Music: Mylène Farmer

I moved to France in the early summer of 1991, flying from the flat suburbia of Apeldoorn in The Netherlands to the small city of Grenoble, nestled in the valley in the Alps and surrounded by three different mountain ranges (the Vercors, the Chartreuse and the Belledonne). For the first couple of months, while we were looking for a home to rent, we lived in a small unit in a temporary housing building in the suburb of Meylan. Our days were spent getting used to the heat, playing outside in the grass until late in the evening, taking French lessons  and watching French TV in the morning. To our absolute delight there was a whole channel on network TV that seemed to play only music, M6, a bit like MTV but for the French population. There were some weird songs and videos (like the one with the dancing mummy that I used to reenact for my sister, and finally just found online), some terrible ones, some American and/or British ones that I recognised and one that I couldn't get enough of, not only the song itself (even though I could hardly understand a word of it), but also the video, which appealed to my romantic-I live in the land of 19th century literature-13-year old self.

Even though the Mylène Farmer song Désenchantée was actually high in the charts that summer, I am pretty sure the first Mylène Farmer video I saw was for the song Pourvu qu'elles soient douces, a Barry Lyndonesque recreation set in the 18th century. I could however, be completely wrong, because my research tells me that it was censored for TV as it contained nudity and sex. It would have been edited anyway, because the full-length version is about 20 minutes long, and would have never been shown during regular TV hours. So it is possible I am right. I just know that a few of her videos were on regular play during that summer, the two above, and Libertine. The Pourvu qu'elles soient douces video is actually a sequel of the Libertine video, in which Mylène plays the same character (named Libertine). You can pretty much imagine what a young woman named Libertine would get up to amongst a group of debaucherous characters in 18th century France.



I fell in love with the videos. They were mini movies, shocking, beautiful, something straight out of one of the novels I was so obsessed with. It wasn't until a while later that I also fell in love with the music, because I needed to understand the lyrics before I could really appreciate the songs. So dark and intriguing. It was pop music mixed with something a lot darker and artsy, with a voice both fragile and strong at the same time. Over the years I spent in France Mylène Farmer became one of my favourite contemporary French artists. I would forget about her for a while, to fall right back in love with her again, always because of the amazing videos that she put out every time she released a new album.
After dropping out of high school in 1995 I was working as a chambermaid at the Hotel Ibis in the centre of Grenoble and at the time M6 pretty much played the video for California on a loop. In the video Mylène plays both a rich woman with her lover and a street hooker in California. She witnesses her double being threatened on the streets of LA (her double is then murdered in the video), so goes back there, dressed as a prostitute herself to avenge her double's death by murdering her double's pimp. There was something about the song, the many puns in the lyrics and the beauty of the video that kept me dreaming that there was something more out there for me, even while I was cleaning someone's mess up just so that someone else could make their own mess in the same spot.



The next year Mylène went on one of her extremely rare, but extravagant, tours, and a double live disc of her show at Bercy (Live à Bercy) was released. That year I listened to it over and over and over again, the most poignant part probably being when her voice breaks during Rêver and she stops singing, just for the crowd to sing the song for her until she regains control. I know her voice breaks a lot during the show, and that she has a hard time hitting all the high notes, but there is something so human and heartbreaking about that, especially when you understand the lyrics properly. OK, I was going through a hard time back then, so it helped to listen to songs that were just as sad as the way I felt, and were a great counter to everything else I listened to on a loop (everything being The Cure).
There were many nights that my best friend during the late 90's and early 2000's, Maud, and I would roam the streets of Grenoble at night, drinking wine from the bottle and singing "Je je suis libertine, je suis une catin", to the most probable horror of anyone trying to sleep. I think we thought we were being daring and annoying at the same time. Actually, we were. All the time. Other times we would sing Sans contrefaçon to the statue of Berlioz on the Place Victor Hugo. I'm sure he enjoyed it immensely. Je t'aime mélancolie was another favourite, not that that should surprise anyone. We would run around dressed in suits and ties and Doc Martens with dark ribbons in our hair, a bottle of wine in one hand, a cigarette in the other. Cendres de lune...




