Mia Dumont - Blog d'une consultante du Superflu...

Mia Dumont – Blog d'une consultante du Superflu…

Broken Heart

Here is a wonderful reflexion of a broken heart man on St-Valentine’s Day.  Who said women have the monopole of sadness?

Broken Heart

By Joseph Lestrange
What do you do on Valentine’s day when you have a broken heart?

For me, that’s not the real question because it’s not theoretical and, forgive me, it’s not about you that I’m thinking or anyone else. Let me try again. What do I do on Valentine’s day with a broken heart? Any ideas?  What’s the un-version of roses, chocolate, dinner in a beautiful restaurant, holding hands and locking eyes, and making love? Is there an anti-Valentine, an antidote? Any ideas? I have none.  The woman I loved and who loved me are no longer together. And it’s worse than that, you see.  I still love her and she still loves me. No one left anyone, no one got bored, found another lover, got too busy.

It doesn’t really matter if I explain because it would make no sense, but I’ll say only this: it was about fear and the future and there, please, I’ll stop, close the door gently, ask you not to inquire any more than that. It’s between her and me, but the result is two broken hearts.

And loneliness. No question, Valentine’s Day—like Christmas, the Fourth and Fourteenth of July, and Hallowe’en (at least in the States)—has become a commercial holiday, a swell excuse to sell us candy and flowers and manufactured romance peddled to us in mass-produced greeting cards and prix-fixe dinners with candles and, if you can bear it, violins. No one should need a day, or an excuse, to tell his lover how much he loves her, to give her flowers or anything else she might love to have, to be in love and show it. But the day has also become an emblem, a day not to be without a lover, not to be alone, sad, disappointed. Any day is a good one, rain or shine, to walk down the street les yeux dans les yeux et la main dans la main, but it stings a lot more on Valentine’s Day not to do it, not to be one of those “amoureux des bancs publics” that the subversive Brassens used to sing about, not caring in the least if the whole world watched them make out on a bench in le Luco or le Parc Monceau or perched on the homely fountain in la Place de la Réunion or the jungle gym in le Square Maurice Gardette. Any time, any place, anywhere.

But what to do when “forever” turns out to be a matter of months, of a certain number of days together, of certain other numbers of e-mails, of dinners, of visits to museums and stores and friends, of trips to the airport before and after travel? Forever was not supposed to be finite, let alone brief. But you know this too, don’t you? Maybe the tragedy is that it’s not really tragic, but a commonplace of life and love—as universal and as well understood as cutting your finger in the kitchen while chopping up chicken and carrots or just missing the bus you had run for. I know that too, you see, but do you think it makes it hurt any the less? Dulls the pain?

The anesthesia of alcohol made sense for a couple of weeks. The pain did get slightly dulled, sleep was dreamless, the numbing of eau de vie and wine matched up neatly with the numbness of heart and thought. But it did not take her out of my thoughts, couldn’t. Time will do it, she said, they said, I said too, and time has helped, but is still not my friend. Because every tick of time has moved her farther and farther away from me, and I did not want distance, do not even now—not at all. But time is less harmful than alcohol and maybe they lead me to the same place anyway, which is not where I want to be—not at all. Do I want my senses dulled? The blunting instrument, time or booze, makes no difference if I want to answer the question, and I’m split down the middle. I don’t want to hurt as much as I have been hurting, but I don’t want to say it’s over, nevermore, adieu. Blunting the hurt, you see, blunts the love. But love should be sharp, have a cutting edge without drawing blood.

Nor should loss of love… no, nor should the loss of my lover make me sour when I see lovers smiling at each other, kissing, happy to be just the two of them in the middle of the swarming fauna of the city that may watch or ignore them. Why be a killjoy… though I wish they’d get a room. Anyway, I know that perhaps fifty percent of them are heading for the same ditch I’m sitting in now. But that doesn’t make me happy. If only. If only some failure on their part or some miraculous arrow of the anti-Cupid would let me expropriate their happiness for my own use, recalculate the zero-sum of love. But it doesn’t work that way, and why wish them harm or ill?

