_teh_steph_.
Sooooooooo ...
I was nudged by someone on my F-list a few years ago.
I'm still alive, but on a different journal:
cyber_bard_.
Add me and I'll add ye back.
Vincent Van Bellingen, voulez-vouz s.v.p. tout de suite appeller papa ou tonton. C'est tout a fait urgent.
tes cousines, Stephanie et Anne-Lise Orban.
Do costé d'Houffalize, y n'a parè ti des nutons,
divin les gris è pires y z'ont fè leu maon.
Do costé d'Houffalize, to ces p'tits nutons
les sîs di plèn è lune ovrè è bataillon
Y rif'se les solùes di tot'li région
E no di li légende, lo si fè è chanson.
Do costé d'Houffalize, si to qui fè neur nut,
les nutons s'organisè, mè nouk ni les pou vey
cachi din leu maon, on les étin chanté;
è so leu talonettes on les étin bouchi.
Les macrales d'Houffalize, à d'juau so leu ramon
viné ossu àl'nut pos'aidi les nutons.
Les solés riluè diso l'doré ramon.
è les gins d'Houffalize son todi bin châssé.
Do costé d'Houffalize, parè qu'les vrai coipie
fisè on drol di tchess, è kwandgè leu mestie.
Next to Houffalize, appearantly there are leprechauns,
between the grey stones where they have made their houses.
Next to Houffalize, all these small leprechauns
work in the moonlight in full batallion
and repair the shoes of the entire region
And so says the legend; this was made into song.
Next to Houffalize, where they do their jobs,
the leprechauns organise, no one could
see them, but the people can hear them sing;
working on the shoes, we hear them hammer.
The witches of Houffalize, who are their friends,
come at night to help the leprechauns
and t'is why the people of Houffalize always wear good shoes.
Next to Houffalize, appearantly the real shoemakers
make a strange face, and change of job.
(translated from the original Walloon text, by Stephanie Orban)
I grew up with this song. I grew up with the Walloon language, although I've never bothered to try and speak it. Walloon is truly a mixture of languages; no would mean "ni-ni", and yes would be "Aye". It has a little bit of Latin, Celtic, Spanish, German, Dutch ... (As if the Aye bit didn't give it away.)
It is a death language. Shortly after the second World War, all text books, including grammar books, were burned and forbidden. People were forbidden to use it in class; common French became the standard norm. Now it is a spoken language, and only spoken by those "as young as fifty and older". It is extremely fun to listen to.
I'd really want a textbook.
http://www.wallonie.com/wallang/ouest.au => You can hear the western dialect here, more specifcally the pater noster.
A fun fact about me;
My great-great great uncle was one of the Montgolfier brothers. You know, those who invented the air balloon. My paternal family has quite some famous people, but those people stick out, of course.
Going to do something now. Maybe re-organise my books. if only I could get this stiffness out of my neck.
Your Japanese name should be
'Aki'
which means
"autumn".
You can be compared with
autumn, the way the autumn weather changes, is
how your feelings change. You have these mood
swings you can't control; one moment you're
happy, the next you're feeling almost
depressed. You're probably sensitive and
creative.
Which Japanese name fits you best? [females, 9 results + absolutely stunning ANIME pictures!]
brought to you by Quizilla
Crappy webcam pic of the snow. View out of my bedroom window. Main reason why it looks so "orange" is becayse of teh streetlight.
Buuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuut ...
"The so-called Beat Generation was a whole bunch of people, of all different nationalities, who came to the conclusion that society sucked." - Amiri Baraka
Preface to a Twenty Volume Suicide Note ----- Amiri Baraka
Lately, I've become accustomed to the way
The ground opens up and envelopes me
Each time I go out to walk the dog.
Or the broad edged silly music the wind
Makes when I run for a bus...
Things have come to that.
And now, each night I count the stars.
And each night I get the same number.
And when they will not come to be counted,
I count the holes they leave.
Nobody sings anymore.
And then last night I tiptoed up
To my daughter's room and heard her
Talking to someone, and when I opened
The door, there was no one there...
Only she on her knees, peeking into
Her own clasped hands
Chronology ---- Diane Di Prima
I loved you in October
when you hid behind your hair
and rode your shadow
in the corners of the house
and in November you invaded
filling the air
above my bed with dreams
cries for some kind of help
on my inner ear
in December I held your hands
one afternoon; the light failed
it came back on
in a dawn on the Scottish coast
you singing us ashore
now it is January, you are fading
into your double
jewels on his cape, your shadow on the snow,
you slide away on wind, the crystal air
carries your new songs in snatches thru the windows
of our sad, high, pretty rooms
So far, i've been completely unable to find a book by her. Maybe Ebay?