In 1999 Mylène released the song Je te rends ton amour, a single off her (then) new album, and it immediately caused a huge scandal as the video depicted a church, blood, naked woman, the devil and a crucifixion pose. Super goth, super controversial and immediately banned on most TV channels. When it was released as a video single Maud and I made sure we were able to purchase one. It's still one of my favourite Mylène songs to this day. After that album I kind of lost touch with Mylène, especially because she didn't release anything for ages after that, and also because I left France and came to the States. I did try to find her 2005 album, but it was impossible to purchase in the States, so I gave up. I'm sure that with the help Spotify I can now discover her new songs, like or dislike them, and listen to the old songs I used to love so much again. It's strange, she's one of those artists that I adore, I love her image, her videos, her words, but I don't love every single one of her songs. There are some amazing ones, and others that just don't really do much for me. She's one of those artists that I could make my own "best of" playlist and just listen to that (although it could end up being pretty long). I think it's mainly the whole image, the long-standing artistic partnership with Laurent Boutonnat and the magic they create together, the wonderful videos, the darkness, the melancholy, the beauty and ultimately her reluctance to share her life with the Press, and her desire to remain as private as possible. All I really know about her is the image that she has portrayed through her music over the years.



Additional information on the artist HERE
Also - disregard the subtitles on the video of Je te rends ton amour above - they are terrible.




Ramblings: Siblings

I've been terribly lazy about writing all week, blaming the fact that I am tired on my complete lack of concentration. It's not like I am lacking in inspiration - I actually have a lot of it at the moment - I just can't seem to sit down and just write for a few hours. I need to refocus my attention on what I need to accomplish over the next three months. This novel is never going to get written otherwise, and if I want to move on to something else I need to at least finish the first draft.

For some stupid reason I always seem to get inspired about certain topics when I'm in the shower. Not exactly the best place to immediately write things down so that you don't forget them, so I find myself repeating them over and over again until I have finished washing my hair and can jump out and write notes on some random paper/magazine/bog roll that is hanging around. Anyway, the other day I was thinking about brothers and sisters and family and everything those words entail in my life, and in the lives of those that I love, and was inspired to write something. Sometimes it's just so much easier to express yourself with written words rather than spoken words (in my opinion anyway - I tend to be quite crap at expressing myself at the best of times).

Remember that time when you and your little sister shared a room when you were kids and were always dancing and singing to Elvis Presley and fighting about who was going to marry him (never mind that he was already dead and had been for quite a few years)? That time when you thought your sister was a doll so you proceeded to go and try to pull her head off while she was sleeping, just like you did with all your other dolls ( I WAS 2 at the time, so cannot be blamed for thinking my sister was just a big doll)? Or that time when you got home from school to find your little brother had finally been born and was sleeping peacefully in his cot? Not that he remained peaceful for long - he the fantastic ability of screaming the house down whenever he needed to. What about that time when you and your sister walked into an empty bar, and your sister went up to the DJ and asked him to play Bauhaus because it was your "happy music"? Yes, he did play Bauhaus and Siouxsie for that matter, and we all ended up going to Yaffa Cafe for breakfast and I put Tabasco on my sister's eggs for a laugh while she was snogging one of the guys somewhere else in the restaurant. What about all those times you and your brother would have drunken conversations at 4am your time and 1am his time? Actually, I think that's more like one-sided drunken conversations, because I doubt he had been drinking most of the time.What about the time you went on a road trip from Sacramento to Santa Cruz with your sister, and just as you were driving into the town Dead Skin Mask started playing and you both ended up doing crazy air drum and air guitar moves while shouting along to the song to the amusement of the people walking down the street? Or that time when you went on a roadtrip to Bodega Bay and made your brother run/roll down the sand hill multiple times so you could get a good photo?

There are so many memories, good, bad, funny, interesting and just plain weird. I've lived pretty far away from my siblings for a long time now, but we text/talk/write/comment on each others posts every day. My brother is the only person up until now who has read all of the 123 pages I have currently written of my novel and took the time to write his comments down and send them to me. We've all been through so much shit together, even not speaking to each other for a while, but it always ends in hugs and tears and more hugs and tears. I tell my sister everything and know when she's not doing well, even if she hasn't told me how she is feeling. Whenever I feel the slightest bit lonely (and it is possible to feel that way in this city, even if there are always things to do and people to see), I know that I'll always be surrounded by my sister and my brother, however far away they are. I'll be in California for 2 weeks in June, and I know that we will have a million laughs, probably fight a few times, complain to each other about each other and create more memories that I will probably end up writing about over the next few years. Then I will be back here in NYC, and they will be over there in Sacramento and we will continue to count on each other forever, even when we fuck up and hurt each other.

