peelyoureyes

Dialectics of Desire and Revolution: Vienét's 'Girls of Kamare'

2009-06-03T11:04:00.003-04:00

Unpublished

ABSTRACT

In the Fall 2008 issue of October, Kelly Baum wrote an article entitled The Sex of the Situationist International. In it, she radically reformulates the accepted art historical understanding of a common “leitmotif” in Situationist publications, that of nude or semi-nude women. Previously, critics ignored the usage either by dismissing it as, in the words of Thomas Levin, “problematic depictions of scantily clad women” or by condemning it, as did Susan Suleiman, as the product of a “men’s club.” Baum, however, asserts that the Situationists, while reproducing some of the gender biases of the time, were actually using these images as a way to critique the alienation of desire as present in advanced capitalism. Baum goes even farther, indicating that the images the Situationists used in their publications of women were not actually images of women, but rather images of desire. Relying on work done by Thomas Y. Levin, Giorgio Agamben and Henri Lefebvre, Baum succeeds in developing an analysis that situates the Situationist use of images of desire as gendered politicization of desire to attempt a “revolution in desire.” In this paper, I intend to extend Baum’s analysis of printed images and a curt examination of Debord’s Society of the Spectacle to a film directed by Situationist International member René Viénet called Girls of Kamare, on which there is little to no theorization available, while exploring the revolutionary implications of this detourning of desire through a psychoanalytic and visual studies lens.

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Preface to the Journal of Poignant Living (in progress)

2009-06-02T11:31:00.003-04:00

The goal of this record is to record the moments that sometimes, but inevitably do occur within the experience of my lifeRight, my life, why should you care about my life? Well, though I am a fan of a certain conservative solipsistic point of view, I do believe experience, and specifically the communication of personal experience a highly subjective and individual endeavor. However, I do believe experience to be mediated by biological and socio-cultural norms and practices, which is why I am writing this, someone will get it, right? Specifically moments which have been characterized as "Ah ha!" moments, yet further, "ah ha"s that manifest themselves physically, not just psychically. In my experience, the shivers, goose bumps. An understanding, ultimately provoked from outside the self gets worked into a personal narrative of being and the moment in which the newest puzzle piece to be formed out of ethereal reality is fit into the geometric structure of the 1/4, 1/2, 3/4 completed puzzle story, a physical marker of addition, simplification, complexification, abstraction, what we call wisdom, is affected. A shiver of what some may call the divine is felt traveling like lightening through my system. I'm taking special care to find colloquial expressions of this phenomenon, in hopes that what I am communicating is actually understandable and maybe, just maybe, inspires the 'divine' breath of 'shivers' of which I speak.
A chronicle of such is important for a few reasons. On a personal level, it is these moments which mean the most to me, that make me love life almost as much as the existence of the feeling of love does. That's not exactly right, I wish that were completely correct, but it is only a half truth (the part about me loving love). The bastard descendant of Western chivalric loveOcatvio Paz, The Double Flame: Love & Eroticism. between a man and a woman that exists today doesn't hold much significance for me personally, however I am compelled by what people will do for the intense feelings of affection that develop between people as a reaction to an innate condition of loneliness predicated upon the solitary nature of understanding (here we see that conservative solipsism I was speaking of earlier).
A second reason for this transcription of phenomena is its seemingly metaphysical nature. This of course brings up the question of where the body ends and the...spirit, soul, consciousness, personality, identity, Ego and Superego, etc. begins. In my estimation, our culture has been wrong to view linguistically view this problem of metaphysics on a horizontal scale of signification. In other words, to negatively oppose body and mind and this is of course a discussion which has been existent since earliest philosophical meanderings, yet here we are, in a rather advanced state of human cultural production and weYes, even the most scientifically rational person will find themselves falling back on this distinction every now and again cling to this idea that outside of our body, there, we are. As if pointing from within we can see our reflection outside. Perhaps something like Lacan's mirror. Lacan, Metz, Mulvey have wrote that it is, and this is an intense, but I believe correct, abstraction, that it is within the social that we find the reflection of what we call soul. And once again, we've swung back around to understanding between as the ultimate goal. But more on this when need be.
So, for right now, we have an optical illusion of selfhood which has produced the greatest metaphysical question of western philosophy.

2008-06-11T19:48:00.001-04:00

The Movers and Shakers

2008-03-12T13:27:00.002-05:00

Dane in Afro wig, Adam with Band hat, Joel with rockstar glasses, Shane with tattoos

Culture Shock Costume Party

2008-03-12T13:25:00.002-05:00

Grey, Spiral-y Life

2007-12-18T02:52:00.001-05:00

Drunken Philosophic Philanthropy

2007-12-18T02:24:00.000-05:00

Where have I been this last year...living in the moment, every moment, because it's moment to moment, every moment. That's life these days, decisions made second upon second, always connected to some network of requirements. Design this, accomplish this, speak this, arrange this, that is my life now. Every moment I make something happen. I awake, jump. Run down some crafty stairs to my awaiting Mac portal to the world. And there I sit, 7 hours, 12 hours, some crazy amount of my life, there I am, sitting, getting things done, doing exactly what I want to working at the speed I think. And BWAW! something's done. But what do I feel, how do I rate my concurrent experience that is life? Bored.
Bored.
I still urge to feel other, to know other, to be interested in the conversation that surrounds me....what would it be to know that? To be appeased in just being, in that everlasting moment of which I live repeatedly. Most likely it would be exactly what I feel right now, with a slight twist (I'm sure) in vocab and significations....but thet grey would remain, that indifference to the actual moment--although, that occurence, that happening which is so disgusting--it's fragmentary nature IS the moment.

