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Stop Jasmine!

The pictures have thick skin, habits too. The hordes of tourists, landed at Tunis airport, were received by posters with a smiling man, rather swarthy, stood against the backdrop of Sidi Bou Said. Commenting, the inevitable: "Smile, you are in Tunisia." Tourists do not smile, they are tired and then it's hot and the bus is not air conditioned, that the travel agency had not anticipated, so they do not smile.

In the lobby of the airport, they were harpooned by a man in baggy pants, a tray on his head: "From the folks jasmine, fresh To his hand, hanging a bunch of flowers closed tight on a piece of wood, acting rod.

Eager to find out about this jasmine that went on (and could) my Tunisianité, I went on Google, line jasmine White dicotyledonous plant belonging to the genus Jasminum "A few lines later, I discovered that the white jasmine, a native of China has taken on the shores of the Mediterranean and was awarded the blazon Emblem of Tunisia. Who has made this decision? Was it during one of the CMR of the old regime, in which case we would not have been informed, as of course. Now I hold the information, I understand better why the pretty flower is accommodated as many sauces: summer jasmine, happiness jasmine jasmine-tourism and more recently "jasmine-revolution," but here, the jasmine is blocked and this reeks of cliché accommodation and protectionism.

So why is the jasmine in the events of January 2011? If it is to give a dimension to the revolution "soft", only by looking abroad, eager to rounding angles and close the topic (to switch to something else) could put jasmine on poverty, favoritism, anger and the dead! No one has told these "lovers of Tunisia" that the jasmine was absent from our funerals? How indecent allows them to glorify the sacrifice of jasmine Mohamed Bouazizi and those that followed! Even in death, we continue for some to look like a tourist brochure. Such is the view that the West and our European friends are on us! Our gravity is jasmine, our revolts feel good, even the tear gas had a sweet aftertaste, is this the reason for which they have failed to quell the crowd, which would have prompted a French arms company to deliver tear gas not "Jasmine" on demand "friend Ben Ali ;?

After all, only Tunisia still does not, before the eternal, this former French colony in respect of which Mr Sarkozy, to justify his government's silence, remembered the reserve duty, reserve which he had parted curiously face trouble elections in Côte d'Ivoire. The French reservation is similar to those reservists conciliatory one leaves in certain circumstances and we keep warm in others.

The "revolution-jasmine" us, in any case, revealed how some French government officials were fond of our hospitality. Feet in the water, nose full of flowers, they saw only blue. In the hollow of luxury homes where they were graciously hosted, they discovered not misery surrounding how could they pu? Between planes, private jets and sedans, the trip is opaque. The heady smell of jasmine prevented them from sniffing the corrupt regime that stunk the streets and prevented eleven million Tunisians breathe breathed them the flowers, and then they were not Tunisians. Since then, Mr. Sarkozy has proposed a law dictating the tourist movements of his ministers, the measure is more conservative than one way: whenever one of them taking holidays on the Mediterranean, a revolution bursts in the weeks that follow. What make is that they must leave in their wake a whiff of human rights which mingles with the scents of jasmine local ...

purely Tunisian citizen Suggestion: parque jasmine away from foreign policy makers, Make it a strictly national, point out its limitations: flower fragrant, pleasant to smell, leisure-oriented summer and have no pretension to become the emblem of our country. Please disseminate information to the August foreign analysts.

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Scripture and reality, where to draw the line?

The reality surrounds us and we quadrille: plural, appearing in a tangled network of causality itself node crystallization of several contingencies. Fresco multiple forever changing, rich sounds, smells, colors, movements. How can you live and at the same time to escape, maintaining a safe distance, one that enables a being to open the eyes of real lucid, understand to judge? How not to let the real exercise its corrosive effect on our foresight and the weight on our freedom? In my opinion, the answer lies in the creative act, and the maker of words that I am, it's through writing that occurs the resumption of self by self despite a tenacious omnipresent reality.

In a soul, the wind gets up, sits down and being written, he takes his time, he takes words, it takes the best of himself ... But of reality to words, the route is dangerous: it must be transfer this to real words that come and gather. Returning to the words is not a real reduction but rather its transubstantiation: it is a real clean, back to basics, that transcended words will carry. This is where lies the difference between writing fiction and journalistic work: in it, the text should stick to reality, marrying its windings, making the turn, aided in need of sound and image ;; the real story is that one account abundance and thoroughness of the facts supplied. In media market, the reality show is: better to sell her dresses in unique, incredible, this thing becomes shrill and gargle with infamous television channels worldwide.

Nothing like when fiction is to write the actual expense. Writing fiction away then drawing a line between his words and the event. The boundary lies above all in the right which gives the writer, it assigns itself the duty to work it real and never betray. For such a work can happen it must find the right distance from reality. This is the first distance in space, as if they were "push walls" of the event to better understand. When too much glue to things or beings, they are difficult to see. But the distance is in time: the immediate emotion, the shock of the event that the media have bequeathed us a colorful, while it may take over the work. is for the writer, the real return but is not working. Too much emotion distorts the words, excess light shone on the object we are blind and erases a thousand details would have revealed the weak flame of a candle. For the real has an echo, a resonance chamber that reveals the distance. Texts that emerged from the news of the shake so close as to prevent any breathing! These texts do not know an ephemeral existence. Drawing from the supermarket the current, we can write books, you can even sell them, it fails to do writing work.

