second-hand dungarees)

Drawing circles around new-born walnut turtles...

This next one was a total mystery to me.


Returning from one of many runs to the kitchen, I found them like that. I asked Isabelle to explain.


I still don't get it.

Late February in Leiden

This was supposed to be yesterday's post. Since I'm always in Leiden on Tuesdays, and not teaching, i.e. not running around like a headless chicken all day long, I thought I'd make Tuesday the Leiden day on the blog too. However, by virtue of it being a Leiden day, it's also an Isabelle-less day, and so things being as they are, it's a day when I miss her real bad and get easily side-tracked into posting lovely pictures of her bench-sitting days.

Today, on the other hand. Our first bicycle ride to the biological farmers market in town was not quite as planned. For one thing, it was bloody cold, as in toe-splitting, cheek-cracking, butt-numbing cold. Being on a bike did not make it better. Isabelle started screaming after five minutes, and never stopped. Secondly, our brand-new bicycle bags which we bought just today, and whose job should have been to carry all the shopping, simply refused to be put onto the bike. So I had to carry it all on my back, with the added excitement of having Isabelle swinging the backpack from left to right (and back) in a desperate attempt at entertaining herself out of this eskimo weather. We almost fell a couple of times, but the funniest bit was when I got mad, and started shouting 'Isabelle' every time she did it, and there were at least fifteen women on the way home who turned their heads looking really worried. Apparently, it was a popular name 40 years ago too.

So today, I dream of Leiden, the quiet, the oldness, the brave white rose fighting her way into the spring.

No Comment (by Marc)

Creativity au quotidien

Isabelle and I didn't have a very nice afternoon. We were both exhausted (she because she skipped her nap at the sitter's and I because I had a bout of insomnia last night that had me lying in the dark eyes wide open listening to the church clock chiming every half hour until 4) and impatient with each other. Not pretty.

Finally, out of sheer desperation, I left the cooking for what it was (somehow neither of us could get really excited about the 'Broccoli cake' by this time) and gave in to her request to 'uisje bouwen' (building a house).

Except this time, we actually had a great idea. We used the wooden blocks to make furniture for the farmer's family who usually live 'entassés pêle-mêle' in the red barn, together with all their animals. Of course, we didn't have a proper house to put all our furniture in (the animals refused to let us have said barn) so we used her stair-shelf. Here are some highlights:

This is the entire family at dinner, father in the kitchen (obviously :)) ...

grand-ma in the armchair with the cat.

A very tired father brushing his teeth before going to bed.

And finally, the bird view.

Not bad for two grumpy girls, he!

Brides, Lovers and Raisins

This particular rendition of Madame Bovary turned out to be not so memorable after all, even if the story is as disturbing as ever. Marc fell asleep twice already, so we're on our third day of watching a two-hour film. I have to agree with him though, the whole production is lacking something. Volume. It's flat as a pancake.

Besides, I believe we have both been saturated by De Poolse Bruid. We saw it three days ago, and were completely bowled over. Highly recommended!

In addition to the acting/atmosphere/setting, etc., the most amazing thing about the movie is a song about half-way through, sung in Groningen dialect by Ede Staal, but beautiful even if you don't understand a word. It's called 't Hoogeland and can be found here.

I love it despite (or perhaps because of) its suspicious resemblance to Le Plat Pays.

Marc had a 'release' at work today (a most mysterious name, incidentally) which involves work on a Sunday from 5 am to 1 pm, followed by many phonecalls intended to solve problems resulting from the release. Makes you wonder what (or who) they release. And where it/she/he goes after it's been released.

This meant Isabelle and I had a quiet morning sorting the wash and playing in the park. I was hoping to take her to the beach (the weather has been loverly springish these last two days) on our brand-new bike (wish I'd made a picture) (later, later) but she explained to me with much expressive body-language that she was going to freeze, her toes and her nose were going to fall off, and many other horrors of which she wished to spare me the details. In fact, the only way to go outside, IF I REALLY insisted, was to have her tucked up into her flannel sleeping bag in the buggy, together with a tupperware full of raisins and her cup of warm milk. Like so:


Then push on Mama-horse!

