tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-42801385998192554012011-04-22T02:41:44.930+01:00The aesthetic is at once the intimately beautiful and the ideal of what beauty should be. It is a space in-between wonderment and attraction, it is the perfection we want to achieve. It is the cause for my tears, laughter and struggle. It is the thoughts of what I see and the experience of what I write. I am aesthetic, this space-between.Sarrouchehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09748014888985592830noreply@blogger.comBlogger561100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4280138599819255401.post-73106168385645015972008-05-30T18:24:00.002+01:002008-11-13T05:23:10.049Z

So Hanif Kureishi has self-catalogued himself as the emblematic arrogant writer and frustrated human being that the rest of the world loves to hate and that gives other serious creative writers a bad reputation.I am so outraged by what he said last May 27 during the Hay Festival in London, that I don't even know how to write this post. I searched around the Internet to find some sort of

Sarrouchehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09748014888985592830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4280138599819255401.post-66730305660364337332008-04-21T03:32:00.001+01:002008-04-21T03:34:35.056+01:00

I am tired of going into my blog and seeing the same post from March 20th. That's enough. So here's my new one..................................

Sarrouchehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09748014888985592830noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4280138599819255401.post-79449369872281613012008-03-20T03:50:00.002Z2008-11-13T05:23:10.234Z

Easter has blessed me with a few days off work and a shot at a Jet Set Interview.Tomorrow at 9am I am off on a private place to Capcana, a 25min ride to the east coast of the country, where I will be interviewing American magnate Mr. Donald Trump!Needless to say I was selected because I am the only journalist that speaks fluent English at the newspaper...My mom was right when she insisted I

Sarrouchehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09748014888985592830noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4280138599819255401.post-7230521562652637362008-02-24T14:33:00.005Z2008-11-13T05:23:10.456Z

Since my visit to Cuba last summer, I have been fascinated by the possibility of a nation so radically different to all the other western countries that surround it. It looked like Dominican Republic in distinctive details - the malecón, the unpainted houses, the colonial heritage, the vegetation - but the air was more humid: Castro's omnipresence, the fear and the resentment resulting from a

Sarrouchehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09748014888985592830noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4280138599819255401.post-36896974502727438792008-02-04T02:41:00.001Z2008-11-13T05:23:10.841Z

A dear virtual friend of mine urged me today to go back to posting on my English blog. I didn't know I would follow on such request this soon. But I figured that the best way to do it, was by honouring what he does best: talking about movies. I cannot pretend to do it as well as he does it, but I will give it a shot, with my own light on things of life (my passion). I think he hasn't reviewed

Sarrouchehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09748014888985592830noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4280138599819255401.post-82157185540595683502008-01-16T02:02:00.001Z2008-01-16T02:17:12.945Z

I woke up this morning to the scene of a double murder. It looked - and for a heart wrenching second felt - like a criminal trying to steal our food had been tragically surprised by one of my family members and in a sudden twist of events they were both poisoned to death by an exterior evil force named X. I swear I did think this at 6:45am, hungry for my breakfast.Except that the victims were a

Sarrouchehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09748014888985592830noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4280138599819255401.post-67477594793181622782008-01-15T21:56:00.000Z2008-01-15T22:00:21.992Z

I am still launched and refocused, I swear. It is simply that in order to portray here the degree of my deep deep focus, I needed to get my life itself in order. Back on November 25, I still had a UK student visa, I am now a permanent and current resident of the Dominican Republic. It is what I wanted, but it also sucks.I applied for my Phds, I packed my gazillion motetes and and I came back home

Sarrouchehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09748014888985592830noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4280138599819255401.post-55422215126348308472007-11-25T23:53:00.000Z2008-11-13T05:23:11.188Z

Welcome back! To me and my readers. Welcome to the new ones!I suspended my writing because I was lying to myself. I didn't want to accept it at first, the self-betrayal, the lies to my author-persona. Driven constantly by the urge to write something - anything - I wasn't writing about what matters to me. I was making my voice the voice of someone else who is not this insecure, half-accomplished

Sarrouchehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09748014888985592830noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4280138599819255401.post-58157974973352887792007-10-19T14:43:00.000+01:002007-10-19T14:46:38.518+01:00

I see his face his facehis face is everything everywhere.In everyone I see myselfexplode. He isthat beard on brown landscape;that shoulder mounted by a purplebag. He is also that part of meforeign, mixed-raced, self-centered;a disillusioned Christian, a successful Muslimand the inverted equation of this. He isme and I in him the compass-less individualin fear of the everything every

Sarrouchehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09748014888985592830noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4280138599819255401.post-25794827369023305992007-09-29T00:53:00.000+01:002007-09-29T01:19:13.745+01:00

Disappeared, I have not? Given up? I have not.My life more than ever today is turbulent, with no routine or satisfying finish line ahead. I was absent for over a month from my frequent posting because I was finishing off my dissertation. My life had a track then. Since, the questioning tunes about how my work culminated have started to dissipate and people around me, my friends, seem to be moving

Sarrouchehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09748014888985592830noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4280138599819255401.post-11653574866203584662007-09-29T00:50:00.000+01:002007-09-29T00:52:20.810+01:00

I sit here unquenched by memories of you.Your palm rustling against mine – square fingertip caress, nails of perfect pink-white proportions, cream-phobic surface. Travelling south and north, up and downas if lost among Latin-American dunesof caramel camouflage and unstable texture,our limbs braid one another, sinuous hills of a distant land. You mould your body into mine.I sip your absence,

Sarrouchehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09748014888985592830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4280138599819255401.post-84617678389001475372007-08-25T18:00:00.000+01:002007-08-25T18:26:49.431+01:00

My friend Meeru* came back from Pakistan just last week, after a year's distancing. He brought me a beautiful red and navy blue chemise (I wonder what the right word would be in Urdu), with silver gems encrusted in symmetry with the traditional flowery/tribally (Pakistani of course) pattern. It fits comfortably and I love it because I can wear it all day in the library without worrying about my

Sarrouchehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09748014888985592830noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4280138599819255401.post-72518037890693015572007-08-24T17:57:00.000+01:002007-08-24T18:30:28.289+01:00

There are two reasons behind the difficulty (for some impossibility) of ordering the sizes of Starbucks beverages appropriately - and this comes from personal experience (feel free to disagree).The most obvious of the two reasons is that be real Starbucks people! Tall is not the same as Small, Grande is not the same as Medium, Venti is not the same as Large (although this one is a bit different;

Sarrouchehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09748014888985592830noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4280138599819255401.post-67312919158660161542007-08-24T12:12:00.001+01:002007-08-25T17:59:55.374+01:00

The British Library in King's Cross is fantastic.It has the most comfortable, organised and user-friendly facilities I have ever been to. The conceptualised image of national libraries is old, dingy and rotten, like the centennial photographs of our grandfathers. Uncomfortable chairs and mean librarians marching militantly up and down the corridors with their index finger in front of their mouths

Sarrouchehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09748014888985592830noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4280138599819255401.post-48714013757086762722007-08-22T00:55:00.000+01:002007-08-22T01:39:15.718+01:00

If I ever could say goodbye.And there have to be others like me out there. Have you never said goodbye to a friend/family member/lover/etc. for a long time and felt like the moment of "truth" was painfully suspended in the air, until it was too late to say anything? You reach over and hug the person tightly, and then a little tighter as if the contact could (and can it?) say what the embarassed

Sarrouchehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09748014888985592830noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4280138599819255401.post-18457748232387180442007-08-21T10:47:00.001+01:002007-08-21T11:16:08.261+01:00

I keep going around in circles about not being able to write something decent in my blog. So when I am lying in bed at night, weary about my future as a writer (or failure of being one), I pick up my laptop and start reading blogs I consider to have writerly merit/talent. There are plenty out there. And I think I finally realised why I don't have a 'reader-base' and why I am never satisfied with

Sarrouchehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09748014888985592830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4280138599819255401.post-46500937664587445102007-08-21T10:42:00.000+01:002007-08-21T18:53:39.133+01:00

I feel deprotonated today and I believe it's the weather.

Sarrouchehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09748014888985592830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4280138599819255401.post-76076520398585078422007-08-20T01:14:00.000+01:002007-08-20T01:32:41.342+01:00

I can feel my flesh expanding by the second. I have a secret and I don't want to share it.But inside me the vessels are running high on the sugar-fuel and the red cells are propagating marathonically through every vein. In their frantic race they push the limits of the guts and push the tissues of the sub-dermis, outwards, gorged in over-activity, exploding in fat. Througout my body the skin

Sarrouchehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09748014888985592830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4280138599819255401.post-54855401355484631782007-08-19T12:43:00.000+01:002008-11-13T05:23:11.574Z

