#Aliénor Records

[dwellordream]

“Eleanor’s life as a child growing up in the ducal household is almost completely undocumented. Her name first surfaces in the records in July 1129, when her presence with her brother and her parents was noted at the monastery of Montierneuf at Poitiers, the burial place of her great-grandfather, who also founded the house. 

Not even the exact date of Eleanor’s birth can be known, for few early twelfth-century noble families bothered to record their children’s birthdays; and if chroniclers occasionally noted births of sons to princely families, they were less likely to mention those of daughters. Furthermore, uncertainties remain even when dates are recorded, for medieval scribes used diverse dates for beginning the new year, sometimes Christmas, sometimes as late as Easter, but rarely 1 January. 

Tradition has it that Eleanor was born on one of her parents’ visits to Bordeaux, perhaps at the nearby castle of Belin, and her birth year is variously given as 1122 or 1124, although the latter date is now generally accepted. Earliest evidence for Eleanor’s birth year is a late thirteenth-century genealogy of her family listing her as thirteen years old in the spring of 1137, the time of her father’s death. 

We can assume that the genealogy’s compiler strived for accuracy, since her marriage later that year would have been invalid under Church law if she were under twelve years old. This fixes her birth in 1124, making her two years younger than the previously favored date of. 

Since the date of Eleanor’s death is known to be 1204, her lifespan measured eighty years, an extraordinary age for anyone to have attained in her era. Because so many deaths came in infancy or early childhood, the average life expectancy in the Middle Ages was only around thirty years, although another decade might be awarded to aristocratic ladies who had the advantage of comfortable lives and abundant food, and who were not required to risk their lives in battle. 

Eleanor’s survival points to good health in her early years; indeed, her longevity suggests that she was unusually healthy throughout her life, capable of surviving a dozen pregnancies and childbirths. Otherwise, illnesses would have brought doctors to the bedside of a lady in her high position, and their ministrations were as likely to kill as to cure. 

Eleanor did not grow up surrounded by a large extended family, as did many aristocratic children in the Middle Ages. When Eleanor’s grandfather William IX died in 1126, he left only two sons, his elder son and heir, Eleanor’s father William X, and his youngest child Raymond, only nine years older than his niece. Raymond left Poitou by 1130, landless after his father’s death. 

He journeyed to England to seek his fortune at the court of Henry I, a king known for his hospitality to young knights. Raymond, who had inherited his father’s charm, found good fortune there; but after the king’s death he left for the Holy Land, having received an offer from Fulk, king of Jerusalem and former count of Anjou, to wed an heiress there. 

By early 1136, Raymond had arrived in the crusader kingdom, lured by a marriage that would confer on him the principality of Antioch; and he would remain in the East until his death in 1149, enjoying a reunion with his niece Eleanor when she accompanied her first husband Louis VII of France there on the Second Crusade. Although Eleanor’s father and uncle had five sisters, little or nothing is known of them or of their participation in young Eleanor’s upbringing. 

…Little Eleanor was named for her mother; according to tradition, her name Aliénor in French, derives from the Latin, meaning “another Aénor.” Eleanor’s mother died in 1130 while she and her husband were on a hunting party in the marshes of Lower Poitou, and she was buried near the site of her death at Nieuil-sur-l’Autise, a house of regular canons. She left behind three children: Eleanor, aged approximately six, a younger daughter, Aélith, also known as Petronilla; and a son, Aigret, who died in the same year as his mother. 

The two girls, left without a mother or other siblings at an early age, took comfort in each other’s company, and Eleanor’s closest childhood tie was likely with Aélith. Their close relationship would continue after Eleanor’s marriage when her sister accompanied her to Paris. Eleanor as the elder of the two surviving children was the putative heir to her father’s duchy of Aquitaine, unless he were to take a new bride after Aénor’s death who could give him another son as his heir. 

William aimed to take as his second wife the young widow of the lord of Cognac, the daughter and heir of the viscount of Limoges, but this did not come to pass. Instead, a hostile neighbor, the count of Angoulême, took the young viscountess and won control of her viscounty of Limoges with its chief city, seat of the great monastery of Saint-Martial.

It was Eleanor’s maternal Châtellerault relatives who would play important roles during her adult years. Most prominent of all was one of her mother’s brothers, Ralph de Faye. Ralph, a younger son of the viscount of Châtellerault, added “de Faye” to his name after his marriage to the heir to the lordship of Faye-la-Vineuse on the Poitevin–Angevin frontier. Because a purely patrilineal family model did not yet prevail in that region, strong links with maternal relatives—especially between uncles and aunts and their nephews or nieces, and between sons and their cousins—continued in force in noble families. 

A female heir such as Eleanor could expect to enjoy her maternal uncle’s protective concern, and Ralph de Faye would stand beside her, assisting as one of her chief agents and her trusted counselor in governing Aquitaine until 1173. Eventually Ralph’s plotting with his niece to encourage her sons’ revolt against their father, Henry II, would bring down on him the English king’s wrath.”

- Ralph V. Turner, “Growing Up in the Ducal Court of Aquitaine, 1124–1137″ in Eleanor of Aquitaine: Queen of France, Queen of England

[sacredvein]

𝑪𝑯𝑨𝑹𝑨𝑪𝑻𝑬𝑹 𝑺𝑯𝑬𝑬𝑻

Repost, don’t reblog !

𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐬 !

ORIGINAL NAME: Laurent de Mantes, Laurent Mantais (modern only).

GENDER: male.

HEIGHT: 171 cm / 5′6″

AGE: appears 16 - actually 445 (born 1575).

ZODIAC: gemini.

SPOKEN LANGUAGES: french, german, english, russian, greek, (school) latin, and a little coptic, italian, spanish, and portuguese. broken romanian. smattering of others, mostly european. 

𝐩𝐡𝐲𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐜𝐡���𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐬 !

HAIR COLOR: grey.

EYE COLOR: grey.

SKIN TONE: pale.

BODY TYPE: slender.

ACCENT: canonically speaks with a strong french accent - but probably exaggerates his accent as a matter of conceit.

VOICE: smooth tenor until he gets riled or excited, where it raises in pitch and intensity. often very faintly sardonic.

DOMINANT HAND: right.

POSTURE: variable - everything from poised and straight to more casual and slouching.

SCARS: he had a few from his mortal life, such as one on his outer hip where once he’d fallen from his horse, but they are difficult to see unless recently fed and flush with blood.

TATTOOS: none.

BIRTHMARKS: none.

MOST NOTICEABLE FEATURE(S): his grey hair for a young face.

𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐝 !

PLACE OF BIRTH: his family’s estate in mantes-sur-seine (now mantes-la-jolie).

HOMETOWN: paris. as the first son in his wealthy noble family, he was relocated to nearby paris at a young age to be groomed for education in the city and politcking within the catholic league.

BIRTH WEIGHT: unknown.

BIRTH HEIGHT: unknown.

MANNER OF BIRTH: natural with a midwife.

FIRST WORDS: toutou (doggy).

SIBLINGS: one older sister (esther-chrétienne), a younger brother who died in childhood (honoré), three younger sisters (aliénor, fleurance, hermine), and an infant brother (bastien). deceased.

PARENTS: thiébaut and estiennette; thiébaut was the vidame and seigneur of mantes-sur-seine and several of the surrounding parishes. both deceased. laurent was considered noble through all four lines of grandparentage, and therefore was a gentilhomme des quatre lignes. 

PARENTAL INVOLVEMENT: not very direct - mostly he was raised by nursemaids and a bit by his elder sister, though he had a cordial relationship with his parents beyond when he misbehaved. in such instances, he would be disciplined by male attendants to the family, or overseen by the seigneur de mantes when present.

𝐚𝐝𝐮𝐥𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞 !

OCCUPATION: none, really, beyond the management of many properties and shell corporations from afar.

CURRENT RESIDENCE: formerly st. louis, missouri; mostly itinerant after 1999. he established a haven on the coast of baja, mexico circa 2007, and lives in montreal as of 2010.

CLOSE FRIENDS: nicolas, eleni, félix and eugénie.

RELATIONSHIP STATUS: century dependent.

FINANCIAL STATUS: autonomous and stupidly rich.

DRIVER’S LICENSE: yes, under a pseudonym. he owns a fabricated c-class license from missouri (outdated).

CRIMINAL RECORD: technically none.

VICES: impulsivity, the tendency to throw himself in deeply from one paradigm to the next in order to make sense of the world, cynicism and idealism in equal capacity, callousness, ruthlessness, selfishness, prejudice, and his need for purpose and order.

𝐬𝐞𝐱 & 𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 !

SEXUAL ORIENTATION : bisexual.

ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: bisexual.

PREFERRED EMOTIONAL ROLE: submissive |  dominant  | switch

PREFERRED SEXUAL ROLE: submissive  | dominant  |  switch

LIBIDO: fairly high with the right people.

ATTRACTED TO: confidence, ability, presentation, passion, creativity, brilliance, intensity, earnestness.

𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐞𝐨𝐮𝐬 !

CHARACTER’S THEME SONG:  the vampyre of time and memory / queens of the stone age - I want God to come and take me home // 'Cause I'm all alone in this crowd // Who are you to me? Who am I supposed to be? // Not exactly sure anymore // Where's this going to? Can I follow through? // Or just follow you for a while?

HOBBIES TO PASS TIME: cinema, filmmaking, photography, social media, conversation, music, concerts, parties, art, drift racing, theatre, riding, night & online classes, clubbing, galleries, piano.

MENTAL ILLNESSES: some form of post traumatic stress disorder.

PHYSICAL ILLNESSES: none.

LEFT OR RIGHT BRAINED: right.

SELF CONFIDENCE LEVEL: he’s reasonably confident in himself and his abilities, and generally knows how to judge when he’s outmatched. he nevertheless has a degree to which he can become both brash and prideful and find it hard to let things go.

VULNERABILITIES: sunlight, fire, beheading.

[etatmagique]

WHEN: may 19th, 2020 @ 14:34 ! WHERE: outside a no-maj record store in brooklyn ! WHO: aliénor barbeau + open to all !

aliénor hated the tension in the air. though she was currently in a mainly no-maj neighbourhood, she had no difficulty recognizing the few witches and wizards that passed by her. it was easy, really. they were the ones who jumped at noises and whose hands immediately went to wherever their wands might be tucked into their waistbands. it was stressful, and she could see the tension on those people’s faces, and had no doubt it was reflected on her own face. the worst thing, though, was the fact that she had no clue whether those people were on the good side or not. on high alert, she immediately noticed when someone slowed down in front of the store, and raised an eyebrow as she recognized them. walking over to them with half a grin, she tilted her head to the side as she reached them. “what are you doing here? even no-majs don’t really buy records anymore; i personally collect them, but honestly, it’s mostly for the aesthetics of it all.”

[rcourb]

Onion Most Dangerous Game

En 1994, le label Aliénor Records de Bordeaux a publié un coffret de 3 45 tours compilé par Martial. Au programme de l’indie pop, de l’indie rock… Il y a aussi plusieurs reprises Joy Division par Diabologum, Henri Salvador par Katerine et le désormais feu Daniel Johnston par Les Tender Whiskers. Plus une adaptation de ‘Two Princes’ par Cody _very affirmative feminist… On écoute juste ici et j’ai mis toutes les images (40 quand même…). Les images sont tirées du film “Les Chasses du Comte Zaroff”. Lien vers la fiche discogs > https://www.discogs.com/Various-The-Onion-Most-Dangerous-Game/release/1849102

#AliénorRecords #IndiePop #IndieRock #Shoegaze #Punk #DesGarçonsOrdinaires #Sonneville #Newell #Katerine #LesTenderWhiskers #Superdrug #PolarBear #Boyracer #Elliott #InTheBus #Diabologum #Cody #LesMolies

from WordPress https://rcourbayre.wordpress.com/2019/09/12/onion-most-dangerous-game/

[quickdisco]

1234. Pull - I Am The Usa (Aliénor Records - 2000)

Un groupe bordelais qui aurait pu jouer dans la cour de Pavement 10 ans plus tôt.

Spring

Discogs

[talvin-muircastle]

Fic: Otherizing

[I gotta say it: writing this one scared me. It's not a horror story. It's arguably not even sci-fi or fantasy: "speculative historical fiction" is about right. It scares me because I am taking a risk: I promised myself that I would try to have better representation in my stories by women and people of color. This is both. And I am not dodging issues, either. As for the setting: I did not do exhaustive historical research for this. The setting can be considered an America about like ours, before a Civil War much like ours, in a place like the Gulf Coast, in a culture that is approximately ours in that time period. It's not the setting, it's the situation that matters.]

Long-time readers of my column know that I will brave many things to bring them the Truth: fire, flood, riot, or storm at sea, I will get the Story. This time, I was headed into the wilds, the deadly swamps, in search of Wild Aliénor, the legendary escaped slave woman who is rumored to have abilities that border on the supernatural. After days--nay, weeks!--of searching, I found her. Or rather, she found me...

