For people who know Nogent, that says it all. I stopped by Planet Organic to pick up a ready-cooked meal— chervil and pomegranate cream quinoa — planning on eating in front of the telly, as usual. Sometimes he even forgets where he parked the van. Pissed about me not drinking, pissed about me being vegetarian, pissed that I know fuck all about football. How can I tell Gilbert I went off meat when I was in the slammer?
Because of a bloke I met there, a bloke as refined as Gilbert is coarse, who told me that not eating meat was the mark of a superior mind, who did tai-chi and yoga, who knew how to cook cassava and betel leaves, century eggs and kasha, who slept in silk pyjamas with his head facing north because of Fengshui? We got out together. His case was dismissed, I was released for good conduct.
And we lived together for eight years, like man and wife. Alexandre was his name. Alexandre the Great is no more, and now Little Boss Gilbert is my company. So there I was on the sofa with the little carton on my lap, heated up thanks to my pal the Microwave, while my other pal the Telly delivered its load of images.
I zapped around stuff that hypnotizes you real easy, programmes full of experts discussing the news for hours— politics, culture, economics. I turned up the sound and looked harder.
That voice, I know the voice too. I listen. Her hands move around a lot, her gestures are unpleasantly familiar. Suddenly I get it, I put all the pieces together. That face talking on the telly is the daughter of the woman I murdered thirty years ago. I sat there gobsmacked, gaping at the screen, remote dangling between my legs, completely petrified.
The rotten leaf stench incrusted in my track bottoms rose to my nostrils, blending with the bitter smell of tepid chervil. There was a kind of short circuit in my neurones, an electrical time shock rewinding the years in a deafening chaos. A story about Greek flies, where this guy, who murdered his mum-the-Queen to avenge his dad-the-King, putting an end to a long family history of bloodshed and complications, found himself pursued by beasties flying into his hair, into his clothes, into his thoughts, even into his dreams. All day long they buzzed old saws into his ears, about remorse, fault, impossible pardon, etc.
The man who killed my mother with forty-one knife blows, after raping her with a snow shovel handle one January night, was sentenced to life. Details of the crime, the court case, even of his first years in prison, can easily be found in legal archives or press articles, given that he featured in a long television documentary, in which he comes across as particularly photogenic. Being a generous, humanitarian and progressive woman, I can only applaud this exemplary experience of reconstruction: the prison cell as a social ladder, life behind bars as a personal development course, carried out with success.
I was sentenced to life inside too.
Inside a cesspool of stagnant grief, compulsory amnesia and muddied repression, which eventually dried out with a subtly sickening smell. But after thirty years within this ingenious sarcophagus, the crust starts itching, the wound begins to speak. Something starts oozing and must be thoroughly washed clean. Washing day. A character is essential. Star for a day, star forever. Faces wiped out of my memory years ago resurfaced and danced behind my eyes: the woman I killed, the girl on the telly — green eyes, red chignon, pointed chin —, big fat J.
Still, I must have dropped off for a bit because I also saw my mother cooing I love you big boy in my ears while the screws fucked her. He was smoking while he waited, leaning against the van. After my night of horror, it was felt so good to see him I wanted to kiss his steak-and-kidney guzzling gob and burrow into his belly. Truth is, I say nasty things about him but I do like Gilbert. You should see him unloading crates of pansies or daffodils, full of devotion, walking backwards with his chin low over quivering petals to shield them from the wind; hear him sweet-talking the asters, clematis or larkspur flowers while he eases them onto bamboo stakes.
Can anyone tell me who the artist is and the name of the song? Song was popular in the last 5 years. Who is the singer? I am looking for a music video and song with a french woman with long blonde hair. And a guy a rappet who makes a ballad.
I dont knlw the year but i guess early s. I saw it in French class but I dont remember what it was called. Rap and hip hope french song. Not sharp in memory. I also think it had a link to football. Hey im trying to find this song that kept showing up on my YouTube ads for the longest time and I completely forgot who sang it and what it was called, it had like a party feel to it and it was about two people that like each other in school and it had like a scene where the guy singer took the girls camera and made her like a wall of photos or something.
Forgot to write down the title.. The male singer repeats the same words the words in the title? Please help! It was in I believe!! Joe Dassin perhaps? Libertine, and so many more with a career spanning the same as Madonna and used controversy very smartly. Her ethereal darkness put into musical poetry is unique.
Who else can make a hit pop song and dance remix about suicide? She has a huge cult following. Definitely an original and a list is never complete without any of her catalog on it. What is the peppy song with the nonsense words that has a music video with some older men dancing and posing, one of whom is shirtless? I believe it came out this year.
I am searching for a song that I heard around The first part of the title is a number, something like although I dont think that is the correct number because otherwise I probably could have found the song.
The video depicts a man singing in a colonial style outfit and if I remember correctly, there was some whistling. Etienne Daho?
Alain Bashung? Easy listening, romantic, unforgettable. Hi a lot of french starsof the eighties are ontour together since 10 years. It call stars 80 and it s great, but only in France. Greetings from France. And I want to test myself if I could understand French songs :-D list of this songs is a great help to me.
And the only thing I remember about it is that in its video there was a lot of newspapers and also there was that wooden doll people who draw use for refrence.
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It was also sung by a man. Could someone help me please?
Are you talking about this song? A song in which a male singer ask for forgiveness from female singers and that videos shows a lot of girls are dancing before the stage.