The word 'Onioned' should resurrect. It should layer back into life and command the OED to remove the burying death cross and the obstaculising Obs. from its definition. Two definitions: one older and dead; one alive and boring really. Here is what it says:Onioned, a. 1. Of tears: produced by onions, not springing from genuine emotion. Obs. [the death cross won't come out in the page, but it's

Sarrouchehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09748014888985592830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4280138599819255401.post-89628478271127367402007-08-17T00:05:00.001+01:002008-11-13T05:23:11.770Z

Have you ever wondered why the queue outside the ladies' toilets is so much longer than the one outside the males'? Or rather: have you wondered why there is a queue at all when men seem to wonder in and out like ants marching laboriously? Well, it is not that difficult, and no, it is not biological.It just dawned on me while I was queueing outside the toilets during the interval of Gaslight at

Sarrouchehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09748014888985592830noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4280138599819255401.post-63311226327924374232007-08-08T10:37:00.000+01:002007-08-08T11:02:58.238+01:00

This entry is as usual from the OED, however the hilarity and extension of the denotations of this word made me crack up despite the austere medium.Shaking, vbl. n.1. a. The action of the verb SHAKE, in any sense. [the italics are mine - now imagine the writer of this entry. I get an internal bodily shake at the idea of "any sense" of shaking - up and down, in and out, diagonally, in circles,

Sarrouchehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09748014888985592830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4280138599819255401.post-7074804713231978972007-08-08T00:46:00.000+01:002008-11-13T05:23:11.925Z

The more I think about the idea of going home next year, the more I realise it is an opportunity for me to do a score of things I always wanted to do and never got around to doing. This post will be dedicated to this list, which I will update as I think of more thingstake a photography courseget involved in theatreget a six-pack (or toned/flat stomach)enroll in a belly dancing classtake up piano

Sarrouchehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09748014888985592830noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4280138599819255401.post-33412269712418613062007-08-08T00:11:00.000+01:002008-11-13T05:23:12.067Z

To feel undone.As if the writer's block has telepathically moved from the page personified to your brain. Restrained by your own insufficiency. Restricted by the lack of the word-repertoire. All of it. A sudden empty space filled by the overflowing too much of the everyday, of the sinuosity of artwork, the labyrinthic landscape, of the undercuttings of emotions, the minuscule detail importance

Sarrouchehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09748014888985592830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4280138599819255401.post-64531711344156510912007-08-06T15:39:00.000+01:002007-08-06T16:03:25.290+01:00

Diathesis, n.Medical term meaning a permanent (hereditary or acquired) condition of the body which renders it liable to certain special diseases or affections; a constitutional predisposition or tendency. From here we get the word diathesisation:‘the rendering general or systemic of an originally local disease; as the development into pyæmia of a simple abscess’. - Syd. Soc. Lex. 1883. (source

Sarrouchehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09748014888985592830noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4280138599819255401.post-27103740748556569842007-08-03T10:49:00.000+01:002007-08-03T10:52:56.031+01:00

1. a. The food which a ruminating animal brings back into its mouth from its first stomach, and chews at leisure. Usually in 'to chew the cud'. b. fig. to chew the cud: to recall and reflect meditatively on things said, done, or suffered; to ruminate.Example: "I am chewing on the cud man. I ate too much last night". 2. Any substance used by men to keep in the mouth and chew. Example: "

Sarrouchehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09748014888985592830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4280138599819255401.post-22345887224675621182007-08-02T23:47:00.000+01:002007-08-03T01:10:35.286+01:00

As promised, this is the post about Benitez-Rojo's book The Repeating Island that I spoke about in my previous post of two days ago. I came across this book researching about my dissertation due in September: "The existence ofheterotopias in language for the possibility to live differently". I found the reference in Peter Johnson's article 'Unravelling Foucault's Other Spaces which was very

Sarrouchehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09748014888985592830noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4280138599819255401.post-58124570346966031002007-08-02T20:17:00.000+01:002007-08-02T20:31:07.317+01:00

Shamefully yet again I have discovered I have very poor vocabulary skills. Somehow I find that even in the most colloquial of conversations my range of words is extremely limited. So I have decided to create a space within this space where I can start collecting new words...An incentive for me to search for new words but also for my readers to learn something from my blog (hopefully).Here's my

Sarrouchehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09748014888985592830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4280138599819255401.post-46160356919640031912007-08-01T00:18:00.000+01:002008-11-13T05:23:12.281Z

if I told youthat it hurts right here right in this spotwould you come ease me?if I told youyou had to touchthis place touchinside to scrape the painwould you extend your finger?if I said the reason is unknown the logic blownbut the tears are tinglingmy facewould you bother?because it is here in this spot righthere under my skinand I poke it with reason and your joie de vivreit still

Sarrouchehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09748014888985592830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4280138599819255401.post-65472214610204434162007-07-31T22:50:00.000+01:002008-11-13T05:23:12.778Z

Tonight my post was going to be a tribute to my repeated days in the library and my having come across this particularly interesting book by Cuban writer Benitez-Rojo, The Repeating Island: The Caribbean and the Postmodern Perspective.Instead, I am going to write about tonight's broadcast of Big Brother on Channel 4 (9-10pm). However, do come back tomorrow for that post on this very unusual book.

Sarrouchehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09748014888985592830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4280138599819255401.post-69233691790967234342007-07-28T11:46:00.001+01:002008-11-13T05:23:13.298Z

The dispersed, the unsettled, the anxiousThe optimistic visionaryThe frustratedThe pensive, me - "There must be some kind of way out of here" -Pictures by Giuseppe @readthewritestuff.blogspot.com

Sarrouchehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09748014888985592830noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4280138599819255401.post-38070830703145010102007-07-27T23:28:00.000+01:002008-11-13T05:23:14.680Z

Ah, the smiles I get travelling on Waterloo bridge!Antony Gromley has lighten up my bus journey's since his partly-outdoor exhibition has been showing at the Hayward Gallery. I wanted to post something a bit more glorified on the topic, and I probably will when I go see the exhibition again, but counting the steel figurines along and around Waterloo bridge has been such an exhilirating passtime

Sarrouchehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09748014888985592830noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4280138599819255401.post-91481177125235834282007-07-27T23:15:00.000+01:002007-07-27T23:28:36.784+01:00

It's a Friday night. And everything's alright (at home). From my lonely days in the 16ème arrondissement in Paris, I dreaded coming home to an empty house. Since then, and since I have been living in a more cheerful campus-based, international-based England (this is a very quick summary of my last four years here; in actual fact I have lived with different people every single one of those years)

Sarrouchehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09748014888985592830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4280138599819255401.post-58635687025346429722007-07-26T11:02:00.000+01:002007-07-26T11:40:11.631+01:00

Continuing with my good-day/bad-day pattern I seem to be having - some might already have given up on me and ruled me out as a lunatic - I come to you - to me! - this morning with a much fresher out look on things than last night. And it seems, rather as always, that the sun always shines much more brighter in the morning after you have had a good night's sleep. I did sleep quite long, having

Sarrouchehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09748014888985592830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4280138599819255401.post-46069043044614484502007-07-25T23:54:00.000+01:002007-07-26T00:03:06.491+01:00

(in process)Ay Fidel no volvimos!No volvimos a hablar contigo!Que te vimos caminante hacia nosotros,turistas de a leguas con cadenas y lentes.Tú tambien ibas bien vestidopor acabado de salir de tu venta cotidiana.Poco vendes en la esquina de la Fe del Valleporque mas conviene hacer negocio en la calle.Yo podia ser Santiaguera (pero de Cuba), y los demásbueno, cubanos si acaso; pero él, el

Sarrouchehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09748014888985592830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4280138599819255401.post-10438988995109978242007-07-25T23:25:00.000+01:002007-07-26T00:03:44.203+01:00

The low moods swing over with the passing of this London summer, foetus-like struggling, and they move with the torment of my cluttered globablised-sucked mind. I cannot forgive myself of not thinking about the floods in other parts of England, of the fire break-outs all over the hot world, of Madeleine McCann…Pakistan, Iran, Iraq…of that artist sitting in his studio home in Calle Obispo, La

Sarrouchehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09748014888985592830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4280138599819255401.post-15757665101559034812007-07-22T02:21:00.000+01:002008-11-13T05:23:15.228Z

I have deceived my blog calendar by waiting this long to write about my return. But be fooled some more, before I can write about the past 2 weeks, I need more introspection. Somehow still, it was important to me to voice my return into my quotidian London life and onto this my new voicing space. I'm back! And indeed with a large blotch of sadness for those I missed seeing back home and for

Sarrouchehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09748014888985592830noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4280138599819255401.post-76059966140710278732007-07-02T05:49:00.000+01:002007-07-02T05:51:12.180+01:00

We are off this morning and for two weeks! God willing, Bombs willing, weather willing, I shall be back, with a tan! Peace out!

Sarrouchehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09748014888985592830noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4280138599819255401.post-61721987586446877332007-06-28T11:34:00.000+01:002007-06-28T11:45:24.799+01:00

Boy today was not a good day to get up. The sun is finally shining in London after two or three days of darkness and near torrential rains, but I on the other hand am feeling quite dark and torrential. And it isn't a good day to rain check. Tomorrow I am meeting with my supervisor, who of course is expecting some substantial evidence of my work (written of course) when I really really dont know

Sarrouchehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09748014888985592830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4280138599819255401.post-29938196395546838772007-06-27T02:44:00.001+01:002007-06-27T03:01:37.823+01:00

The floor in front of her was the epicentre of her thoughts, and her eyes - like her thoughts - were fixated upon it. I was half a metre away from her, passing by the medievalesque shortcut between Larcom and Townley street. And she did not even see me go by. The door of the driver was wide open, the engine was off. Plastic storage containers were neatly stacked on either side of the boot. They

Sarrouchehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09748014888985592830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4280138599819255401.post-62856961484771336422007-06-27T02:23:00.000+01:002007-06-27T02:27:26.824+01:00

Thanks Petite Anglaise for introducing me to Gizoogle! It's hilarious! Everyone should try it! Here's a version of my gizoogled blog...Sal, you would so love this!

Sarrouchehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09748014888985592830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4280138599819255401.post-39989683785850302162007-06-27T01:21:00.001+01:002007-06-27T01:42:16.962+01:00

(Dont read this entry, it's a load of whining I needed to get off my chest. It's ridiculous!)It is a 5 day countdown until Sal, Giuseppe and I leave for DR. I haven't been there in so long, I have almost forgotten the smell of sun-ripe flowers in our eternal summer. Everything seems to be ready and yet I have an unbearable feeling of anxiety. I cannot stay put, I cannot stop eating, I cannot seem

Sarrouchehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09748014888985592830noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4280138599819255401.post-49186954392719468952007-06-25T00:39:00.000+01:002007-06-25T00:41:50.797+01:00

"I see the world through Ray’s shades” – Wyclef at Fugees Concert (Manchester, Dec. 13th 2005)I see the world through the lens of Ray’s shades,the world is sad and it don’t look good, my friend.It spins ‘round dark, then blind as the light fades.I see the waves of the sea rise politicallymy friend, over tropical palm-tree rooftops.I see the world through the lens of Ray’s shades.The clouds

Sarrouchehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09748014888985592830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4280138599819255401.post-85168765299221430702007-06-24T20:24:00.000+01:002007-06-24T20:29:28.848+01:00

I had a moment of inspiration with the poem I wrote last year about my grandmother (some bits are fictional):La GeneralaShe rocks like Sunday on a hammock,anticipation fanning out the weak of her eye–brows.Recipes of heroic relatives stay silenced in her throat.A telephone call from her sons: “no, not today mom”,hang grandmotherly stories out to vanish from her mind.“Los quiero”, she says,

Sarrouchehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09748014888985592830noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4280138599819255401.post-8782790770515120512007-06-24T18:33:00.000+01:002008-11-13T05:23:15.534Z

Sarrouchehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09748014888985592830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4280138599819255401.post-13046559784112726802007-06-24T18:30:00.001+01:002008-11-13T05:23:15.657Z

Sarrouchehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09748014888985592830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4280138599819255401.post-81610349963439966922007-06-24T12:10:00.000+01:002007-06-24T12:28:08.927+01:00

And so I never realised blogging was just a serious business. After shortly dancing around with my creativity last night, I woke up in a cloudy mood - not depressed, simply lazy Sunday atmosphere in rainy London - and I rolled down my arms to grab my laptop by the side of my bed and do some blog searching. My boyfriend, who is in Paris with his uni friends celebrating the end of masters exams,

Sarrouchehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09748014888985592830noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4280138599819255401.post-5784018630616201112007-06-23T23:34:00.000+01:002007-06-24T00:04:37.132+01:00

Moments of "goodbye" - or "see you later" as we like to say in order to appease our sadness - are times when the truth of how we feel is hypocritically suspended, even if the friend is one with whom you had the most intimate of exchanges. I can't quite pinpoint why it is, although it never fails to fire up within me, in funerals as well. It is truly the weirdest thing. You feel sadness and with

Sarrouchehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09748014888985592830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4280138599819255401.post-38462716938954721432007-06-23T21:17:00.000+01:002008-11-13T05:23:15.796Z

