Mafalda siempre!

Je partage encore une fois aujourd'hui un gag de Mafalda, parce que c'est dans ces temps-ci de l'année que j'apprécie Mafalda le plus, quand j'ai tendance à me sentir plus mélancolique (enfin encore plus que d'habitude). Je me rappelle vaguement de sa signification en français, mais je crois qu'on peut comprendre ce qu'elle veut dire même si comme moi on ne connaît pas l'espagnol.

Mafalda et la planète

Parfois, parce que le monde me décourage et désespère, je veux relire Mafalda. Il y avait deux personnages qui apapraissaient dans ses rêves, des aliens, qui vivaient je crois sur la lune, d'où ils observaient la terre et commentaient sur l'humanité. Ils parlaient une autre langue, mais on pouvait comprendre ce qu'ils disaient. Enfin bref. Nous vivons dans une bestiaplanete. Vraiment.

Felipe, Miguelito et l'école

Eurêka! Enfin, enfin, enfin, j'ai trouvé ce gag de Mafalda que je cherchais depuis des années. Celui où Miguelito essaie de convaincre Felipe de ne pas trop s'en faire avec le retour à l'école et les vacances qui terminent. Ça fait des années que je veux le partager ici, le voici. Un peu de contexte, que ceux qui lisent ce blogue depuis des années connaissent sans doute: enfant, lorsque août arrivait et que je voyais les vacances sur le point de prendre fin, je chassais la mélancolie en lisant Mafalda. Et ce gag-là, il touche toute la psychée de mon enfance et de mon adolescence et mon rapport conflictuel à l'école. Je sais que faut bien y aller, mais quand tu cherches des raisons pour trouver du plaisir à passer tes jours dans une classe, tu rames pendant des heures et tu te ramasses avec deux ou trois arguments de merde. Ce gag est beaucoup plus profond qu'il n'y paraît et il est cathartique.

Semaine de m*

Petit billet très court pour dire que la semaine dernière, ça a vraiment été une semaine de merde à tous les niveaux. Je ne veux pas rentrer dans les détails ici, je le ferai sans doute plus tard, mais j'espère que la semaine qui commence sera meilleure. J'écris ça dans un but cathartique.

Crime writing

This coming Saturday, it will be my third creative writing workshop. And I am actually dreading it. I will explain why and this post will be a sort of catharsis I had been wanting to write it for a while. After the first one, I was enthusiastic. The second one left me deflated and feeling a bit cheated. The reasons are the following: we had been asked to write no more than 2,000 words to share, due to time constraint. I had been requested to write a synopsis of the novel I was inspired to work on during the first workshop, so I did write one. Since 2,000 words was the limit, I thought about writing a detailed one, not only describing the plot but the main characters, the setting (Montreal and its crime world). It ended up being more like detailed note than a brief synopsis, but it was within the limit. As I still had plenty of words left, I also decided to write a bit of prose to flex my muscles. I wrote them too late, too fast, it was not very good, but I decided to share them anyway.

So come the day of the workshop. The synopsis, which had been the bulk of the work I had done, was barely glanced at. They went into the draft, not even a chapter, about 800 words all in all, the one I had spent less than a week on and which was to be honest not very good... And they pretty much ripped it apart. One of the writers said that one of my female characters, described as a tomboy in the synopsis, did not have a tomboy's name, in fact her first name was too posh and ladylike. I was tempted to tell him to ask her parents why they decided to give her that name. I simply said that I disagree. Then one of the women there said that my male character, a former police officer in his 30s, was sexist and a dinosaur and should not be written like this. I said that is how he came to be, that I imagined him like this, that I did not care about him being nice as long as he was believable. Then they said he was anachronistic, that "a man in his thirties does not think like that nowadays" (surely it depends of the man!) and they went on a tangent about Life on Mars where then such character made sense and I was simply speechless. Absolutely stunned, in fact. I remained polite, but left the workshop feeling short changed. When I got home, I was fuming. I wrote a long email to the hostess telling her that I had been sorely disappointed after the ordeal and why. She replied back to me politely, but that any criticism was meant to be helpful and not to take anything personal, etc. I replied back that while I was always open to criticism, however harsh it can be and that I had been indeed used to it both in creative courses at uni and acting classes, what I received was anything but helpful or constructive.