The musket ball smashed the alligator back into the water before the sound and fury reached me. I lurched and nearly tipped the small, flat-bottomed skiff I had purchased, groping for my own rifle as I looked for whomever had saved me. I had not seen the beast approach.

"Do not touch the gun if you would live." The voice was female, not unpleasant to hear, accent noticeable but not strong. I froze, and turned toward the source of that voice. Standing on the shore was a Negro woman of average height, wearing pants and loose shirt as a man might. In her left hand she held a musket braced on the ground. Her right hand aimed a pistol at me, and I saw another like it stuck in her belt. She also wore a scabbarded sword: an infantry officer's blade once, by the looks of it. I brought my hands up slowly, and attempted a smile.

"Aliénor, I presume?" She snorted.

"You presume much if you are going to come into my swamp no better prepared than you are. Who are you, and why have you been looking for me? I have been watching you for some time now. You are no slave-catcher, no bounty hunter. What do you want?"

I swallowed. I well believed her: every story said she moved through the swamp like a panther, and hunted like one as well. "I am a reporter, and I have come to tell your story. I am prepared to pay...."

"And where would I spend your silver? Foolish man!" She tossed her head contemptuously, but she lowered the pistol. Ah! I had her!

I gestured at the contents of the boat. "I bring supplies. Beans and cured bacon, and flour, and salt, and yeast, some good wine, some spices you cannot get in the swamp, even sugar. Also cloth, and needles and thread. I did not know what you might need. If you will give me the story I come for, I will even let you have the boat--after you drop me somewhere I can walk safely into town."

She shook her head and laughed ruefully, then. "What is your name, reporter?"

"Derek Sullivan. I write for the Chronicle." This won a smile from her, the first I had seen.

"Yes, I know. I have read your column, though I did not know your face. Very well, Mr. Sullivan! Paddle over here if you can do so without being eaten, and I will take you somewhere you can get your story. Afterward, I will take you to safety." I lowered my hands and carefully paddled over near shore. She boarded neatly and sat facing me. At her direction, I set off deeper into the swamp.

I could not tell you where we were: I could make no sense of the landmarks she used, though surely she must have used them. We fetched up on a small island, and she helped me pull the skiff up where it would not float away. Soon she had a small fire going, adding the supplies I had brought to a cache she had left there. We opened the wine, and I noticed that she waited until I had tasted something before she did, and she was never without her weapons to hand. Mine had been left in the boat.

She began to tell me of life in the swamp, of the hazards, and the bountiful forms of life, and even some of the people, though she gave no names nor indication of how they might be found. They were a community of sorts, it seemed, that aided one another in their exile in this place. Some were runaways, others were people who disdained civilization. Finally, as the fire burned down to mere coals, I ventured to ask the questions I had come to ask.

"They say a dozen men or more have died trying to capture you, and many more wounded. How do you do it? One woman, alone...."

She smiled at me, and there was sadness in that smile. "How does Wild Aliénor do it, you mean? What is the source of her magic? What powers do I possess, that I can do the impossible?"

I leaned forward eagerly, quill wet with ink, ready to record these secrets. "Yes, please! I do not expect that I will understand it all, but some hint, perhaps?"

She shrugged and poked the fire with a stick, causing sparks to fly up into the moist air. "I do it just as a man would," she replied simply.

I pulled back, nonplussed. I tried a different tack. "Your Master...your former Master, I mean...was he the first man you ever killed?"

"Owner," she corrected me.

"Your pardon?"

"Your laws said he owned me, but he was never my Master." She reached out and touched the sword laying in easy reach, "In the end, I was his master. And yes, he was the first I killed. It was not so very difficult: he got his commission by paying for it, and he knew more of dressing prettily and bellowing than he did of fighting. I learned to fight with three older brothers, and I was stronger than he was--and I had far more experience with sharp things, and while he was the first man I ever killed, he was far from the first pig I had slaughtered."

"Was it he who taught you to read? To...speak well?"

"His wife did. It amused her, and she thought nothing of the laws against it. I did her a favor by ridding her of that man."

"So, he was hardly a fitting opponent. I can accept that. But the others! The slave-catchers, the bounty hunters, the lawmen, how did you fare so well against them?"

"Ah, yes! Aliénor took down a man with a shot between the eyes at thirty paces! Aliénor took a Sheriff's manhood with her blade and salted the wound! Aliénor braved their volley with a laugh and no bullet could touch her! Aliénor played cat and mouse with the posse for three days, until the alligators took two, her rifle took three, and the survivors were hunted by her pet panther all the way back to town! Are these the battles you wish to hear the tales of, Mr. Sullivan?"

"Yes!"

"They are lies, Mr. Sullivan. Lies they told themselves and then told others because they could not face the truth. I am only what you see. Yes, I can survive in this swamp: so can many others. I can shoot: so can you, though probably you do not have as much practice. I can chop and slice, as can any housewife or butcher. Those stories you were told, Mr. Sullivan, they tell them because they cannot face the truth!"

Her voice had risen at the last, and I stared at her across the fire. She took another pull from the wine bottle and continued in a calmer voice.

"The shot between the eyes was at five paces, he surprised me, and I was aiming for his chest. So with the Sheriff: I was thrusting for his belly, hit him lower than I meant, and I hardly stayed around to salt him down for the winter! Braved their volley? I was running for my life, and I took a ball through the arm, and you may see the scar if you wish! The posse were half-drunk fools, I shot two and one was shot by his fellows in the dark. As for the tamed panther, you see none."

I coughed, "Yes, well, stories will grow in the telling, of course...." She laughed without humor, and I saw that some of her teeth were broken. That lack of perfection bothered me, somehow.

"You still do not understand! I am twice cursed: I am not White, and I am not Man! I am less! Less intelligent, less strong, less capable, less, less, less! In everything, less! They cannot accept otherwise! Yet I have proven I can hunt, and shoot, and run, and think as well as any man. To accept that I am their equal--YOUR equal, Derek Sullivan!--would be to destroy everything they believe! So much like they do with the red folk, they make of me a myth, a demoness. I defy their Natural Order, and so I am Supernatural! They tell themselves they face a witch out of Hell, Satan's Handmaid sent to test them and taunt them, and so take me out of comparison with their wives, their daughters, their servants! Do you not see it now? This is the story, Mr. Sullivan: I do what I do just as any man would do, and that terrifies them more than lightning from a clear sky!"

My quill dripped ink, unused. I had no answer to this.

