The simple things: Today’s Smiles

Skinny-leg jeans at the bus-stop. Egg yellow. No, daffodil.

Hide-and-seek. A whirlwind of tiny petals. My impossible hair. 

Good ham. Thick mayonnaise. Half a bottle of cracked pepper.

Freshly-inked A4's. Still warm. My finished assignment – three weeks early.

A snapshot memory. A chocolate waffle. Good intentions but poorly named.

High-heeled boots on a marble floor. So unnecessary. Clickety-clack.

Perforated edges. Sticky fingers. Caramel lips and melting tongue.

“Your mama” jokes. Linguistiques class? Ta mère est si plate qu’on peut la faxer.

Peeling lettuce. One perfect layer after another. Green velvet.

How to exist in a Sartre play. Laughing to a French movie. Sans subtitles. 

Blank canvas. Smooth teeth. Black strokes of eager keys.

Let it burn.

Lately, I've dived into cooking. It really is quite therapeutic - food for the soul (no pun intended)...

Sunday Morning Crêpes

~ for 1 ~

 Collect:

·         2 eggs

·         1 cup milk

·         1/3 cup flour

·         Pinch of sugar

·         Pinch of salt

Cook:

1) Whisk it all together in a large bowl till smooth.

2) Cook in a buttered pan on medium heat.

3) Flip when top side is no longer liquid.

4) Serve with your favourite drink and condiment.

(I recommend African rooibos vanilla tea and berry jam.)

And... Smoked trout. More S'mores. Rabbit roast (third batch). Eggy French toast. Fish sticks burger. Sausage and brie pizza.

 

...just eat!

Broken.

Wet cheeks, gritty eyes. Wild black hair over trembling flesh. 
Bare soles and naked spine; the floor is icy and the wall unforgiving. 

Sobs echo through empty lungs and knees dig deeper into aching ribs. Rocking. Rocking. 
Arms clamped around spidery legs. Fingers white as bone. Chest scratched raw by desperate nails...
But nothing can save a bleeding heart.

The Arts. So Fine.

For the past ten days, our neighbouring city, Cully, played host to the famous annual Cully Jazz Festival. I went. Twice. And it was good. Once you manage to squeeze onto a train, get over your personal space issues, find a bar with free live music and resume sardine-esque behaviour, you’re in for a real treat. 

My most memorable gig: Soraya Ksontini and Mark Kelly. She: a charismatic Tunisian with a voice that recalls Sunday morning pancakes with spicy chai tea. He: a long lost cousin of the John Butler Trio whose only worry in the world is whether his next head shake is going to tangle a dreadlock in his guitar pegs. Accompanied by another guitarist and pianist whose fingers I wanted to kneel down and kiss, they kept my heart singing for more than two hours. The venue was appropriately funky to match: Le Jardin, a transparent “tent” in the middle of an overgrown garden (surprise!), dimly light with a ceiling strewn by shimmering sarongs straight out of A Thousand and One Nights.
Also, she sang Hallelujah. I fell in love right then and there.

Yesterday, to take full advantage of Lausanne’s monthly "Free Entry" weekend, my roommate and I visited the Museum of Fine Art. Armed with our French exhibition guides and two open minds, we admired the diverse works of Eugene Grasset (1845 – 1917). He was a local, a Lausannois (with the later obligatory Parisian artistic career), and thus painted some beautiful oils of Lake Leman and the Alps. I loved the “Room of Clouds” section of the exhibit – a collection of his paintings on said condensational matter. Actually, I have a thing for clouds in artwork. And waves. Maybe because they never have one defined shape. Maybe because I am hopeless at drawing them myself. Maybe both. 

I also very much enjoyed Grasset's depiction of Joan of Arc’s story in his stained glass window designs. And his work for calendar issues of “La Belle Jardinière” in which his well-known and coveted chromolithography skills were on full display. In fact, I was stunned at how much I appreciated his style in general. You see, in art, I am very much a Modernism kind of girl – Impressionism in particular. Give me Renoir and Monet any day. I am also okay with turning back the clock (stopping at the start of the Renaissance, thank you) but when the year ticks forward past 1890, alarm bells start ringing. So, Grasset, a leader of the Art Nouveau period, really was a pleasant surprise.