Marc says she gets it from me. What is 'it' I wonder? Her love of raisins?

Spring is on its way

At least in this house it is. Marc lent me his camera and so here they are, basking in the first ray of real sunshine, some of my favourite finds/creations of the past week:














Little cat hiding in the forest.

Casting, Scenario and Titles by Isabelle
Props by Maman.














Funny woodpecker doorknocker.

(Long live Kringloop!)














I am mad about this can. 1 euro.
Would you believe it?














For Valentine's day, Marc and I went to a fancy restaurant for lunch. Not just any fancy restaurant: Calla's. Thin slices of duck liver spread over perfect fillets of sole. Lobster cappuccino. Best of all: tartare de coquilles Saint Jacques dans sa mayonnaise à la fleur de courgette. Hmmmmm! Our love boat couldn't have stranded in a better place...














The Wee Wonderfuls: I

(from the Wee Wonderful Pattern of Hillary Lang, see www.weewonderfuls.com)

Her name is Aroum and she is the goddess of perseverance.














The Wee Wonderfuls: II

Her name is Ala and she is the Nigerian (Albino) goddess of hope.














More amazing finds. Sammy and I went to Utrecht, which is incidentally a dangerous place for penniless but easily inspired women. Many many pretty little junk shops. This one had my name on it. Isn't it lovely?














Of course no spring would be complete without some tulips. Voila, maman, tu peux profiter à distance!














Tulip reflection in glass table top.














Coming back to the beginning, you might have noticed a new addition to our family in the shape of a forest-hiding matou. Here is his compère, fishing away in an empty sea. Luckily he brought his catch with him.














And here are the two filous, enjoying some well-deserved rest in the sunshine.

(Both cats are from patterns that I found in an old 1970's Japanese Craftsbook, called 'Ondori's Cats'. I got it from the library, but had to take it back, so unfortunately no pictures).

Well, that's it for today I'm afraid, I am off to watch the BBC version of Madame Bovary with large supply of Kumquats on my lap (remind me to tell you).Crafting_

White End

Two minutes ago, while the snow was still twirling outside,

I wrote the last word of the last line of the epilogue

(for those of you who wanted me to lift the veil a little on the contents, that word was 'Véronique')

and the word-count stopped at 50010 words.

I am a novelist. It's an amazing feeling...

Miracles

Only two days into week three, and already, it's happening:

Word-count: 31200 words, a whole 2861 words ahead of schedule.

I've been averaging two writing sessions a day for the last few days, and it's paying off.

Apparently, as I reached the top of the half-way hill on Saturday, and looked gingerly over the edge, far far away in the distance, dimly, the words 'the end' became visible.

Now it feels as if I can just let myself smoothly glide towards them, gathering speed as I go.

And presumably, having gathered a bit too much, smash straight into the 'paneau' in beautiful kamikaze style. But hey, this time, I don't mind the way it looks, because this just ain't about grace, it's about style with capital SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS.... and I got plenty of that!

Fantastic feeling.

Am again winged-novelist, goddess with an attitude, soaring angel with balls, and much much more!!!!

My better half

In writing marathons, clearly, no news is bad news.

Following the onset of the week-two storm, things did not get better,
the plot lost the little momentum it still had,
the sub-plots turned out to be dead-ends,
the characters, who all sounded suspiciously like me in the first place,
suddenly decided they'd said enough already, and simply refused to speak,
and I was left with a new (and rather unwelcome) addition: a particularly annoying 3rd person narrator, who seems to be a clone of my internal editor, on one of her particularly bad days.

To add to these joys, I had two sessions of language-testing in one week, which would be enough to kill the inspiration of a flying Picasso, let alone good old little me.

Then, last night, to cherry-top the proverbial cake, Isabelle fell victim to a bout of particularly violent vomiting which continued with a frequency of about 10 minutes from 6 o'clock in the evening until approximately 4 o'clock in the morning.

Finally, the cherry on top of the cherry is the fantastic migraine that I inherited as a result of sleepless nights, and which has actually made the right-hand side of my face collapse.

So.... the view from here is: things could certainly improve...