So yes, that's that. I might be too sensitive, I don't know, but I thought the whole thing was absurd. Since then I have written jack of the novel. I am officially suffering (aspiring) writer's block. Which is really sad, given that I was so on fire after the first workshop. I will show them an abstract of something I wrote a few years ago. If they like it, fine. If they don't well, then screw it, I won't waste anyone's time or kid myself. Maybe I overestimated my skills as a (wannabe) writer, maybe I just can't take criticism, but I did feel cheated. Okay, rant over.

The story of an antagonism

Today I am going back to work. After two weeks of holidays, I am going back with some excitement and some apprehension, like I always do after a long absence. But I am in a better mood and far more optimistic than I was a few months ago. There is a reason for this, which I will explain in a moment. I have been at my job a year and a half, was made permanent same time last year. While I was fairly satisfied with it then, there was a colleague with whom I started having problems. He had a senior position, like me, but slightly above me in the hierarchy, although he was not my direct boss. I work in a small office and a small company, so it is difficult to avoid people sometimes. Anyway, without giving anything confidential away on social media, he turned out to be a nasty, backstabbing snake and very much of a bully. I had enemies in some of my previous jobs (read this post from 2009) but it never degenerated into open conflict like it did. My colleague, let's call him the Snake, turned out to be just that: as a perfect specimen of the Dunning-Kruger effect, he knew nothing of my line of work and the department I manage (which I figured out very early on), yet thought he knew enough to give me lessons, asked lots of questions, sometimes relevant ones, sometimes not, yet never cared one bit about the answers as he was not really willing to learn. Worse, he shoveled work my way (and for the record I am happy to take responsibilities), only to try to make me trip and second-guess everything I did or say. We clashed on a number of occasions. And he was not behaving like this merely on professional queries, chit-chatting he openly demeaned things I like (movies, novels, etc.). I ended up ignoring him altogether as much as I professionally could and was not hiding my exasperation towards his immaturity, but he was toxic enough to make me dread going to work and drag my feet every morning. It was having a toll on me.

And I was seriously considering making a formal complaint to HR, when early in the autumn (when I say autumn is my favorite season, it seems that it is also the season that is most favorable to me), the Snake resigned in disgrace. Turned our he had been clashing with other people too and that in the end, he had alienated and antagonized everyone. I don't believe in karma, but this was a sweet revenge. It has been a long, blissful Schadenfreude moment. So work became normal work again, without the dreaded feeling of daily Chinese water torture. I turned out learning quite a lot from the ordeal, to trust my instincts, for one, especially when alarm bells are ringing and not to be afraid to be firm and if necessary sharp. I wanted to blog about it for a while, thought of doing so tonight (this post is scheduled) as a sort of catharsis.

May Day(!)

I know May has barely started, but so far it has been the most dreadful start of May I have experienced in years. The only May I remember to be worse than this one was in May 1992, when it had snowed. In any case, it has been cold and miserable since the beginning of the month, I am still wearing my winter coat and I have a cold. It is supposed to get warmer, but I will believe it when I see it. May is meant to be this time when Spring is at its best, getting warmer and vaguely summery. Not this year, not so far. Don't get me wrong: I am an autumn person. But I do like a bit of seasonal change from time to time and I like May to look and feel like May. Rant over. This was meant to be cathartic.