Ahhh... I was just thinking back to that rave we went to back in the 90's, when we drove for hours and finally found it around 5am, then got kicked out by the police at Noon, only to drive all the way back to Grenoble in the boiling heat... And when I decided that one NYE that it would be a wonderful idea to drink a bottle of Baileys followed by a bottle of white wine followed by a bottle of cider and my sister tried to cover for me when my mum called from the party she was at because I was puking my guts up...Every time I think of a story ten others follow suite.

I don't even know why I am even writing this... I guess I miss my siblings more than usual at the moment and just know what a blessing it is that they exist in my life. I get that protective older sister feeling (even though I feel like they spend most of their time trying to protect me from getting hurt by everything) and want to be there to make sure they are always happy. Sometimes I fantasise about living nearer them in California, but I know that NYC is my home now and I would miss this place too much. I wouldn't miss the winters or my family so much, but I know I would miss my home too much.


Maybe I will just go and call both of them right now.

Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds - June 2001 concert review

Just because I will never ever feel jaded when it comes to music, as long as bands and musicians like this still exist... I wrote this the day after I saw Nick Cave at the Transbordeur in Lyon in 2001, and 11 years on it's still one of the best shows I have ever been to. So here is what I wrote in my diary back in 2001, the day after the show:

Saturday 9th June 2001 - Grenoble, France
I saw the best concert I'd ever been to last night: Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds. Strangely enough I didn't feel as hysterically excited as I did before the Cure concert last year, it was all more calm. Maud and I were the first people to arrive at the Transbordeur (in Lyon), and as we were sitting in the carpark, smoking cigarettes and reading I saw Nick Cave go by... He is as absolutely gorgeous in the flesh as he is in pictures and on the screen. The man is everything: character, humour, uncharacteristic gorgeousness - anyway, he really is just this whole image. First it started with his music (this mini obsession I have with him) - when I was younger Louise used to listen to him all the time and I used to pretend to hate it, and then suddenly I fell in love, and now I can't go a day without listening to him. Anyway, it's a whole: the music, the person, the lyrics... Anyway, where was I?
The doors to the hall were opened around 7pm, and Maud and myself didn't even think of grabbing first row places, we ended up going up the steps, middle back, where we had a great view and we could sit down, and we weren't far from the front at all. The support band was not that good, well I didn't like it anyway. Australian band lacking in many things, especially atmosphere.

And then Nick Cave. It's undescribable really. The band started off with Do You Love Me? (great way to start!), and continued on, with many songs from the last album (at the time was No More Shall We Part), beautiful songs, especially the one I had difficulty containing my tears to, Hallelujah, others like Red Right Hand, The Mercy Seat, Henry, Into My Arms and many more. Nick Cave was wonderful, he's still full of energy, of anger, of pain... So were the Bad Seeds, although I found Blixa to have a little less energy than the rest, maybe he's always like that. Anyway, the audience was great, except for the idiot stagediver, you couldn't hear anyone during the slower songs, total respect, followed by thundering applause and cries.
When they left the stage the first time the whole audience was so heated up, front to back, that everyone felt as one big clap and stamp of the foot. They came back twice, two encores.

Excellent, fabulous, enchanting, too short, but it would never have been long enough. I want to see it again and again and again and again... I feel some kind of sense of fulfillment though, I saw Nick Cave and it was brilliant, even better than I could have expected, and I will see him again in a few years. That voice... So powerful and beautiful. To be honest, they are even better live than on album, and that is extremely difficult. They are all so together on stage. I can't explain all the emotions I felt during the concert, but it's all there and here, in my head and in my heart.