Last stop: the ballet. You may already have guessed, dear reader, that my last blog was inspired by something I had recently seen. Indeed. Gala Tchaikovsky: best scenes from The Nutcracker, Sleeping Beauty and Swan Lake, featuring the Kiev Municipal Ballet. I’ve been to a few ballets before, but the standard here was just something else. Captivating, virtuosic, genius... I tried with words in my last post too, but really, this was just a huge “you had to be there” moment. The music was also nothing short of extraordinary. The fact that I have always had an extensive Tchaikovsky playlist on my iPod should tell you how much I adore his work. And on top of all that, I introduced a friend to his first ballet – and he liked it! Slow and steady wins the race...

Well, that was my weekend of good music, dance and art... When will yours be, dear reader?

Ballerina

Motionless, she rests. Head dipped, limbs poised.
A metal butterfly. 

The stick falls. A melody sparks.

Her heart ignites.

The flame caresses, flickering upward. Tantalising. Pure charm.

Radiating, melting, bubbling... An orb of molten lava.

The music burns brighter. Hypnotising. The notes white hot, their call irresistible. Wicked seduction.

She is an arched bow. A crouching lioness.

The blaze crackles and the night explodes.

Release.

A quiver of tulle, a flash of lace, she bursts free at last. Raw power. Excruciating poise.

An arm arches, her head dips. A leg kicks, her waist folds.

A seed on fire. Insatiable. 

She is hunger and thirst, need and desire.

The song erupts. Enthralling, consuming, a dancing inferno. Wild harmonies swirling. Fiery dragons intertwine.

Her body raw from the clawing within, she soars.
Wings of power and grace. All syrup and steel.

She transcends, human needs forgotten. Nymph. Angel. Goddess.

Time, ephemeral. Beauty, eternal.

Slowly, the flames begin their retreat. A gradual diminuendo.

She is the dying sun, the last ruby rays before dusk.

The final note relinquishes its spark. It falls to the cinders...

She comes to rest. The crescent moon in a velvet sky.

...and all is silent once more.

Serenity. Perfection.

The simple things: A Spring Afternoon

Sitting in French class one day, I decided to introduce to this blog a section on “the simple things” in life. A snapshot in words. A slice in time. The idea came to me because at that instant, I felt completely and utterly happy. Life was suddenly so simple and so sweet. And I realised that those were the moments truly worth capturing...

The sun is setting slowly below the Alps, its pink and orange rays reaching into the classroom, embracing us in its warm glow. Our professor’s vivid red hair, cut sharply into a bob, is a ruby and garnet kaleidoscope. Petite but bursting with life, she leads us in a lively discussion on intercultural verbal communication. My classmates – Italian, American, German, Portuguese, Russian, Canadian, Dutch, Swiss – and I, Chinese Australian, marvel and laugh at each other’s (often bizarre) cultural conventions. Fiddle music floats up from the courtyard below and through our open window, accompanied by the hum of happy voices and laughter. The improvised melody is perfect in its imperfection. My fingers are suddenly itching to caress the strings of my own violin and my feet begin tapping on their own accord. How I wish I could jump up and dance! But the waves of our discussion pull me back, and soon, I am lost once more in the beautiful sea of French and culture... La vie est belle.

A Most Excellent Weekend

Last weekend, I walked through old cobblestoned cities and gazed in awe at stained glass windows. I ate delicate almond pastries and truffle-centred brie. I crossed Lac Léman and set foot in my second European country.  I admired grass animal statues and took a million photos... It was great, of course. But what made my weekend truly amazing was the company.

For forty-eight short hours, I talked and laughed with two of the most wonderful people I have ever met. Their kindness and intelligence continually astound and inspire me. Some may call me young and naïve, but I promise that if you had met them, you would say the same. Because the human heart recognises goodness instinctively. So, even without having witnessed the beautiful things they have done for the world and for each other, I know I would still love them as much as I have come to now.

Ferry across the lake, surrounded by the misty Alps: Lausanne, Switzerland to Evian, France (city known for its bottled water). No need to buy a bottle of Evian here though, help yourself straight from the source!

 

Saturday morning markets at Riponne Square, Lausanne. Breads, pastries, cheeses, macaroons, dried fruit and nuts... Clearly irrestistible.

 

La Cathédrale de Lausanne. Magnifique, non? It was built in the 1200's...a Gothic masterpiece.

A weekend of learning and sharing:
1) The above flowers are called grape hyacinths

2) To be parochial means to be narrow- or close-minded

3) The French word for sparrow is moineau

4) Rivella is the Swiss equivalent of Coca Cola

Montreux: a beautiful lakeside city with adorable grass animal creations and bamboo windchimes and water features.

Now, add chocolate and discussions on linguistics, European history and travelling to the equation... A most excellent weekend indeed.