Guerilla equipment

I took this picture at the York Castle Museum. It is one of the many displays of paraphernalia from World War I the museum has and they fascinated me. Like I mentioned in this post, I am fascinated by them as they have an uncanny resemblance to the toys we used to play war during my childhood. One of my friends had almost exactly that: a water bottle, a compass, a monocular telescope, a Swiss army knife (because he was a Scout). We played war, often of the guerilla sort, which was quite cathartic. Funny to think how something so grave as war can become the subject of childhood games. Games I remember fondly.

Scary mask

I took this picture at the York Castle Museum. It is another relic from World War 1: a gas mask. More like a hooded mask really. Like many old relics, I am fascinated by it. I know it is meant to be utilitarian, but it looks quite scary nevertheless. Like a villain's mask from the old childhood games we had: the round eyes, the featureless, faceless face... It's not ugly, but not beautiful either. Terrifying even without the context of its use.

Bédé noire

J'ai récemment blogué sur La position du tireur couché de Jean-Patrick Manchette, roman noir que je veux revisiter. Or, je me suis rappelé que Jacques Tardi en a fait une adaptation en bande dessinée, parmi d'autres romans du même auteur. Si je mets la main sur la bédé, ça me permettrait de relire le roman, mais sous un nouvel angle. Qui plus est, Tardi est un autre auteur que je veux redécouvrir, parce que je l'ai trop peu lu et je ne l'ai pas lu depuis trop longtemps. Alors voilà, c'est mon prochain projet de lecture francophone. Mais dans un premier temps, il me faut mettre la main sur l'adaptation.

La position du tireur couché

Martin Terrier était pauvre, esseulé, bête et méchant, mais pour changer tout ça, il avait un plan de vie beau comme une ligne droite. Après avoir pratiqué dix ans le métier d'assassin, fait sa pelote et appris les bonnes manières, il allait rentrer au pays retrouver sa promise et faire des ronds dans l'eau... Mais pour se baigner deux fois dans le même fleuve, il faut que beaucoup de sang passe sous les ponts. 

Ceci est une citation de la quatrième de couverture de La position du tireur couché de Jean-Patrick Manchette. C'est le premier Série Noire que j'ai lu, un cadeau de mon parrain (à Noël 1997). J'ai déjà parlé de cette découverte dans ce billet. Ces temps-ci, je me sens comme le goût de le relire. Il est malheureusement de l'autre côté de l'Atlantique. C'est en fait le seul roman de Manchette que j'ai lu (sauf une adaptation bédé sur laquelle je bloguerai peut-être un jour) et je me dis qu'il me faudra que je corrige ça aussi. Il y a une violence impitoyable dans les romans de Manchette avec une sobriété dans la prose qui est assez difficile de trouver ailleurs. Enfin bref, je parlais de catharsis hier, j'aurais comme envie d'une dose cathartique d'un polar bien noir.

War Games

I took this picture at the York Castle Museum and have decided to use it to illustrate my post. This is the weaponry of a British soldier of World War 1 (I think it was the first one anyway, I might be wrong). Looking back at it, it struck me that some of these weapons have an uncanny resemblance with some of the toy guns I had or my friends had when I was a child. The revolver especially. We used to play war a lot back when I was a kid, with very life like plastic guns. war games, or cops and robbers, cowboys and Indians (or more like cowboys and desperadoes), spy games, and so on and so forth. But they always involved firearms, knifes and they all looked so real. I even remember some plastic grenades. I used to really enjoy these games, in spite or because of the violence in them. It was cathartic. So part of me remembered these games when I took this picture, because of the revolver, and not the horrors of war. Also, I can't help but think we don't make good toy guns as they used to, although I understand why they can't look like genuine anymore. Still, we used to play such fun games then.

Un peu de Mafalda

Tiens, j'ai envie ce soir de relire Mafalda de Quino. Malheureusement, je n'ai pas les albums ici. Il faudra bien me refaire une collection pour qu'elle soit prête quand petit loup sera en âge de lire. Je l'ai souvent dit, je le répète, Mafalda a un humour pessimiste mais jamais désespéré qui est profondément cathartique. À défaut des albums complets, je peux bien entendu retrouver certains gags sur Internet et les partager ici.