An important choice governs the work of recasting of reality: sort events, extract what is revealed and what must go in the shade forgetful. Compacted in the thickness of the facts, the question is not what it should deliver, but what can not be removed without seeing the frame collapse, dead. To the question, answers are coming miles, miles are possible choices, as if all written work opened up a gap singular and inimitable on reality. All writes to be a reality only one version: hers.

Through this choice, how far to push the interests of truth in relation to reality? In truth, the "loyalty" to the real wends through the story, a path of infidelity and failure. Is that it is, at once, making the real and break like a ripe fruit, reinvent reality by writing it, move from simple restitution to a truly creative ... the words are stronger than reality, they disintegrate to create another and otherwise.

But this work requires a re-creation of reality on oblivion ... oblivion is another way of remembering. In his book "The Age of clouds," Philip Forrest wrote: "Writing is not memory work but work to oblivion." is, after forgetting (and the slow sedimentation which operates it) so that we can bring to a reality that has taken the time to arise in us and around us. This is where the work begins with the words.

The reality is our destiny, we play him in the partitions that life offers us, those we choose the repertoire of days and others imposed on us; we may even compose some of our own, and there, the time for a book we're stronger than our destiny ...

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Childhood art

Stop complaining to those around you, it gets boring. Whether you blame them? Their kindness would be to cover their politeness of automatism, in their eyes looking elsewhere, it is not you they seek but themselves! What do you do differently? Have you ever drawn a horizon in which you are not the hero who rises?

Anne, sister Anne, you never will stop to watch an unlikely figure! Sociality that is overrated commodity, made over oneself, artful, applied! Exchange of interests, instead of barter and non-life. Look for a moment! Have you happened to barter species? I bet you've only had the hands were vials of perfume: species? Say it's too simple, fragrances, ephemeral as sweet, landing on the epidermis to the hair brushed.

Stop looking any nugget in the duck pond where ducks paddle; Cross your chips in the eyes of others? Polite indifference affectionate distancing, kindness merchants plea in which violence is matched only by the exquisite politeness! You have used up your credit, move along, nothing to take.

beings are fueled with archaisms and air time. They call it true or "right thing" or they do not call it work and without asking any questions. Their archaisms there is nothing to say, they deliver them dressed in projects, punched back by corporation, the sheep or crooks, legal anyway! You also concoct your archaic, warm under your jacket. This is where your trembling glow, it's nobody's business. And if one has to be approached, you dismiss strongly with what you have on hand: hunting or fly sentence glossy.

So stop complaining, it becomes tasteless.

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From writing before anything else.

Make no mistake, this is not the nth (bad) argument for an act of writing that precedes life, the hours that follow, are similar, again. No one finding of a superiority of writing about life, hackneyed theme, false addition ... in everyday writing is one point among others: work, eat, write and then go to bed ; some, a transcendent conscious of the legitimate and crushes them, put the writing on top of their life as a flag (another!), it is neither my desire nor my intention.

Looking more closely at the act of writing, I wondered what we could remove him without harming it. I immediately thought of the story, the plot. To the question, is it necessary to write a story? My answer is definitely not. A second accessory I have also appeared extremely fickle: to convey the message, idea or theory to defend that which equips it with a fiction that yawns a bit in the corners or go small. It should not be said that writing fiction is mixed to defend causes or demolish the ideas, the image does it with more force and without ambivalence that words trail behind them like a bad conscience.

Last pitfall: the current, all fees that just came out, some still war crisp, two or three scarves to Islam clear, confessions of a restyled head of state on return or a repentant pedophile. These books are miasma, they relate to writing that evokes qu'entretiennent sewer pipes with a clear source. Words in service and held function do the dirty work spokesman, denied speech the next day by another "highlight", speech dying before standing. It is necessary that the writing is as if the word has its place, frequent the shallows of thought!

We leave these false pretenses so that only serve as evidence of bad phrasemongers. And against all the reasons that I could rely on claims that writing does not need reasons. And we do not talk about the inspiration that should flow like a beneficent and unpredictable source. If need to write will wait for the right of this hysterical, the wait would be long gold of time.

My feeling, as modest as singular, is that writing is born of a desire for words, "write" is rooted in a crucial gap: desert of the page or screen, ignorance of being challenged to write. Being full written poorly. When the emotion carries or freezes, that the words rush in his head, battalion tidy, this creature is no longer master of what he writes. It darkens the pages, it can even get to finish a book, he does not write.

is to join a vacuum of ignorance that everything is at stake. Malaise brewing ... .. a kind of confused disarray. Seated at my table, I pitched a little: no subject, no connection, nothing to say. In fact I did not say but write. In the silence of others, when they finally cease their vile talk, their words are dispersed by the wind window, finally returns to silence as the least bad solution. That's when white page stands, accomplice of nothing to cross, seeming to tell him who wrote: "You're not alone, I'm equally." The other shrugs shoulders through the eternal: "I have nothing to say, nothing to write either," yet he goes to the first line, the first word. This one, cracked in the night match, illuminates his fingers, leaving his life in the shadows. The man goes, he does not know. It will notice when behind him, walked the path will be enough! He started writing, not too fast to avoid tripping or too slowly so the match does not go out on the road, burning his fingers, sometimes the heart.

Writing, exercise deprivation is based solely on itself. Neither news conciliatory ride or fiction to disguise, no posterity awaits the man who wrote, in his essential emptiness, he help of words to stand up.