Or maybe, I’m supposed to hope, hope for… what? The best, of course, whatever that is—and at the moment I can’t tell what that might be, so I’m not hoping, not letting myself hope. I have bets with a couple of hopeful friends who are sure that she will not be able not to be with me, that she will say Let’s start over or One more time, phrases we used to use in another, better context. If I win, I will be out a couple of expensive meals, but it’s a bet I’d be very glad to lose and throw in brunch as well.

So what do I do today? And, harder to think about, what do I do tomorrow?

Beauty

Les mots pour le dire

Un si joli texte, juste triste et mystérieux comme il se doit.  Je ne connais pas l’auteure, mais c’est superbe.

J’y ajoute, en cadeau – c’est Noël n’est-ce-pas? – une lettre d’amour d’elle aussi.

J’ai toujours aimé le silence.

Seulement, il est rarement complètement là.

Moi, j’entends une lancinante petite voix, omniprésente dans ma tête.

Vous l’entendez ?

Je ne sais pas si elle a toujours été là ou si durant un épisode traumatisant, elle s’est installée à la place que la douleur a creusé.

Elle a du se faufiler, rampant comme un reptile dans les méandres de mon esprit.

Elle a fait ça pour que je sois quelque part, plus là dans ma souffrance.

Puis je le sais, elle a prit de plus en plus de place, empêchant même mes mots de se former, de se retrouver.

Me coupant du monde extérieur, j’ai arrêté de communiquer pour ne plus être qu’en symbiose avec elle.Elle que personne n’entend.

J’ai envie des d’expliquer mais je n’ai plus le son des voyelles et des consonnes.

Vorace, elle a tout gardé pour elle.

Je remarque bien qu’autour de moi tout le monde est suspendu à mes lèvres attendant un mot qui ne viendra plus.

Et ces non-mots sont des douleurs pour ceux qui m’aiment…

Je suis englué dans ce silence et c’est un point de non retour…

J’ai toujours aimé le silence.

Seulement, il est rarement complètement là.

Moi, j’entends une lancinante petite voix, omniprésente dans ma tête.

Vous l’entendez ?

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Nathalie G.      http://frodagon.wordpress.com/category/frodagon

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LETTRE À MON ÂME

15 novembre 2013

Vous avez un regard magnifique, intense, passionné… Celui-ci a pénétré mes dernières barrières défensives. Vous entrez en moi, vous connaissez la moindre parcelle de ma peau… De l’avoir rêvée, imaginée… J’ai rêvé de vous. Chaque nuit, je vous rejoignais. Quelquefois, je laissais glisser ma robe en soie, doucement, sans faire de bruit. J’étais là, à vous regarder les yeux clos, la respiration courte, vous deviez rêver aussi… J’imaginais vos mains, douces, grandes chercher en moi les instants de jouissance que je vous aurais abandonné. Je ne vous connaissais pas mais je savais que c’était vous. J’ai reconnu votre regard de feu, de braise, ce volcan de passion qui bouillonne en vous. Cette chaleur qui m’emprisonnait les tempes durant des temps interminables me laissant seule, désœuvrée, épuisée d’un corps absent. Je pouvais vous sentir à chaque passage de votre esprit quand il effleurait mon âme. Cet âme qui se serait damnée si on lui avait demandé. Juste pour rejoindre la vôtre qui vagabondait depuis une éternité, sondant, martelant, explorant les quelques passagères de votre esprit qui s’y étaient aventurées, emmêlées mais qui jamais n’étaient restées. Votre cœur s’était endurci, barricadé à l’intérieur de vous, vous cachant, vous imbriquant dans un labyrinthe complexe. Deux âmes en perdition, en quête d’une union improbable. Mais je suis arrivée. Comme une douce brise, je me suis insinuée dans votre esprit, allant le rechercher là où il n’avait plus moyen de sortir… enfermé qu’il était dans sa propre tristesse. J’y suis restée suffisamment longtemps pour ne plus jamais en sortir. De brise, je suis devenue tornade, chamboulant tout en vous, vous retournant, vous rendant votre âme, vous rendant la vie. Vous faisant redécouvrir les caresses, les baisers, l’affection, la passion, l’envie, le besoin de l’autre, la tendresse… Je suis votre magicienne, votre double, votre âme soeur. Je vous ai réveillé et vous m’avez rendu ma liberté… celle de choisir ma vie.