Malfalde pour vaincre la mélancolie

Nous sommes le premier août, ce qui veut dire que l'été est dans son dernier tiers et que les vacances scolaires commencet à se terminer. Il fut un temps où j'étais jeune, enfant et adolescent, voire même jeune adulte parfois, et le retour à l'école me rendait profondément mélancolique. J'ai souvent blogué à ce sujet. C'est encore profondément ancré dans ma psychée. Le mois d'août, quand on est jeune, ça a l'air d'une longue agonie. Pour ne pas sombrer dans la déprime la plus saumâtre, je lisais Mafalda. C'était profondément cathartique. Quand je me sens triste au mois d'août, j'essaie de le faire encore. Alors j'ai donc décidéde commencer le mois d'août avant un gag de Mafalda bien de ce temps-ci de l'année, avec un humour un peu triste.

A criminal conspiracy in a pub

The Metro is a rather "light" newspaper: tabloid, free, meant for commuters to read,there is not much in it. But sometimes, you get some gems of piece of news. In this case literally: the summary of a heist of the Hatton Garden jewellery and the trial of the robbers. So they stole among other things gold and jewelry, which always gives the crime something of a glamorous and almost nostalgic nature. Like I mentioned in this post back in September, about another jewellery heist, this one very local, jewellery heist belong to old crime stories. Then they hid parts of their loot in a graveyard, something that also could well belong to a movie (I am thinking of this classic of course). The gang is mostly composed of elderly men, pensioners even, that makes it a bit more surreal and finally, to top it all... They met in a pub to discuss the dividing of their theft. This gives the whole thing a very English feel. And, since the crime has now been solved and the perpetrators will most likely be punished, I can enjoy this bit of criminal news without feeling too guilty: it's cathartic. And like I said back in September, this could be the starting point of a great crime fiction story. I cannot help but think about it, anyway.

The jewellery heist nearby

There was a dramatic sight on my way to work this morning: the shop window of a jeweller was lying on the pavement, broken down, a police line wrapped around the area, with a single police car and a police officer guarding it. This was three minutes away from home, if that. On the street parallel to ours. In a quiet little English town where nothing happens. My first thought was: "so they still do jewellery heists, like in the old movies and crime novels?" Okay, so it was not nearly as Hollywoodian, but there was something surreal about it. Like it belonged to another time or something. I don't know why I think that. I guess now I see burglary as the theft of TVs, computers, etc. Something akin to looting, in other words. Stealing fancy jewels belongs to another time, with posh thieves wearing nice suits, Venetian masks and white gloves. There was an element of looting in this heist: the burglars rammed a car in the window in the early hours of the morning before stealing it. I could have heard it. I guess I was sound asleep.

My second thought about the burglary was: "this could be the starting point of a great crime fiction story". Hot ice, a very modern setting, a quiet English town (this could of course be changed into any quiet town, or suburbs), MOD that is brutal, very contemporary and which contrasts with the object of the burglary. I say this and I know it must have been horrible for the owners and the staff. When your working place gets vandalized as well as burglarized, it must be a traumatic experience. Even for the locals. But I can't help thinking that this could be the beginning of a great story. I guess there is a cathartic element to turning such bit of news into fiction. Maybe not before the criminals are caught though.

The world's sexiest criminal?

I know I may be reporting old news, but soon she will be in court, on the 17th of November, so this is in fact still very new. I am referring to Stéphanie Beaudoin, a cat burglar from Québec, who was dubbed "the world's sexiest criminal" by tabloids around the globe, among them the Daily Mail. Which is where I learned about her. A trashy right wing tabloid from the UK. She is, in essence, a real-life Catwoman. But from Victoriaville, Québec. And, behind the glamour shots that made her famous through social medias, she is a far more sinister than Catwoman: not only is she accused of 42 acts of breaking and entering, but she also owned illegal firearms.