On the up-side, despite having lost all the advantage I had accumulated, I still managed today to reach the half-way line,

and with a grand 25015 words, am still a whole 10 words ahead of schedule!!!!!!!

According to the guide, it's all smooth sailing from here. Well, let's hope they know what they're talking about, because smooth sounds just peachy...

14th Post

It's bad luck to stop at 13,
and I need all the luck I can get,
so here is my count so far:

10 days, 17492 words, 56 pages, 9 underdeveloped characters, 1 shaky official plot, 32 very real and unrelated subplots, 45 lengthy descriptions of various parcs, and an internal editor that has not been sent to the kennel because we couldn't locate her when the van showed up.

No wonder I feel a bit harrassed ...

Dream III

... actually, I can't afford to write about my dreams here anymore.

Not this week.

The psychological storm announced for week two of the writing marathon is coming in fast, and it's here to stay.

I've spent the entire day lying on the couch watching sentimental American movies, and stuffing myself with potato chips.

In my pyjamas.

With the curtains drawn.

While a beautiful sunny day was gently ticking away outside...

(just realized it's a GOOD thing I didn't pass this link on to my boss)

I feel bad. I mean real bad: your typical no-inspiration, everything-I-write-sucks, why-did-I-ever-start-on-this, who-cares-whether-I-finish-anyway, and, more dramatically, I-think-I'll-just-quit-now kind of bad,

so,

if you were planning at any point to drop me a line saying how heroic, fantastic, absolutely fabulous, incredible and inspired you think I am for doing this,

RIGHT NOW would be the perfect moment.

In the meantime, I'm going to go and credit one of my characters with the dream I had last night, since apparently dream sequences are legal padding (I heard this from a little bird),
and so you'll have to wait until the official publication to find out about Dream III, and even then, you might have trouble distinguishing it among all the other dream sequences (nobody said how much legal padding is legal, and I'm a generous person...).

So a very good night to all of you lucky sods who are actually going to sleep!

Weather Report

Word-count: 10.595, still 593 words ahead of schedule. Not counting the ones I lost through untimely computer crash.

Very tired little person is off to bed.

Belated...

... Happy Birthday, dear grand-father!

Dream II

I dreamt that my psychotherapist had gone barking mad.

Oh no! She's back again...

Yes, as you can see, having completed my word quota for the day, I am now at a loss where to pour my wordings ... so here is a little something:

Most of us family sods, around this time of year, worry about one thing and one thing alone: how to survive the holiday period. I need not specify the particulars of such worries, but let me simply mention the words 'presents', 'in-laws', 'budget', 'fights', 'too much food', 'too little food', 'food gone bad' (tu te souviens de la mousse au chocolat, Michael?), etc.

Now today, miraculously, all my mounting worries evaporated like thin and yacky snow under my mother's hairdryer. How? You wonder. Actually, 'where?' would be a better question.

At the doctor's office.

With a friendly smile, in less than 15 minutes and for the mediocre sum of 35 euros, he made them all go away.

Because now, I worry about January.

What the good man told me was that those two charming quirky bumps on my head that have been keeping me company for so long 'simply had to go'. Now those of you who, like me, had come to believe that they were, respectively, 'la bosse des maths' (the maths bump) and 'la bosse de la linguistique générative' (the generative linguistics bump), you can cheer or mourn depending on your constitution.

The good doctor, however, just thinks that they are evil infections with potential (and, as we know, in tumor-world, unlike in novel-writing, potential counts). While he was at it, he thought he might as well catch some moles on his way out, so ...

... combining this with my standing January appointment at the dentist's, I have come up with a grand total of 6 injections that will be carried out on my little person within the span of 30 days.

ARRRGHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The Golden Notebook syndrome

In Doris Lessing's famous (pre-)feminist novel entitled 'The Golden Notebook', the main character, Anna, keeps her diary in a number of separate notebooks, each devoted to a particular area of her life, and recognizable by the colour on the cover.