"Sleep, Mr. Sullivan. Tomorrow I will take you to a place not far from a road. From there you can find your safe little world where women are not your equal. Sleep."

I pitched my tent near the fire, but I did not sleep that night. Her words had troubled me greatly. Her story...my story...had I found what I had come for?

In the morning we packed the boat in silence. I paddled this way and that as she gave curt directions, her eyes ever on our surroundings, her weapons always at the ready. Finally we touched dry land again.

"Through those bushes and on a ways you will find a path. Turn right, and soon you will be in town. From there you can get a coach to your train. Thank you for the supplies,"

"Of course. Thank you for telling me your story, Aliénor." I carefully stepped out onto land.

"What story will that be, Mr. Sullivan?" Her voice was soft, and my ears burned with shame. I finally turned to face her. I expected to find contempt in her eyes, hate, anger. Instead I found something worse: acceptance. Calm acceptance that I was not prepared to tell others a story they were not prepared to hear.

"I...I suppose I will write what my editor expects me to write. We have papers to sell, after all." She nodded. I hung my head. "I'm sorry."

"Goodbye, Mr. Sullivan." She pushed the skiff away from shore and made her way out into the swamp.

After this momentous introduction, she took me to her camp, a place decorated with souvenirs from the men she had bested. I would tell you where it is, but I cannot: the fog rolled in as if she had summoned it, and who am I to say she did not? She told me of the swamp, its inhabitants. She knew every animal by first name, it seemed, and they knew her. Even the snakes refused to challenge her, but moved aside as she passed. I was not so respected, but a stamp of her foot and a sharp word sent the serpent back to its lair before your correspondent suffered a misfortune....

[I first conceived of this while watching some videos of Assassin's Creed III: Liberation. Glad as I am to see Aveline, I was struck by the concept that she (and another supporting character) were not "normal" women, but effectively "magical" ones. So, I must give a nod to that game as inspiration for this tale, though it is not set in that universe nor does it use its characters or plots. (Hence, not fan-fic.) As I said: writing this scared me. I had to get out of my comfort zone for this one in a big way. I hope I didn't screw it up. Oh yes: Aliénor is (I am told) based off a French word meaning "Other" or "Foreign"--as in "Alien". It seemed fitting.]

[aurianneor]

Soins

«Of course, it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?» - J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.

«You don't choose madness, but you choose to care or not». The nurse set her up in the waiting room. Her radiant smile added: «Wait here. The neuro-sci robot will pick you up in about 15 minutes.»

«See you later», she greeted her while hanging her jaquette on the coat rack.

She began to daydream while enjoying the welcome she had received. «It's crazy how some people have a way of cheering you up.»

The nurse was the team's sunshine, she was in charge of management and her teammate was in charge of the caring robots.

The nursing shepherd chair lit up and said, «Mrs. Luz, please take a seat. The neuro-sci robot wants you to do some tests.»

Aliénor executed herself.

A curtain opened. «Can the neuro-sci robot access all or part of your file, do you agree with this?»

«Do you accept a blood test?»

Aliénor clicked on «Yes» in response to both questions. An arm came forward and pricked her on the arm.

«Do you accept a blood pressure reading?» Aliénor clicked weakly and had to start again. The machine asked her to put on the withers to measure it on the arm. It was as soft as velvet but it will squeeze her arm like an iron glove. It is an image, of course; it was the machine that had an iron structure. The scale will light up in turn. «Can you please weigh yourself?» «Where's the «Yes» button?» Oh, that's it, it was on the screen of the shepherd's chair.»

She executed herself.

The scale will light up in turn. «Can you please weigh yourself?»

She executed herself again.

Once the care provided, the beverage dispenser suggested that she choose one on his screen. Aliénor chose a squeezed kiwi. It felt good, a little comfort, to relieve the pressure. She had tingling in the arm her arm, which was no longer red. She was particularly careful to enjoy every drop of the juice. It relaxed her even more. Blong! A file arrived in the locker perfectly cut for this purpose in a superb piece of furniture in the shape of a branch in the wind. «Please complete these questionnaires and provide your sleep records?»

These were mainly personality tests and major events that had occurred since the last meeting. Aliénor conscientiously filled everything in and then put the file and the records in the box so that it can be sent to the robot-sci. BizZZzzZZzzzz!

A bald man came through the door and this temporarily freed her from her anguish. She was fine, but psychiatry... to say the least, how many spleen she had had in the past. He declaimed, «Oh, me… I'd like a grape juice.»

Unavoidably, the machine executed the order.

He took the little drink with a cheerful eye. «I would have preferred a little Bordeaux...»

Unavoidably, the machine executed the order.

On his screen, it read: «Your alcohol quota is now empty.»

Chouf! The door opened. It had a humanoid shape but the designers had chosen to cover it with metallic pink. The light was reflected there splendidly. Would it make a rainbow of all colours if you put it in front of a light spectrum?

«Thank you for your cooperation. I was able to analyze all the results and I have all your files.»

«Perfect.»

The neuro-sci robot put his cards on the table and explained the biochemistry of her brain.

«Would you like me to read the files to you?»

Aliénor refused because she knew what was in it.

«I am a model of the V22-Z series. We are all interchangeable and we share our memory. No matter which robot receives you, you will have the same relationship...»

«The same one with any other, yes, I know. Thank you.»

It spoke without any compassion. Its designers had decided that compassion was not needed to deal with brain biochemistry.

After exchanging some technical details, the robot came to the heart of the matter:

«You had surgery five years ago on defective genes. It worked very well but you and your environment have changed and as a result, your genes are expressing themselves differently. A new operation will be needed to treat you with the best possible quality of life for you and for society. I'm going to prescribe some medication to prepare for the operation. We have to wait until the sleep is of a better quality. I will bring in a psychologist so that she can help you manage this news and schedule an appointment at the most appropriate time.» Robot operation, ready, fire, go!

She waited in the waiting room, which was now all white.  «Just being here feels good», she thought. Politeness, work well done, good communication between the different interlocutors and in particular the distinction between the general case (with the robot) and the is particular (with the psychologist). She felt deep down that she was going to heal.