That said, I must confess I have a certain fascination for the woman. Not pride, even though she is from Québec. I do not have twisted pride for home grown criminals, however good looking and famous they can be. But she is a character that belongs to crime fiction. Not merely a creature of the social medias who revealed her, but the embodiment of the archetype of the femme fatale. There is the bikini shot of course, but also the one where she is holding a machine gun, in a short dress and wearing jewelry and glasses. Elegant yet deadly. An artist would draw a female character like that, I would deem it cliché. Even her appearance going to court, with the glasses, confirms her status as a femme fatale icon: she is a bit of a chameleon, not unlike another famous cat burglar. And well, it is fascinating. I do not find crime sexy, yet I love crime news like a sucker and find it source of inspiration for crime fiction, where crime can be sexy, in a cathartic way.

Mercredi, 1er janvier

Mes lecteurs savent que je n'aime pas beaucoup le premier janvier, pour plusieurs raisons. Pour moi, c'est vraiment à ce moment-là et non pas le 6 janvier que les Fêtes et Noël sont vraiment terminés. En général, je ne passe pas ce jour la joie dans l'âme. Or il m'est venu à l'esprit aujourd'hui, alors que je me sentais particulièrement mélancolique, que le Jour de l'An tombe un mercredi. Le milieu de la semaine, que j'exècre assez d'habitude, et d'un. Cela veut également dire que le congé férié ne dure qu'une journée, en plein milieu de la semaine. Au moins à Noël on avait le 26. Enfin bref... Comme les Fêtes sont terminées, je compte bloguer dès demain sur autre chose que celles-ci, afin de mettre fin dès que possible à la mélancolie de l'après Temps des Fêtes. Ce soir, j'essaie encore d'exorciser à la fois le mercredi et le premier janvier.

Of crimes and trains

I watched yesterday on the BBC The Great Train Robbery, based on, well, the great train robbery of 1963. It created a bit of controversy, as some people thought it was glorifying criminals. But I think the story had to be told and is very relevant. Because it made UK crime history. Heck, it made history, period. And however delicate the subject matter, I believe in the importance of memory. That, and I find such historical crime drama, history turned into fiction, to be cathartic. I loved it anyway, loved the top class acting and the characterization, the setting, everything. It was quality. And tonight there is the second part, showing the following investigation.

And watching it, something struck me about their motivations: I wonder if the robbers did not do it because they were going to rob a train and not a bank, that they didn't do it at least partially because it was an exciting setting. A train, in motion, that you need to stop, to ride a little bit even, then to empty of its content. They had to take into the account railways, signals, workers, a whole web of elements that make train travel possible and that don't exist in a bank. I think their was a bit of boyish mischief in their crime. Are there any children not fascinated, to a degree, by trains? And so many remain fascinated by trains as adults. I know I am. So I wonder if that was not their motivation: to play with a toy.

Odin

English below...

Il y a des soirées comme ça qui te bouleversent. Odin s'est fait frapper plus tôt en soirée, juste après souper, et est mort sur le coup. Je suis sous le choc. Je vais essayer de reprendre mes sens un peu et je rebloguerai plus tard cette semaine, peut-être. Ce billet est cathartique. Je vais plus tard, quand je m'en sentirai capable, tenter de lui rendre hommage proprement. C'était un merveilleux ami. Si vous avez des conseils pour vivre un deuil animal, j'aimerais le savoir. D'ici là, c'est la fin de la saga d'Odin.

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Evenings like this. I wanted to blog about plenty of things, but not about this. Never ever about this. Odin was hit by a car tonight right after supper and died on the spot. I am writing this as catharsis, because the cat had become such important part of my life. I may not blog for a little bit, but when I feel ready to blog about him I will write a proper homage. He was a wonderful feline and the best friend one can ever hope to have. If you have any advice about grieving an animal, I would like to know. Until then, I guess it is now the end of the Odin saga.