After the concert was the slight problem of getting home. Now Maud and I usually have a total lack of organisation going on, it's like we will organise the logistics of doing something and getting there, and the rest will work itself out. I love it. So we really didn't know how to get back to Grenoble (note: Grenoble is about 100km through the mountains from Lyon). We had the train timetable and saw that the last thing back to Grenoble was a bus from the Part Dieu station. We had 20 minutes to get there. We tried to hitch a ride and thankfully a nice couple dropped us off right in front of the station. We ran around looking for the buses, found where they were and looked for ours. Not there. Ten minutes later I looked at the timetable again and realised that it was only valid from June 10th onwards. That bus didn't even exist yet!!! Thankfully there was a train to Grenoble at twenty past midnight so we drank cappuccinos waiting for it and sang Henry Lee and Do You Love Me? on the train. I tell you we were lucky because otherwise we would have been hanging around in Lyon until 6am!!! Not that we really cared we were on such an emotional high.
Anyway, I have my literature exam on Monday, my last exam this year, so I had better go and finish reading Macbeth again. I hope the exam will be with Mme Blattes and that it will be on The French Lieutenant's Woman... I can't wait for it to be over at last.

Thank God for the pure existence of Nick Cave.


Note: The official live DVD released for this tour was actually the footage of this show in Lyon. Another note: I have seen Nick Cave many a time since then and he is always amazing.

People begging with (their) children - Rant

Back when I lived in Grenoble in France you used to see a lot of people begging on the streets, sometimes the lone old “pochtron” with his dog, pockmarked face and vinegary-wine smell, sometime a group of punks with their dogs and their tattoos and their piercings (otherwise known as “les travelers”, kids who moved from city to city, living in squats and abandoned buildings until they got bored of the lifestyle). But often you would see women begging in the streets, holding their babies. We called then “les gitans”, gypsies, Romanis, those people who would roam the land in caravans, pitch up camp anywhere and everywhere and move on afterwards. People who have never really had the best reputation anywhere that they stop. Not that I would judge anyway. I always liked the romantic idea of living the gypsy lifestyle, picking up camp and moving along to the next location, palm reading and dancing and just being free. I know, I know, I read too many novels and watch too many old movies (Golden Earrings being one of them). I used to read a lot of Enid Blyton when I was a child, and there was often a gypsy camp portrayed in the book, often with one bad apple who was always caught, and the rest of the camp were full of wonderful people. I don’t even know if these people were really gypsies or not, we just all used to call them that. Probably because they would move on to other cities when they felt like it, they were not here for good. Fleeting begging?

Back in France, these people that we would call “gypsies” would beg on the streets, always holding a tiny baby and maybe pulling another little child along with them, usually holding a sign up asking for money. They would make it sound like they couldn’t speak French and it dawned on me pretty early on that they would change identity depending on what was going on in the world at the time. Fall of Ceausescu in Romania in 1989? They were all Romanian. War in Yugoslavia between 1991 and 1995? They were all refugees from Yugoslavia. I’m sure today that they are all holding signs that say they are from Libya. Smart move no? How can you tug at someone’s heartstrings the most? Look sad and distraught, carry a tiny baby around on a sling and say that you are from a war-torn country that has been on the news every day for the past year.

I am not going to write about how I dislike people who beg – not at all. It’s not the people I dislike, it’s the system that makes it so that there are people who have to beg to survive. Although I wish we didn’t have to live with poverty in this day and age, we all know that it’s never going to go away. The rich get richer, the poor stay poor, unless they are really lucky. The even poorer struggle to live and depend on others to help them. There are many reasons why a person may be begging on the streets of a city, and I am not going to write an essay on that. I do however, severely dislike people who beg while using their children as a prop. It makes me so angry and sad at the same time – parading your child around the streets of a town to get money is just wrong. We frown upon the wide use of children to beg in countries like India, where groups of adults actually collect and buy children from their parents and use them in begging organizations (yes, we have all seen Slumdog Millionaire); but when it actually happens in our country we just let it happen. It’s still child exploitation. Especially when the children get to an age where they should be at school, or at least interacting with other children their own age.

The reason why I bring this up is because I hadn’t really encountered this in NYC until very recently. I’ve seen Vietnam vets, pregnant ladies, crackheads, people who claim they have AIDS and no money for meds, buskers, poets, dancers, actors (that subway version of Act V, Scene 3 was pretty amazing), blind people etc… But I hadn’t noticed anyone begging with their children until recently. Then twice in one week I saw it. The first time it was a couple with a tiny baby, with a sign asking for money. The second time it was a guy playing the accordion, followed by a woman and a little girl. Just like it used to be back in France… The war-torn country victims who are trying to get money from people by parading their children around the subways. And the main reason why it really makes me angry is that it makes me want to cry. I wish I could do something about it, but I can’t, so I am just writing about how much it really annoys me to see this happen.