The English understand the Rain. They understand it and live it as a thing of Nature that is to be interacted with and in spite of - unlike warmer grounds where it is a dreaded event during sporadic and cursed months, the chaotic inhibitor of open-air activities (concerts, rally, sports...), the beast of flood that inflicts traffic havoc, and even drives drivers to intermittently shine their

Sarrouchehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09748014888985592830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4280138599819255401.post-47225772897327326682007-06-14T00:29:00.000+01:002007-06-14T01:17:31.078+01:00

So Facebook has this new "application" that asks you a mini-interview...and I was asked something I had never been asked before - even if it is quite a cliched teenage thing: What song are u? And I couldn't help but to think: What song am i? WHO am i? Could I have been any other than me? Could I have been a Dancing Nancy? Ah, Dave...Could I have beenA parking lot attendantCould I have beenA

Sarrouchehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09748014888985592830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4280138599819255401.post-24979439476933089832007-06-14T00:00:00.000+01:002007-06-25T15:43:09.676+01:00

It is day two of my house arrest and it took me so much - or it took me to be under the influence - to write about my English NHS experience. It takes some perspective too, which is good - very good for the NHS. It is very true that things happen for a reason, although just less than a week ago my lovely housemates and I discussed our views about the NHS. Julia and I emphatically agreed to "HATE

Sarrouchehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09748014888985592830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4280138599819255401.post-71797967518210221922007-06-11T00:58:00.000+01:002007-06-11T01:25:50.524+01:00

The weekend was fast gone. Something of my strong-willed recent self went with it. The past ten days of physical and dietary well-being were not enough for the habit of failing that has always accompanied my nutritional regime. I did pretty well those ten days - despite the fact that I dont know how much I lost because I hate weighing myself (a thing of insecurity for sure) - and frankly I worked

Sarrouchehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09748014888985592830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4280138599819255401.post-11405481607867538122007-05-29T22:04:00.000+01:002007-06-24T18:25:05.103+01:00

Por César Nicolás PensonLa dominicanidad es una "marca de fábrica" con características propias y peculiaridades individuales, salpicada de sazones, expresiones, ritmos, alegrías, actitudes, algarabías y música propia. La mezcla de razas, con el africano forzado como patrón básico, el europeo aventurero, los tainos sometidos y cuanto buscador de fortunas llegó porque quiso y se quedó porque la

Sarrouchehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09748014888985592830noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4280138599819255401.post-39875780409655747572007-05-27T22:58:00.000+01:002007-05-27T23:04:12.874+01:00

Well it really starts tomorrow. But I thought I'd set the rules today.I had decided to create a section where I can talk about the count down to the DR-Cuba holidays. Talk about the girlie stuff: how difficult it is to hack all this bullshit diet stuff, how great the girl front next door looked in her miny skirt (it's not true, I don't check out my neighbours, it's a figure of speech), how I'm

Sarrouchehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09748014888985592830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4280138599819255401.post-25236692425350768332007-05-27T22:42:00.000+01:002007-05-27T23:14:15.220+01:00

...on account of the recent settling of holiday dates for Dominican Republic and Cuba (Yay!): That I will not eat Galaxy, Haribo, Maltesers or any kind of suggary treat, That I will do some kind of effective exercise at least 5 times a week, That I will fight to endure the hunger pains, That I will not eat carbohydrates after 6pm, That I will eat little carbohydrates and loads of

Sarrouchehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09748014888985592830noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4280138599819255401.post-55088997353619568622007-05-26T18:14:00.000+01:002007-05-27T22:42:50.442+01:00

(This is a recycled post from my other blog)No one wants to feel guilt. What is more existentially urgent is that nobody deserves to feel guilt. If we ascribe to a religious grounding (which we might later refute), human existence if based on dualities. The one that rules them all is the dichotomy between good and evil. The mere fact that we live by opposing forces: male and female, heterosexual

Sarrouchehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09748014888985592830noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4280138599819255401.post-76039321423329547312007-05-26T16:59:00.001+01:002008-04-21T03:29:00.635+01:00

A needle of inspiration pinches and pinches my thoughts. Nested in my heart, it is generous because it does not hurt, it is loving because it let's me free, and it is good, the kind of good you read in the face of innocence, one you feel and cannot describe. The smooth poke reminds me every day that returning to this space of metonymical abjection is in calling, necessary for the realisation of

Sarrouchehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09748014888985592830noreply@blogger.com2