A post _saybia_ wrote got my attention, but then again, all her posts do. She reminded me of Alexander - a guy I didn't quite personally know.
He commited suicide by throwing himself in front of a train. He was fourteen years old. As I said before, I didn't know him personally, but I had seen him around, knew his class. Shared some of his teachers. The day when everybody was informed of that fact, was quite an emotional one, (weren't we supposed to go and watch "falling" in The Spinx that day?) even for those who didn't quite knew him.
Fourteen years old. Threw himself in front of a train to end his life. The date being november 26, 2001. Does that shock you much? It no longer shocks me. I've seen so many people come and go in St-Lucas, and I wonder about the most of them - especially the troubled ones. And I've known so many.
I've heard of one of them lately, a certain Bram. I vaguely suspect that he had a crush on me, but that doesn't matter. He is fine, still alive and kicking, planning to set up his first exposition, which (from what I've heard) consists out of rather ... macabre dolls that serve as lighting, and are "modified" in several ways.
That's one of them, of which I am sure that he's turned out more or less "okay". But there are so many others.
There was Virgil, for instance. Your usual ghetto/gangsta boy, with the cap, the XXL trousers, the rap music. Had a lot of problems with his parents, and authority. Would freak out for the smallest thing. Was heavily addicted to drugs. I haven't heard anything of him. I try not to think the worst.
There was Annelies. She was quite troubled, very troubled even. She had a sort of "fixation" on a girl (yes, lesbian), who, sadly enough didn't return her feelings. Her parents had divorced under rather explosive circumstances. At times, in the middle of class, she would ramble on and on, and eventually, she would faint, which resulted us in dragging her outside to give her some fresh air, where upon the previous scene would recommence. I see her now and then, and am glad she seems to be fine.
There was someone else - someone I had a secret crush on. I've never spoken to this about everyone. And sadly enough, I've forgotten his name, but I can remember his face quite well. I'm unfortunate to admit that his face sometimes, randomly, will pop up in my head. I think about him at least once a month.
We never knew much about him. He joined my merry class in the last half of the year. He was in a mental institution, but had been deemed "healthy" enough to go and have classes outside of the institution. He came out of a family of 7 (could have been more). Soft-spoken. Nervous, because he always tapped with his pen at the desk. The first few days, everything seemed okay. He seemed to be able to fit in. And then suddenly, hell broke loose. I am not kidding. He went up to my teacher, threw over a huge, gigantic, heavy drawing table, and continued to yell at the teacher, threatening to hit him. After the teacher hid behind our backs (sucker), he ran off, leaving his backpack in the class. And that was the last I've heard of him. The next day, when he came into the same class, the backpack was still there.
Although I am pretty positive about most of the "troubled" kids that I have known, I fear that he didn't come out of it okay.
Fourteen seems awfully young, but ... you've had fourteen years to build up on anger, sadness and personal issues, that sometimes it doesn't really matter. I believe it was Norway, Sweden, one of those Scandinavian countries, that had one of the most child suicides. It isn't strange at all. Ghent is the city in the EU with the most suicides, if I recall correctly.
Hereby I am remembered of when Chrisje's son commited suicide as well - left the car engine running, hooked up a tube from his exhaust, and succesfully soffucated himself to death. I remember that everyone tip-toed in her neighborhood for quite some time. We never quite know how to deal with the family of someone who has killed himself. Chrisje has such a warm heart - I can still remember her staying at the deathbed of a kid who used to be in my third year - he died of cancer.
Suicide is a choice - and most think that it will only affect themselves. That is where they are wrong. It affects everyone. I think that might be the only thing keeping me from doing it to myself. I don't wish to be selfish. And although suicide is a very selfish act, it also is a judger of extreme bravery.
People who have commited suicide, are not weak, just because they didn't manage to solve their problems; their issues. They are extremely brave, because they have looked up into the face of God, and told him: "You cannot fire me, I quit."
But it hurts. Leaves at least an impact on you if you didn't know the person. Shocks you extremely if it was someone from your nearest vicinity. When I wandered on the cemetery where my maternal grandfather is buried, I stumbled upon a grave of a rather young man - 34, I believe - who had drank himself to death because of a lost love. I saw red roses on his grave - some of them littered along on the path. I picked them up and placed them back, where they belonged.
Sometimes, we don't need to know reason of why that person killed himself - they just did it. And it hurts. Leaves you speechless. Makes you wonder what he or she could have become. Perhaps that is the most painful bit. What could he have become?
_saybia_'s journal.