There are lots of organisations around that help the homeless - if you want to volunteer or donate, see this website for more information: Hearts and Minds

The Park - place of sanctuary... Memories

We all had one growing up. It may have really been a park. It could have been a playing field, a graveyard, a railway embankment, a tree house, a forest. Just one place where you and your group of friends would meet up every day, lounge around for hours talking about everything and nothing, drinking beer, smoking hash and watching the hours roll by in great company.

A typical day in the life of outcasts teens, lazy, depressed, happy, sad, motivated, silly, young, old beyond our years... Countless hours of talking about the next gig we were going to, who the best guitarist in the world is, who the darkest 19th century poet was, about boys and about girls and about how we were going to afford the next packet of cigarettes and the next bottle of cheap red wine.

Our park was in the centre of the city, kind of in between all of our high schools, but right next to the private Catholic school a few of us went to. I had already dropped out of my school by that time, 1995 was the year of skipping class and then just never going back, smoking a lot of hash and drinking a lot of wine and beer, skipping through the park, contemplating the clouds in the sky, dating cute metal or goth boys and all signing our names in the little children's house with the slide. I must have had an awful reputation with the teachers at that school nearby as they used to try and drag my friends who went there back to class whenever they hung out with us all there. We were harmless, just different.

One night Alex and I decided that we were going to climb the fence and "break in" to the park... We did it, and walked through the trees in the pitch dark, pretending that we weren't scared when we really were, but unwilling to back out of the dare because we were trying to prove something to ourselves. At that moment we just wanted to run away to another country together and forget all about our lives, living another. Of course that never happened and I don't even know what he is doing or where he is nowadays, but that memory will always be imprinted in my mind.

Another time little skater Marion and I smoked a joint with some random guy and couldn't move for hours from the grass. Literally couldn't move. I suppose there was some lesson to be learnt there but I didn't learn it. The smell of burning Afghan hash still immediately brings me right back to the park and the memories of all that we left there.

Of course we weren't the only group to hang out there, there were other groups, but we never mingled with them. I think we all used to sneer at each other. Them at us because we wore ripped jeans and listened to aggressive music, and the boys had long hair and the girls smoked and swore. Us at them because we thought they were all boring and we felt inferior. We didn't fit in and they did.

My park is in the middle of Grenoble, France and it has a big fake elephant in the entrance. It's called the Jardin des Plantes (there is one in every French city) and is next to the Natural History Museum. The private high school is called Pierre Termier, my high school (lycee and college) was called Stendhal and was located just down the road (although my section has since been relocated). Some of my friends at the time have disappeared into their lives and away from mine, some are still very, very good friends and others I hear from now and again.

I'll always remember the time we drank bottles and bottles of beer in the afternoon and just stuck them upside down in the grass like a sculpture and left them there... It's amazing that the park keeper never banned us!

Falling back in love with the radio again...

I am beginning to rekindle my love with the radio again. For so many years I stayed away, from the disappointment of what I thought radio had become, from the stations that play a total of 10 songs, over and over and over again until you want to pound your head against a wall and kick something. But something happened this year, and I stopped feeling nostalgic about my past love of the radio, and am finding that it does still exist and that I can enjoy it again.

First radio hero was of course John Peel. Memories of his voice and the voices from The Archers on Sundays. John Peel is the synonym of a substitute father figure for me. That soft, deep voice, always calm and rich, playing some amazing, amazing music, late at night, during the day, whenever. He gave unknown artists a gateway to a wider audience, because if John Peel liked an artist or band, then he/she/they HAD to be good. All of my favourite artists have Peel Sessions (I used to tape them directly from the radio, and even still have some of the tapes). There were many a time that I used to finish work in the summer in England, and fall asleep to John Peel’s voice. I was living in London in 2004 when he died and was devastated. He was the most veneered and loved radio DJ of all time, especially where I come from, and I wish he hadn’t passed away so young. Can you believe he started broadcasting in 1967?! He went from the pirate radio station Radio London when it closed to BBC Radio 1 and pretty much stayed there for the rest of his life (with other broadcasts on Radio 4).