OPRAH: America’s Dreamcatcher…

Son nom résonne comme un cri de ralliement.

Ça fonctionne très bien sur celui que les fans chantent avant une partie de hockey d’ailleurs.

Hier soir, le Centre Bell était plein à craquer.  90% de femmes.  De tous âges et de toutes les couleurs.

J’ai mal au cou d’avoir regardé les écrans et suis encore abasourdie par les cris.  Mais quelle énergie et belle attitude!  La foule était en délire.  Très touchante aussi.  Je la suis bien évidemment et suis abonnée à OWN.  Un modèle de réussite à tous points de vue.

Elle a parlé de sa vie, a cité beaucoup d’auteurs et quelques passages de la Bible, son premier livre d’histoires.

Elle représente tout ce que la réussite devrait comporter.  Une part de fierté, une part de générosité et une somme de travail énorme.  Rien ne lui a été donné que ce « feu de Dieu » qu’elle transmet si bien.

« Make the best of yourself », elle a ça inscrit en lettres de feu quelque part et c’est ce qu’elle veut transmettre.

C’est une « preacher » remarquable.  Un conteur-né.  Elle puise ses histoires dans sa propre vie, comme si celle-ci devait servir de trame à un conte de fées pour âmes en détresse.  Une phare dans la nuit.  Comme l’étoile du berger.

Un jour, j’ai écrit à son sujet qu’elle était AMERICA’S DREAMCATCHER.

Je confirme que c’est vrai.

Heartwalk à Times Square

Situ Studio a réalisé sur Times Square cette installation artistique appelée Heartwalk. Cette sculpture est composé d’éléments récupérés suite au passage de l’ouragan Sandy et représente avec beauté un coeur dans lequel les plus romantiques peuvent s’installer quelques instants.

It’s in Times Square and it done with debris from Sandy’s passage.  What a great, great idea.  Enjoy!

What a lovely way to say « I love you, do you want to marry me? »

George Hoyningen-Huene:Master of Light

George Hoyningen-Huene began at « Vogue » as an illustrator and then became a supremely successful fashion photographer. Moving to « Harper’s Bazaar », he extended his range to portraiture and travel, capturing artists, composers and Hollywood stars including Cary Grant, Katharine Hepburn, Igor Stravinsky and Jean Cocteau.
In his book, still on sale at Amazon.com colour and duotone images display the full range of Hoyningen-Huene’s talent, alongside an extended account of his career, drawing largely on unpublished biographical material.
Master of light in black&white, he remains one of the greatest fashion photographer of the ‘30 – ‘40 and ‘50

Anna Wintour: from ordinary to beautiful

I recently saw a photo of Anna Wintour, the Queen of Fashionistas, and by golly, it was very – very – how to say it … plain Jane.  Yes.  Brown hair, bad teeth, very so-so indeed.

Then, she mooves to NY, becomes rich and famous with VOGUE USA and becomes an icon.  A personna.  Always dressed up to her best, custom hairstyle that became her signature, and well, a certain glow.