A flashback burst into her brain. She was not well received in her hospital; psychiatric patients were not treated separately. Public hospitals mixed people with very different pathologies. The protocol was that there was no right to exit the premises in order to observe the patient and decide whether he/she could have a stroll or not. This was even after she had been voluntarily interned there about ten times. They knew her, damn it! The files, on the other hand, seemed to stall at the red light and their content was nicknamed «medical mythology». She was presumed guilty and thrown in «jail» each time. «We don't know you, so we have to observe you.» The two days of confinement were used to see if the patient was using substances, which she had never done before. If substance use had drastically decreased as soon as effective drugs could be offered; apart from a few who could not get rid of the addiction.... Poor them... The addicts (alcohol, medication, cigarettes, cocaine,) were special all year round, but those who had made the mistake of self-medicating with these substances only revealed how ineffective «mythological medicine» was... When you have liver disease, it doesn't show, and patients trust their doctor and treat themselves. Why must the psychiatric patient see what he/she has in order to be treated? And finally, what was blamed on the mentally ill was often related more to substance use than to the disease they were hiding.  And then, in the hospitals’ defence, it is sometimes difficult for patients to remember or recognize their problematic behaviour.

Then, when strolls were allowed at last, patients were confined to a park with trails. Moreover, the idea that they looked like wolves in a zoo had flourished. Once, a wolf dog on a leash was on the terrace, amidst the anxious smokers. The comparison between patients and wolves was quite funny. Even if they sometimes showed their fangs, even if there were sometimes accidents, the genocide that had been carried out against them was completely disproportionate. Fear, not facts, had made the wolves’ lives unbearable. Now all that was left was at the zoo. A sheep of loss once in a while, was that such an unreasonable requirement?

What had she done to deserve this deprivation of liberty apart from seeking to feel good and no longer harm others? They only had to consult her medical file if they wanted to know how she was behaving. The staff seemed jaded. «Who cares about crazy people?» could have been one of their strike slogan.

Unfortunately, the medical mythology that constituted these files did not help them much. Very poorly maintained and with misunderstandings related to the lack of listening as well as excessive hyperbole to justify internment by force or justify the lack of effectiveness of treatment; these files only served to reinforce prejudices. Only the dates of the different processing operations were clear, as well as the reports or complaints or debts or prison or other. Strangely enough, information in these areas was circulating perfectly well. Most doctors and nurses had little empathy. Was it to be able to hold on?

Did they release their own stress on patients so, in consequence, it was in the most difficult moments that patients had to fight to be treated, in a more or less effective way depending on the case, with or without the help of the family and friends who then assumed an overload of work by seizing patient advocacy associations, shaking medical mutual to hurry, requesting access to check-ups, or insisting on the phone to get the opinion of each caregiver; and, with at work, managing a replacement. «Damn it! What's the point of being there if you don't have the doctor's visit at least once a day», had once commented the person who shared her room. The latent waiting for anything, a towel, a medicine, a blanket, a new treatment, a new room. The doctors were switching to Halley's comet frequency. The mentally ill were relegated to the rank of beggars, always asking for everything. However, the visitors' bags were not guarded, which means that you could have anything you wanted, yes everything, as long as you had an accomplice.

And then, still with that idea, that if we inform the patient, he's going to freak out. It was much more the opposite that was happening. It hurts not to know what you have. This just led to abandoning the doctor and asking the family and friends for explanations, i.e. extending the effects of the disease to the family and friends. Is that what it was like to do the job? Avoid the crisis in the little office so that it would be the family who would deal with it?

From then on, their metal counterparts assisted them in their tasks, which made them more open and more inclined to listen to them. This also coincided with the fact that the doctor quotas had been abolished and the work reduced to 15 hours per week. Everyone wants to be healthy and pleasant in society. The gregarious instinct...... If patients refused care, it was perhaps not because of the disease but rather because of the ineffectiveness of hospitals; drugs taken illegally or not. Diseases were now diagnosed in childhood and the industry of these substances had collapsed.

Fortunately, there was sometimes a doctor who could cure them. They were then overwhelmed by demand and reacted by increasing their prices. But as they increased the number of their patients, they ended up with only half of their brains to think, which weakened the quality of their work. Incubation is essential, damn it! How could we work 50 hours a week without any reduction in efficiency? And it takes time to research.

Victims of their illness, victims of taboos, victims of their exclusion, victims of their care; some chose the worst fate and executed themselves.

A huge smile burst into the room. Aliénor realized that she was revisiting the past. Her dark thoughts, which had resurfaced. She had gotten used to not having any in the last five years.

The woman was the psychologist. Her face was as harmonious as a lotus; but in the flesh. The latter shook her hand and informed her that she had an hour to devote to her. How many hours spent in her office or at Aliénor's home? It was unfathomable in quantity but not in quality! The appointments were not regular, the therapist was available when necessary, that's all. Nothing could replace this type of human contact. She had been her patient for... well, twenty years now. Before meeting her, there was such a turnover in the hospital and in the city, that she felt like she was not moving forward, spending her time saying the information to get started... Get to know each other and then the caregiver made a decision after 15 minutes. The past resurfaced again; and she forced herself to be in the present. «Look, Listen, Touch, Feel, Taste» intruded into her thoughts.

They discussed things and others over a jasmine tea. Aliénor appreciated Mrs. Chaux making her diagnosis while making her feel comfortable.  Mrs. Chaux consulted the neuro-sci robot and handed her a leaf:

(a) CRISPR operation to modify defective genes

(b) Phytotherapy and reflexology treatment

(c) Drug treatment to be taken three times a day

(d) Do nothing

The list was ranked in order of preference by the neuro-sci robot and her own. Aliénor was tempted by the second option because she liked remedies that respected nature. But she preferred the first option because a single shot would allow her to stop thinking about the disease afterwards.

«Could I go back to work?», she asked.

«If you wish, otherwise I can make a stop. You're huitante-three years old anyway!»

«No, I prefer to work. I see people there and my colleagues are real treats.»

When Aliénor was 40 years old, she would never have believed that she would say such a thing, even less at the age of eighty-three. She could not have done it at the time... Stress, poor management, competition, ... The reduction of working time to 15 hours a week for everyone had been possible thanks to the robotization of society coupled with a better distribution of wealth. Society had evolved at the speed of rock science. Humans were only in positions where human characteristics were needed, so much so that they did not make a request. There were always a few wacky people who preferred the work of robots, and their different points of view were often waky.

A memory popped into her head that drove the atmosphere down. She was thinking about the revolt that took place once when she was hospitalized. At 4:00 in the morning, the mentally ill had turned on the music in the corridors.

Each floor was not tuned to the same music. It had been useless, of course, but in the end; they blamed their caregivers for being far too metallized with their sacred protocol. Aliénor racked her head to imagine a statue representing the much-revered protocol.