I think it goes without saying that the UK has the best radio set up, still to this day. But I didn’t really grow up in the UK, so my Radio 1 listenings were limited to before I turned 10, and the summers from my 16th birthday until I moved to New York in 2005. I grew up in France, where in early to mid 90’s there were both NRJ and Fun Radio, two radio stations that actually played GOOD music. I would listen to Fun Radio all day long, especially to Cauet and Miguel’s shows. They broadcast the very last Nirvana live show in full in 2004 (another one that I taped from the radio and listened to endlessly). I would sit on my windowsill by the little stream and listen to them play my favourites while discovering other bands along the way. Although never as good as British radio, they didn’t do a bad job for a few years… Until some internal radio rule decided that rock music was “out” and that it was time to only play the same 10 (bad) songs over and over again. Bye bye French radio…

I didn’t even bother with the radio much when I moved to the US. Every time I tried to tune into a radio station it was the same thing, so what was the point? I was better off making my own playlists and listening to them as opposed to forcing myself to listen to something else that I didn’t want to. Maybe I should have tried harder, but whatever, I didn’t miss the radio anyway.

Until I finally went back to England for a visit this year, and started listening to BBC 6 Music (yes, Marc Riley it’s all your bloody fault!). And I was hooked again. But now, I can actually listen to British radio here at home in New York, because you can stream the shows from your computer. Yes, you can listen to British radio from anywhere in the world. I also started listening to East Village Radio too, and discovered some cool shows, like Andy Rourke’s weekly show, where he pretty much plays whatever he feels like playing, and this often matches whatever I feel like hearing. I suppose that having more time at home now that I am not working insane hours at my old job helps to be able to actually sit down and enjoy the radio again. Suggestions are more than welcome!

Also. Did I mention how much I adore Marc Riley? Well I do. And I totally want to interview my mum about her Radio Caroline listening days...

Here are some links for your listening pleasure:

BBC 6 Music

East Village Radio (EVR)

Full list of Peel Sessions

"Welcome" - film by Philippe Lioret


I just finished watching this and am still crying my eyes out. Bilal, a Kurdish teen, walked for months from Iraq, to try to find his girlfriend in England. As his attempts to cross the Channel with a handler fail, he decides to try to swim the Channel, and starts training at the local swimming pool. The relationship that develops between Bilal and his swimming instructor resembles an awkward father/son relationship, where the father figure, Simon (played by Vincent Lindon), tries to help Bilal, but obviously feels conflicted about this, as he is going through his own personal drama (divorce) at the same time.
The film also depicts how refugees are treated in France (they are not sent back to their country of origin if said country is at war; but do not have any rights while they stay n France - basically al is done so that they are pushed to go back home again). it is also illegal for French citizens to help or house refugees, and the police can literally search a home without a warrant if they feel the need to.

Heartbreaking and heartwarming at the same time. I've always liked Vincent Lindon, and he plays his role excellently here.

More information on the movie:
Mars Distribution (French)
IMDB (English)

This brings up a much larger question... The immigration situation is a huge deal in most Western European countries. Whereas in the past immigrants were pretty much welcomed with open arms (think of the Poles that were taken from refugee camps in Uganda after WW2, and given automatic British citizenship for helping rebuild England; or the Algerians who were given homes and work in France in the 60's and 70's when there were too many jobs and not enough people to do them); nowadays people are either sent back to their countries of origin or, if they are deemed to fit within the status of a refugee (see HERE for the ECRE definition) either are held in detention centers, or left to live on the streets with no status, means of income or housing.

I've heard so many arguments from French and English people about this "situation" (from the far left to the far right), everyone has an opinion about it, but no one has a real solution. In the end it should be up to us to actually HELP people who are running for their lives - not treat them like subhumans. Most of the time people will not leave the country they were born in with nothing except the clothes they are wearing if it wasn't because they were in grave danger of torture, rape or death.

Just something to think about.

Wanting to be somewhere else...

