My world, i.e. my place, my environment, my identity, who I am, where I live, my specific reality... To define my world quite specifically is my aim here to-day in this post.
It feels awkward. How do I start? Perhaps by describing my immediate environment. A HP computer set on a do-it-yourself blue desk, next to an old kitchen cupboard inherited from my father, where a home-made earthenware vinegar pot stands with a bottle of oil, a mustard jar and a homemade garlic container. This is situated just under the inside eaves of a loft, above a derelict old house built some 2 or 3 centuries ago. Swallows occupy the bottom part of this house where a not so famous rebel Christian reverend was born in 1860. I was born next door in 1944. Outside, complete silence. The village has 3 streets and the traffic is mainly of large farming machinery going past full blast at times.
I am French and I live in France. The point is that I spent many years of my life in various English speaking countries,…
You spend the first Twenty Years astonished and flabigasted at what happens to you. You spend the subsequent other Twenty Years reliving, remembering, re-enacting or reshuffling the first ones. Weird!
When I was a child, in that rural part of middle France where I live at the moment, my grand-parents had the habit to take us kids 'for a drive' on Sundays. One of those memorable Sunday drives was the trip to Amboise. Alright: AMBOISE (pronounced am-bwahz). From those trips I have kept a special interest in our good king François the first (pronounced fran-swah premier). He grew up there in the late 1400's and early 1500's and spent his first years as king in that same castle that I used to visit with my grandparents on a Sunday drive.
When I came back to France in the year 2000 I had to go and visit Amboise again... it sent me into a whirlwind of History research about king François and his family. At about the same time an…
One other issue makes me mad, the way everything has taken a medical twist! You just can't say you like apples or stewed beef or whatever without someone correcting you to add it's good for your skin or your liver or some part of your medical self. I can't stand it! I simply cannot bare this narrowed vision of life.
Long before I studied anthropology at university, I had noticed that a given religious trait, when dropped as religious, is usually readapted as medical but not completely dropped at all. I'll explain.
When I lived in a kibbutz in Israel in the early 1960's, one day someone stopped me as I was reaching out for a yoghurt after I had eaten my beef stew. "Don't, you'll get a soar stomach!" was the warning. As I insisted to eat my yoghurt, I was severely warned of forthcoming medical problems. As a 'gentile' I had been raised with the habit of eating a yoghurt, or some cheese, after my meat dish and I could not see what the probl…
I'm coming out of hiding as my anger level has come to a dangerous boiling level! I spent all day yesterday wanting to bark at everything and everybody. There are a few good reasons why.
The feminist movement that started in good faith in the 1970's has slipped away on a tangent. There's no use hammering and stomping that women are equal to men. We are NOT equal to men and they are NOT equal to us. To start with, they don't have blood running down their legs for 10 days each and every month. They don't have problems with back ache bending down in their thirties carrying a baby in their bodies. They don't have pains to screaming point when giving birth. They don't have pain when making love. They just push their way in and then get up and have a smoke.
Allright I'll calm down. They are NOT equal to women and personnally I have no intention to become equal to them. Being a 'feminist' to me in the 1970's meant some hope to receive full respect…
At the beginning of December I ventured to have this blog turned into print directly by a firm called SharedBooks as advertised by Blog2Print. See 203. From blog to book (1)
The whole thing was somewhat nerves racking because of some bug on the process and/or because of my mishandling of the instructions.
There's a happy ending to that story! The book was finally delivered in my letterbox on 4th January... Alright, it took a month to come from North America to France perhaps snowbound in the North Pole with Santa or else stuck in a train that did not run or a post office under icicles. But it made it and it's all I care about!
I forgot something in my last post. Before I set off to Suva I went to the post office in Nandi to check a parcel that had been sent to my English captain with a notice for a huge charge to collect it. My captain's lady had said there must have been a mistake. They were indeed expecting a parcel from their folks with toys for the baby, a video tape and a couple of books, nothing important. I promised I'd see to it. I produced the docket to an Indian officer-in-charge at the post office who said there was nothing he could do. I had to find arguments: he could send the parcel back to the sender as the yacht people could not pay for it, and in any case it was not a matter of importing anything into the country as the yacht was due to leave in a couple of days time. I left the docket with the man and I went without being too sure what his decision was going to be. I had done my best.
In Suva after a few days of life in an appartment I asked the Kiwi man who was intending to sail t…
As I have been recently approached by sailing magazines, Sail The World and Yachting, wishing to sponsor my blog, I'd better get serious about it! Perhaps I could make the effort to finish the long yarn of my sailing trip across the South Pacific as a crew member on various yachts, back in 1997.
Where was I?... on Malololailai aka Musket Island, off the coast of the main Fiji island facing Nadi (pronounced Nandy). I was definitely leaving the 'rally around the world' as they were sailing directly on to Australia and I was sailing to New Caledonia. It sounds good to say it like this. Rather... I was stranded on Musket Island off a yacht and wanting to get back to Suva to join another yacht owner intending to sail to New Caledonia.
I was really stranded. Before leaving Papeytey I had posted a letter to my bank in France asking them to send something like a thousand dollars to be available over the counter at a bank in Suva, Fiji. Probably because I didn't have that amoun…