Mrs. Chaux took her out of her rumination. «Aliénor... Aliénor... Aliénor... Can you come the day after tomorrow night? I asked the base about your sleep and it will not reduce your work since it is not one of your working days.»

«All right.»

«It would be preferable to come the day before so that the hospital can optimize the conditions of the operation (sleep quality, diet, blood tests, etc.).»

Aliénor was delighted. The hospital's chef was a passionate, very creative one. He had a database with all Aliénor's tastes, and this since her first visit to the hospital.

Another benefit of the 15 hours/week. It was easy to convert to your passion.

We had time?!! A robot-prof rented by the day was sufficient. The designers had covered them with human skin, made by grafting, so that the students felt more comfortable, but the flesh and iron robot was rather pitiful to see. In addition, it was very expensive and very constraining because of the skin's contact with solar electricity. University for All professors were available to complete the training of robot teachers and to help them find their way around the Internet portals where all knowledge was discussed and any ideas noted by their peers. All courses were one-to-one and were given on request and at any age or social status (not the statues of protocol, it has nothing to do with it).

It was thanks to this that research in all fields had taken a lunar leap forward. And especially neuroscience research. The Everestic delay had been made up in only a few years. This phenomenon was now known as the down jacket mission... «Mission down jacket... What a good joke!» Aliénor's upper lip formed a kind of a rather silly grimace-smile. Psychiatry was no longer the Alien of medicine. Her husband had thus been relieved of the hours of nursing care he had been providing her since they met. The solidarity of their couple had been alleviated. Their cheeky steps had led them to travel more. And there were beautiful places on this planet. Unfortunately, some «natural» disasters... Well, it was an expression so much they had been the result of the greed of a few... Without any other reason than «the alters of traditions», the room was aseptic. On the door you could read instructions, to know what was allowed or not. The nurse knocked on the door and waited for Aliénor to come and open the door.

«This is the robot-care that will accompany you. It will also record your sleep so that the psychologist and the robot-sci can compare the effects of the operation before and after. It's best if you're in bed by 10:00. Good night.»

«Guten agen», replied Aliénor.

That it was so great to have a single room! In the past, patients would argue with each other with cigarettes in bed, ready to burn the building down, or others who, in the middle of the night, would scream above the bed of the other patient who had the misfortune to share his room. Aliénor was never comfortable when it came to sleeping with a lunatic in the middle of a crisis. Fortunately, there were groups of patients supervised by a nice nurse. But it was still necessary to have a good health insurance company that worked after three or four days to get the single room. Associations also needed to be mobilized to obtain effective care without having to harass staff every time a drug was wanted. Relapses were fast coming.  The cure-all for this room!

«Oops! It's dinnertime in the dining room» Aliénor put on her hooves. The doors closed automatically but only when Aliénor had left the premises. This avoided theft.

It smelled good with tomato sauce. Aliénor sat in her place and greeted the other patients in circles around the tablecloth. She clicked and got mascarpone with fresh raspberries and a little fresh mint too. The guests had a completely normal conversation, not like in the days when it was sometimes necessary to endure the behaviour of addicts in need, aggressive people and lovers of saucy things.   Some shared their meals with their spouses, families or guests. They then had a table just for them. Everything was very relaxed.

«Today's patients would have been considered healthy in the past.  What a giant fall when the Psycho taboo had fallen!» It had been a little bit the fault of the Prince who had taken this taboo as a battleground; but above all of the referendums that had said yes to research in most of the countries consulted. Some countries were still dictatorships, but referendums had become commonplace in the world. These referendums also made it possible to see the ideas with which countries agreed and thus encouraged collaborative work between heads of state.

Aliénor's eyelids closed. «That's a hell of a sleeping pill!». After greeting the group, she went to bed and slept like a horse; the robot-caregiver at her feet.  He had helped her choose her alarm clock, and she had chosen a rather soft beep. She didn't like it when a nurse or a care robot broke into the room without knocking. In his opinion, it was far too abrupt an awakening.

A beep sounded and the care robot took him to the shower. He was wearing his clothes, soap, green clay and shoes. It was very practical... It had the shape of the famous R2D2 with extra arms. Its traditional fabric pattern gave it a curtain-like look. This thought crossed the mind of Aliénor. «The designer of this robot has let loose!» She wouldn't laugh.

He then leads her to the dining room. He simply asked him «Ope?». It was a robot joke that meant «operational». He was trying to relax her, but while she was having fun, she could not ignore her muscles, which were tense despite everything.

She was afraid, despite her confidence in the success of this operation. The jokes of other patients would help him at the table to think of something else. The smell of pastries brought for breakfast tickled his taste buds. «No?!!! Why not? Why not?» The care robot turned its witness to red. «Bad for Operation» That didn't make her laugh at all. « A yogurt and basta!» added the robot-care. The smell of delicacies, so comforting at first, finally hits him on the system. «Here, if I hit him on the head!» she speculated. «No, just because it's a robot doesn't mean we should behave badly.» Torture in the nose, she resigned herself and replied «No problemo.»

As he approached the operating room, his heart began to beat. After all, genes are the most intimate thing in the world. She was afraid to become someone else when she was doing just that to be someone else. She was very afraid of losing control of herself, of not doing what she wanted to do, of feeling in a straitjacket, her head in a vice or her heart restless. She could live in full awareness of her environment without thoughts invading her mind and overlaying her life.

Her ideal was to have no more moments of despair or suicidal thoughts. More strange attitudes, which were very occasional in his case, two to three days every 6 months or so but enough to scare others and then get expelled. The exclusion was a violent and disproportionate response to her condition. People who are afraid make the wrong choices.

However, after the information campaigns, people were less afraid of atypical behaviour. The campaigns had insisted on the fact that mental people were much more often, and in a very clear-cut way, victims than perpetrators of violence.

The past was resurfacing. «Focus», she ordered herself.  I can't wait for the operation so that the present can take over. She was getting tired of these memories. «It was worse before... Well, casserole, enjoy the present!» she motivated herself. «Focus»

Today, she was the master of her destiny. She was no longer afraid.

Everything was white in the waiting room. «There were children just before.» informed him of the bright white teeth. «You can play interior decorator if you don't want to have a headache in 10 minutes.» Aliénor chose walls covered with a green tapestry with a very refined pattern of different animals. She then selected very soft chairs made of dark green velvet and a beige leather sofa, a green carpet to finish the painting and she toasted with a kiwi pressed with sleeping pills: «A glass of green water!»

She opened her eyes. The machines that operated it smelled like new. The contact was cold. What was that all about? Metal? No, probably a new invention. It was raining with inventions!