I always know when it's time to leave somewhere. Sometimes it happens gradually, sometimes I just open my eyes in the morning and realise I need to live somewhere else. The last time I felt this so strongly was during 2001 and 2002. Living in Grenoble, France, last year at university, my family had just moved to California, the Twin Towers had fallen to the ground in front of my eyes through my television, and my deep research on Sylvia Plath for my thesis was creating my own personal bell jar. I only left the house to go to my few classes, to teach and tutor my students and to get groceries. Tim Buckley (Anthology), Tom Waits (Used Songs) and Bob Dylan (Desire) were the only CDs in my 3 CD player, and I spent most of my days reading and watching inane crap on TV (mixed with documentaries on serial killers, old-fashioned god people and terrorism). My friends would stop by to see me, try to get me to go out with them, just like old times, and would leave me multiple messages on my answering machine every night telling me how much they missed me, singing to me (I wish I had saved the tape - some of those messages were pretty amazing).

All I wanted was to leave. Be somewhere else. Do something else. Be someone else.

I got through it, moved to the US for a while, and because I couldn't stay there longer than 3 months, went off to Israel for a little over a year and then to London for a little less than a year. And then arrived in NYC.

From the moment I moved here I never thought I would want to leave. I vividly remember getting off the plane at JFK, getting in a cab, and thinking to myself "this is what it feels like to come home". Six years later, and I am finally feeling that same sinking, gradual feeling of realisation that I am very much tired of living here. I'm tired of being unhappy at work, I'm tired of not doing something that really means something to me (and to the rest of the world), I'm tired of not having a quiet place to go to and relax, I'm tired of not being able to grow my own food, I'm tired of having to listen to my friends complain about everyone else, and about how they all want to change their lives but just end up doing the same thing over and over again (i.e. getting drunk in the same bar every night). I'm tired of giving people the same advice that I should be taking myself.

I can't just pick up and move this time around though.. I have debt to pay off, a need to sustain myself, rent and bills to pay, plans to make. I don't even know where I want to go! One day it's England, another France, another California and yet another day setting up my own commune on a tropical island where I can fully sustain my own life.

But the one certainty that I do have is that I don't want to be HERE anymore.

Gothic revival time

The below all took place in the 90's - I am obviously feeling extremely nostalgic right now!

I remember swooning over Peter Murphy and dancing in dark-lit basement bars to She's In Parties... Waiting for hours to catch a glimpse of Nick Cave before sound check... Listening to The Cure every day for YEARS, dreaming about the day that Robert Smith would marry ME and take me away to his little house in the English countryside, and re-write Love Song for ME... Dancing to Skinny Puppy amidst swirling dresses, and lace, and EBM fanatics doing push ups on the dance floor... Traveling to Lyon just to hang out with VNV Nation, falling asleep on the train on the way home... Crying to Project Pitchfork and the sadness of "Renascence" (I can still sing it from memory)... Long, long hair, black dresses, black cape, Doc Martens... Red wine and Marlboro lights... Writing dark poetry under black candlelight... Baudelaire and de Nerval, Byron, Keats and Shelley...
And who could forget, "Some Kind of Stranger" by The Sisters of Mercy... I have my mum to thank for that one...

I wish I could recreate the exact atmosphere of my life back then, it was so fragile, intense, happy and sad... I was listening to Incubus Succubus this morning, and it brought me right back to that place. I think it's time for a gothic revival party!

Alan Furst - Take me back in time...

I discovered Alan Furst a while ago while I was one of my regular bookstore trips, browsing through the aisles, looking for something to catch my eye. I read everything, with a particular preference for historical fiction, especially historical fiction based in the 1930's and 1940's in Europe, so Furst's novels really fit all of the above.

I picked up The Spies of Warsaw and raced through it. Intrigue, passion, history, politics, Europe, 1930's, Nazis, Communists - what more could you want? Oh, and he writes really well too :-)

My favourites so far have been The World At Night and Red Gold , but I am biased because I grew up in France and love France more than any country in the world. These two novels really depict France at her best and worst. I would love for Furst to bring the main protagonist of these two novels, Jean Casson, back in another novel at some point. I feel that his story doesn't end with Red Gold...

But if you are more interested in Eastern European intrigue, politics and culture, try Night Soldiers or The Polish Officer. Bulgaria, Hungary, Russia...

I miss the old world. Someone build a time machine for me please.