I think she has a red, a blue and a black notebook, and maybe one other one (I say I think because despite appearances and following a long family tradition, I have spent an entire paragraph now creating the illusion that I have actually read this book)
(I haven't)
(... but it is lying on my nightstand, so it's bound to happen one of these days)
(the truth is, I read the preface, written ten years post-partum (I mean later) and it was such a great text, I decided to wait a while before reading the book itself, to give myself a chance to enjoy the preface in its own right)
(have now been enjoying preface steadily for at least two months)

Anyway... this is all besides the point (as parantheses tend to be),

but no, it's too early to get to the point yet, allow me one more tangent:

Anna does this (see above for reference) because she is convinced that unless she keeps all the threads of her life tidily separate, she will go mad. Of course, she goes mad anyway, and the whole point of this book (now that is an ambitious statement to make from my not-yet-reader perspective), as the title indicates (ah, the misleadingness of titles) is that it would have been better had she allowed her life to integrate more, weaving all these colourful strands into one golden web.

So, and now we're nearing the point, the reason I haven't written of late (all of two days, admittedly, but I'm sure you fans out there are already gasping for fresh news) is because I had the idea that this blog was an I-blog (i.e. an Isabelle-blog) and should therefore contain exclusively details of how that young shoot is doing.

And the thing is (the thing, not the point, the thing), I've had other things on my mind these last few days, namely (PAY ATTENTION NOW, THE GOLDEN WEB IS BEING WOVEN!) my novel.

Following the fantastic inspiration of my friend Sam, who managed to begin and complete a 50.000 words novel between the 1st and the 30th of November... all right, let's stop a moment and give her a warm applause,

'Well done Sammy!!! You rock, girl!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!'

Following her example, I decided to take on the challenge and on the 3rd of January, I should have for you, if all goes well, that first novel some of you have been hearing announcements of for as long as I've lived (or, alternatively as long as you've known me) (or, if the two coincide...).

So, from now until January 3rd, there might be less of Isabelle in these pages, and more of my 'états d'âme' as I struggle, jubilate, brag, swear, get depressed, and finally collapse.

Any support you might offer me in this difficult month is not only welcome, but an absolute life-saver.

In exchange, I might promise not to do it again. Maybe.

And to warm you up nicely, here is the first news report from the frontline. We are officially on day 5 of week 1. This means that at a rate of 1667 words a day, I should have in my possession at least 8335 words by midnight tonight.

Knowing which, you will be absolutely flabbergasted (how to spell?) to hear that the novel so far consists of no less than 8841 words, which puts me a whole 506 words ahead of schedule!

More later, as the native is getting restless in the bathroom!

Post-structuralist identities

Total silence in the house. Isabelle is hiding behind the couch.

Her well-trained parents only take a few moments to enjoy the peace before starting on their trodden quest.

'Waar is Isabelle?'
'Où est Isabelle?'
'Isabelle...'
'Oh non! On a perdu Isabelle.'

After what seems like (and probably is) ages, a curly head finally appears above the cushions, grinning so wide it could swallow both Americas, and it screams:

'Isabelle, daar ben je!!'
(Isabelle, there you are!)

I hope the symbolic system remains at bay just a little bit longer, so that my baby can enjoy finding herself a few more times...

PS: if you have no idea what I'm on about, it's ok, neither do I. Just trying out some of my new lacanian vocabulary...

La Tondue

Who ever said Samson was a boy?

Following the visit of Wendy-the-friendly-children's-hairdresser-qui-visite-à-domicile, our entire neighbourhood (ten streets or so) had no electric power at all (not even street lights) for over six hours.

Which, as you can imagine, greatly increased the commercial value of the below (opposite of 'the above')

(Of course, we will only sell it if we hit on hard times, and even then only after having sold our silver, gold, crystal and diamonds)

So, the recently-shorn and her parents huddled in their big bed, under many blankets and a variety of hats (clearly being shorn, recently or not, is no advantage in a freezing house) and sang songs to each other in croaky voices, with puffs of icy smoke coming out of their blue mouths, which they could not see, since it was pitch-dark.

La morale de l'histoire (the moral of the story):
1) listen to your parents in-law (nah, that's not it);
2) listen to your baby-sitter's neighbours (doesn't sound quite right either);
3) feminism will save the world (true, but not really relevant);
4) listen carefully, I shall say this only once...