Of course, she always wears shades.  Rumors has it that her eyesight is not good, and going worst.  Family problem.   Well, If here is one of us out there knowing what Fashion is all about, one of us maniacs always looking for the-now-and-the-next Fashion must-have and it-bag, it’s her!  No competion!  So, she sees well…

Salute to you Queen Anna!  Keep us on our toes!  I read your agenda and lifestyle, and it’s quite something:  up at 5:45 – not 6am – 5:45.  Then tennis, then hair&makeup, then office by 8am.  All this with hired help, of course…  Protein eater, she avoids carbs and wine and desserts.

Did you know dear Anna that DESSERTS is STRESSED spelled backward?

No, Anna doesn’t wear Prada.  The Devil does…

Daphné Guinness: Salute to style

Guinness.  Like the beer.  Irish heiress and beatiful.  Gifted.  Talented.  Socialite.  Extremely polished and well-brought up in a noble family with big history.  Hello Downton Abbey…

She now lives between NY and London, and Paris and wherever style and fashion sits.  She is the second love of Bernard-Henri Levy, a brilliant French philosopher, author of many books and a social focus.

She has the most astonishing wardrobe ever.  When she was young, she probably liked to change her dolls many times a day.  Now, she does it live on herself.  The result is stunning.

Wow Buick!

Mechanical engineer Norman E. Timbs created this dramatic streamliner in the 1940s which in many ways was the ultimate American hot rod. He designed and fabricated much of the project himself which included a custom aluminum body and steel chassis. It took him over two years to finish and the resulting chic roadster was good enough for cover of Motor Trend as well as features in Mechanix Illustrated, Popular Mechanics and Motor Life.

Leading up to this design, Mr. Timbs had worked as an Indy 500 designer on cars such as the Blue Crown Specials which won Indy several times. Mr. Timbs was no doubt influenced by the 1937 Auto Union Typ C Stromlinie and 1937 Mercedes-Benz W25 Avus Stromlinie which ran the 1937 Avus GP. His sensational shape was a very close approximation to these cars which ran the fastest GP race of all time nearing speeds of 248.40 mph (400 kph).

The body was nod to the German GP cars which at the time mimicked aeronautical practice. Norm’s design was free of the over indulgences such as huge chrome bumpers and large tail fins that eventually dominated American design. The streamliner’s chic elegance was a rarity in America, even if was outdated by post-war standards.

Today, the cars’s smooth shape is still as pleasing to the eye as it was in 1948. The boy is is long and low with a complete underbelly panel. With the engine occupying the rear of the chassis, the cockpit is pushed forward much like the Auto Union Typ D. In keeping with the aerofoil shape, no doors are cut out of the body. A large one-piece rear panel opens hydraulically to reveal the entire rear end of the chassis.

The car was based around a 1947 Buick “Super 8” engine which powered the 2200 lb car to 120 mph. The main chassis was built up from five-inch steel tubes which kicked up over the rear axle. To offer a smooth ride, a modified 1947 Ford suspension was utilized.

Road & Track reported that it took Mr Timbs 2 1/2 years to create the car at a cost of $10,000 USD. The body was created entirely in aluminum by Emil Diedt for $8,000 alone. The shape was formed by hand over a traditional wooden buck.

At first the Streamliner was only used on the show circuit until Jim Davis of California bought it in 1952. He used it in and around Manhattan Beach, California and let Motor Life photograph it for a feature article.

The car was discovered in the desert pretty much intact in 2002. It was bought at auction and restored by Dave Crouse at Custom Auto, Inc. in Loveland, Colorado for owners Gary & Diane Cerveny of Malibu, California. After its “complete and exacting” restoration, it debuted at the 2010 Amelia Island Concours d’Elegance in a class reserved for Motor Trend Cover Cars.

Story by Richard Owen

Read more at http://www.supercars.net/cars/4688.html#Tl2xT306VEZk61lY.99

B as in BELSTAFF

It fooled me.  I thought it was GUCCI at first sight.  It’s totally British!  And I just could not resist when I discovered the collection through ZsaZsa Bellagio (where else?)

A few of my favorite pics.