«The operation is over, I'll walk you to the exit.» The robot-care was spinning at high speed.

«What a look, this robot-caregiver.»Alienor amused himself. «So that's it, then. I will always be myself and in the present.»

«If this is not the case, it will be necessary to make an appointment with the psychologist and the neuro-sci robot again.

«Danke so much», she concludes by addressing the machines.

Her husband came to get her.

«So, how was it?»

«Oh, my God, my darling! It was quite a story!»

T-soin T-soin T-soin, la blague pourrie…

Aurianne Or

Pour lire ceci en français: https://aurianneor.tumblr.com/post/183111387120/soins-of-course-it-is-happening-inside-your

Une histoire anecdotique de la psychiatrie suisse | Gérard Salem: livre sur L'histoire de notre psychiatrie racontée par sa descendante en 2050: http://www.gerardsalem.com/une-histoire-anecdotique-de-la-psychiatrie-suisse/

De l'asile au centre psychosocial : Esquisse d'une histoire de la psychiatrie suisse Broché – 1 janvier 1996 de Christian Muller: https://www.amazon.fr/lasile-centre-psychosocial-Esquisse-psychiatrie/dp/2601031689

Conférence hommage à Christian Muller: http://isps-suisse.org/wp-content/uploads/Hommage-%C3%A0-C-M%C3%BCller.pdf

Prince William makes Davos appeal to break mental health stigma - guardian: https://gu.com/p/ah2c4/stw  and Prince William more CEOs need to talk about mental health: https://youtu.be/tPqpDQg0hFI

MIT research institute commited to understanding the brain in health and disease - McGovern Institute: http://mcgovern.mit.edu/about-the-institute 

Mental ill-health at the workplace: Don’t let stigma be our guide - ILO: http://www.ilo.org/global/about-the-ilo/newsroom/features/WCMS_316838/lang--en/index.htm?shared_from=shr-tls 

John le Carré, The Constant Gardener: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/19000.The_Constant_Gardener and https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Constant_Gardener_(film)

Wikipedia on Mental disorder: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mental_disorder

In yogurt we trust: https://aurianneor.tumblr.com/post/174558390610/crispr-cas9-a-single-shot-to-cure-a-disease-that

Change the words HIV and AIDS  by mental Illness and see how it feels: https://aurianneor.tumblr.com/post/171419628695/change-the-words-hiv-and-aids-by-mental

Vision au réveil après un cauchemar: https://aurianneor.tumblr.com/post/158387391400/vision-au-réveil-après-un-cauchemar-ce?is_related_post=1

Tu peux ouvrir les yeux maintenant: https://aurianneor.tumblr.com/post/158351101260/tu-peux-ouvrir-les-yeux-maintenant-ce

Robert Sapolsky on Depression: https://aurianneor.tumblr.com/post/174143784840/stanfords-sapolsky-on-depression-in-us-full

Do help Mrs Dalloway: https://aurianneor.tumblr.com/post/169114695450/do-help-mrs-dalloway-mrs-dalloway-virginia

J’ai dix ans et je sais que je suis différent: https://aurianneor.tumblr.com/post/159005802757/jai-dix-ans-et-je-sais-que-je-suis-différent

An autistic savant artist: https://aurianneor.tumblr.com/post/172887218180/stephenwiltshire-an-autistic-savant-who-has-found  

Un autiste savant artiste: https://aurianneor.tumblr.com/post/172887348930/stephenwiltshire-un-savant-autiste-qui-a-trouvé

J’ai trouvé ma place: https://aurianneor.tumblr.com/post/172236407055/jai-trouvé-ma-place

Tous pareils, tous différents: https://aurianneor.tumblr.com/post/172765234270/tous-pareils-tous-différents

Only attitude matters: https://aurianneor.tumblr.com/post/175845619280/sport-only-attitude-matters-discrimination-of

Le parapluie à cachetons: https://aurianneor.tumblr.com/post/172554474600/le-parapluie-à-cachetons-la-recherche-sur-les

The Pill umbrella: https://aurianneor.tumblr.com/post/171519511590/the-pill-umbrella-drug-research-went-from-the

Robot vehicles blindly programmed to preserve the selfish molecules known as genes: https://aurianneor.tumblr.com/post/183115823585/robot-vehicles-blindly-programmed-to-preserve-the

Prangins: https://aurianneor.tumblr.com/post/183091742630/prangins-quand-hergé-a-dessiné-cette-bâtisse

Gris: https://tmblr.co/ZprwNe2e-fKo6

Scared: https://aurianneor.tumblr.com/post/158921847771/scared

J’ai dix ans et je sais que je suis différent: https://aurianneor.tumblr.com/post/159005802757/jai-dix-ans-et-je-sais-que-je-suis-différent

Robot vehicles blindly programmed to preserve the selfish molecules known as genes: https://aurianneor.tumblr.com/post/183115823585/robot-vehicles-blindly-programmed-to-preserve-the

Trancher: https://aurianneor.tumblr.com/post/183072758280/trancher-certains-veulent-savoir-dautres-ne

[merzbow-derek]

JAC BERROCAL + DAVID FENECH + VINCENT EPPLAY - WHY

Taken from the 7" on Blackest Ever Black Video by Vincent Epplay + Stéphane Broc

Jac Berrocal, David Fenech and Vincent Epplay return to Blackest Ever Black with their first record since 2015’s Antigravity LP. Why brings three singular but complementary pieces together on one 7″? The title track is a louche but volatile art-rock panther-stalk…a cracked jazz ode on street hassle pitched somewhere between Vince Taylor-in-exile and PiL’s Metal Box…Berrocal on vocals, a rakish, slurring stream-of-consciousness that becomes a yowl of despair; drums loose and dub-delayed; Fenech’s jagged guitar phrasing set to stun, and Epplay’s electronics set to flay. ‘Ice Exposure’ situates Bef’s mournful, muted trumpet in the sort of eerie deep-freeze ambience that characterised Antigravity, and ‘Aliénor en Août’ coaxes a gloomy poetry from affectless cold war radio broadcasts.

Why are we so strange tonight?

[tkc-annexe-blog]

June Sweeney - 24 ans - Responsable de la bibliothèque et des archives du palais 

Il y a maintenant plusieurs années de ça, Thomas Sweeney et son épouse Katherine donnèrent la vie à un deuxième enfant, un enfant qui ne manquerait de rien et certainement pas d'amour. June, ainsi nommée en rapport avec son mois de naissance et suite à ce pique de chaleur record recensé en cette fin juin. Choyée par un grand frère aimant et protecteur, cette petite brune semblait être fragile, le genre de poupée qu'on se devait d'enrouler de papier bulle pour ne pas qu'elle se brise sous les frasques de ce monde. Mais aussi calme et sensible soit-elle, elle n'en restait pas moins d'une intelligence remarquable, quelque chose de très rare. June n'était pas n'importe qui, du moins pas pour les puristes de la monarchie et les plus assidus quant à ce sujet. Elle et sa famille étaient pour beaucoup des bouseux de campagne, vivant reclus dans une grande propriété entourée de nature et d'animaux. Mais pour d'autres, ils étaient par alliance de famille avec les gens de la haute sphère, les cinq personnes au sommet de cette sphère; les Windsor. Alors de ce fait, volontairement ou non, les Sweeney n'étaient pas n'importe qui. Le lien n'était pas difficile à comprendre, Katherine était avant de se marier une Stinley, au même titre que la Reine de ce merveilleux pays. Alors June et son frère James étaient respectivement la nièce et le neveu du couple royal, celui représentant la parole divine au coeur du Royaume-Uni et les états du Commonwealth. Le palais était toujours grand ouvert pour eux, prêt à les accueillir pour une quelconque réunion de famille ou simplement pour de longues séances de jeux avec leur cousins et cousine. Si de son coté elle était à l'aise avec toute cette splendeur et avoir pour camarade le futur roi, la princesse et le prince d'Angleterre, James voyait ça d'un tout autre avis. Mais cette jeune fille aussi souriante que possible n'avait pas une enfance évidente, elle était si calme et si douce que les autres enfants s'acharnaient sur elle, les moqueries pleuvaient et sans cesse elle se faisait rabaisser. June était différente, dans le bon sens du terme. Elle arrivait à voir de la gentillesse au coeur des personnes les plus sombres, de la bonne volonté au travers des actes les plus répréhensible. Le psychologue qu'elle suivait avait tendance à placer tout ceci sur son intelligence, si remarquable qu'elle voyait le monde comme une utopiste pure et dure. June avait un Q.I très élevé et était en soit un véritable petit génie. Elle retenait les choses inconsciemment, juste en les entendants ou en les écrivants, si bien qu'on lui fit rapidement sauter une classe, puis une autre. Même après ça, la brunette était bien en avance sur ses camardes, comprenant les choses sans les lires, simplement parce que son esprit était si aguerri que tout lui venait naturellement. Mais, être de deux ans plus jeune que toute une classe de lycéens n'était pas une aubaine, loin de là. Alors qu'elle aurait pu croire que la maturité arrangerait les moeurs, les moqueries continuaient d'arriver à elle en grande quantité. C'est aussi à cet âge là que son caractère se forgea, que la petite fille douce se dévoila être plus répondante. Elle utilisait son intelligence pour répondre de manière sensé, blesser et se venger de manière subtile. Alors petit à petit, les gens avaient un peu peur de s'en prendre à elle, ou l'ignorait simplement en ayant compris qu'elle n'était qu'un rat de bibliothèque, trouvant entre les lignes et les ouvrages un sentiment de bienêtre. Il y avait aussi James qui l'aidait, frère et soeur étant très complice et proche pour se supporter dans les moments les plus difficile comme l'arrêt brutal du compte de fée. En moins de temps qu'il n'y fallait pour construire une vie paisible, le destin se jouait d'eux en ôtant la vie à Thomas et la demeure de campagne fut lâchement abandonné pour que Katherine puisse survivre, être aidé face à ce chagrin en vivant au palais. Et petit à petit, les choses se détraquèrent. James ne désirant pas vivre au coeur du palais pris la fuite dès que la situation se présenta à lui, dès que la majorité pointa le bout de son nez. June ne lui en voulait pas, mais elle ressentait très souvent ce vide de ne pas avoir son frère à ses cotés en permanence, surtout quand la mère de famille décidait de tout donner sur la dernière personne présente à ses côtés. Attristée et un peu brisée, la jeune femme âgée de seize ans s'enfonça d'avantage dans la littérature en ayant accès à une bibliothèque incroyable, celle du palais. En grandissant June apprit à aller à l'encontre des règles, notamment quand elle se mit à sortir en compagnie de ses cousins et d'y prendre goût. Mais côté coeur, cette éternelle romantique reste vide de toute relation, elle n'avait jamais eu aucun petit ami, aucun amant, aucun coup de coeur. Enfin c'est ce qu'elle croyait avant de rencontrer Jonah, une personne pas réellement fréquentable mais qui attisait sa curiosité au point de créer en elle ce drôle de sentiment. Il lui plaisait et elle se sentait attiré par son personnage qu'elle voyait aux nombreuses soirées organisées par Charles. Au coeur du palais, June est chargée de mettre de l'ordre dans la bibliothèque, dans les ouvrages et dans les archives. Rien de plus simple pour cette surdouée et passionnée de littérature, aucun livre présent entre ces murs n'échappe à son regard et à ses yeux affamés, les connaissants tous sur le bout des doigts. Mais à côté de ça, elle ne perd pas son grand coeur et continue de soutenir sa mère dans ses projets, sa solitude et l'absence de James qu'elle revoit fréquemment de son côté.

Her relatives : - Charles, Edward et Constance sont ses cousins. - Aliénor Windsor est sa tante et Edgar Windsor son oncle. - James Sweeney est son frère. - Katherine Sweeney est sa mère. - Jonah Anson est réciproquement attiré par elle.

[rcourb]

Onion Most Dangerous Game

En 1994, le label Aliénor Records de Bordeaux a publié un coffret de 3 45 tours compilé par Martial. Au programme de l’indie pop, de l’indie rock… Il y a aussi plusieurs reprises Joy Division par Diabologum, Henri Salvador par Katerine et le désormais feu Daniel Johnston par Les Tender Whiskers. Plus une adaptation de ‘Two Princes’ par Cody _very affirmative feminist… On écoute juste ici et j’ai mis toutes les images (40 quand même…). Les images sont tirées du film “Les Chasses du Comte Zaroff”. Lien vers la fiche discogs > https://www.discogs.com/Various-The-Onion-Most-Dangerous-Game/release/1849102

#AliénorRecords #IndiePop #IndieRock #Shoegaze #Punk #DesGarçonsOrdinaires #Sonneville #Newell #Katerine #LesTenderWhiskers #Superdrug #PolarBear #Boyracer #Elliott #InTheBus #Diabologum #Cody #LesMolies

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