The Princess

2007-12-14T15:02:00.001-05:00

PS experiments

2007-12-08T20:25:00.000-05:00

2007-12-08T20:24:00.000-05:00

This, is a walnut.

2007-10-28T22:03:00.001-05:00

Roadside Lollipop

2007-07-31T10:12:00.001-04:00

Happiness, Part 2

2007-07-31T10:10:00.001-04:00

Happiness, Part 1

2007-07-31T10:06:00.000-04:00

Wacker Drive

2007-07-30T13:56:00.001-04:00

Death

2007-07-23T00:48:00.000-04:00

Disgust, covered by decorum, masked by want of normalcy
Disgust, a wild sea of untranslatable emotions
Disgust, failure, wanting....waining into wanting
of
something more than I have in me,
something more than can be,
something, something;
nothing here.
-crap-
I haven't been this depressed since
those days when life was still fresh, new, and foreign.

I haven't been this confused since
those nights when I wrote my philosophies.

A friend of mine died.

Disgust. Something. Nothing.

The Peacock

2007-07-04T17:06:00.001-04:00

A few weeks ago, an enchanted night left me with an enchanting woman in my bed who stole my attention and became a muse, morphing into that transparent ethereal object which is most elusive to those of the artistic persuasion. To tell you the truth, she was the first person to stir my soul since my Colombian ex (a fire brand, she filled all my needs and twisted my person so). It came at the perfect time; I was not proud. I needed someone to inflate me and we ran around town, hand in hand like children trying to find some dark corner to play forbidden games. We played til the morning light. Then she left and went back home to Chicago.
Round about the same time, I hired a photographer. From the moment I perused her portfolio, I knew she was perfect. She had the eye for detail and, and most importantly, an appreciation for visual juxtaposition. Her photos provoked me.

Then a few days later, an e-mail came and she unfolded a story like no other. It seemed horrible, distressing, I sympathized. I'd been through that, I had my heart thrown to the side. This bit of information also put me on edge a little though I was afraid that my photographer would just disappear; a dream that, once again, came so close and then vanished like a morning fog, destroyed by intrepid rays.

Then, a week or so passed and she came in for a little interview. As soon as she walked through the door I was struck by that uncanny feeling of closeness. This feeling, is on eof the great mysteries to me. Parallels, coincidences, memories, all intersect and play tricks on your mind. In the time it took for her to walk from the door to in front of my desk, she had already become my friend Mapy (my first real sister, friend, foil, lover that could never be), Lina (my ex, dark, confident, proud, viciously alive, my first drink of fire), Eileen (my aunt, Irish, jolly, acerbic, stubborn, a strong woman who I always revered for just that). This combination of loves which strode toward me, sat down and I knew at once that this girl was going to be something. Something to me.

At this same time, the week after I encountered a new muse, my friend from Hungary came back from his cross country tour. That weekend, I was to take him to Chicago to fly back to hungary and so naturally, we stayed with this girl who had stirred me.
The first hours went by slowly, we drank beer, trying to cloud the line of decorum. Then, as we strolled through Blues Fest, childish fingers began to play with childish hands. He kissed, again and again, and the Windy city turned into another romantic locale. Metropolises do that to me. I become intoxicated; high off the fumes. We rolled in her bed, made coffee in the mornings, made love in the afternoons and made dinner at night. We'd wake up at noon and lay in bed til 3, go on the porch and read til 5. Go out to dinner and the to a museum. We strolled the city pretending as if we had known each other forever, dated for years and were slated to get married on the morrow.
Then one morning (round about 3 in the afternoon) I find myself with a backpack on my back, turning the 19th century door handle of the 5th floor apartment, turning to my right, kissing her deeply. Smiling. Damn did she have a smile, one that split her face in half with its breadth and cut the world in half with its levity. I pulled the door open, looked back and walked down the stairs.

3 days in 2 days later, I found myself slouched over a rust orange bar, taking pictures of that something's fingernails. My mind was gone, burnt out. My body lay lucidly still. It felt as if whenever I didn't move, I would wave, like a flag floating gently on a breeze or a styrofoam cup bobbing up and down in a still current.
We slept together that night. I remember feeling ashamed for being so dead that night and for the next few days, every time I saw her I felt like I had to apologize for something but she never needed it as I came to find out...I like that.

This girl is something; I just don't know what yet.

See, then there's moments like this, when her presence is missed, where I feel a distinct jealousy of whomever is stealing her presence from me. It drives me crazy. I hate the concept of jealousy, based on the idea of ownership (or even worse, based on some sort of mirror of reflection which constitutes my own being?!), it can lead to no useful action, no matter the tragic beauty.

I am inconstant. My attentions are always divided. She was right when she said I gave my love away too early...once, I poured my attention on one and no other...no need to, but that's in the past, far away now. I just hope it is a cup that can be refilled again.

So back to this something; she's an artist, and there, I can identify with her. She is not a muse to me...although she has inspired this parlay into the realm of words. So wait, she's now a muse and an artist to me, that could be a deadly combination.
Something is kind, she has a benevolent grace about her which confuses even me. Must be the Catholicism in her.

The Peacock - Autoportrait

2007-07-04T17:04:00.000-04:00

The Photographer

2007-06-22T23:37:00.001-04:00

2007-06-15T13:49:00.000-04:00

The ashes fly up...the rain falls down.

2007-05-22T09:38:00.000-04:00

Graduation

2007-05-19T14:39:00.000-04:00

2007-05-12T13:12:00.000-04:00

Midwestern Pastoral 1

2007-05-12T11:27:00.000-04:00

2007-05-11T13:38:00.000-04:00

Kiwi!

2007-05-09T13:18:00.000-04:00

Back to the old mainstay...contemplation

2007-05-02T14:33:00.000-04:00

Merry Blues

2007-04-29T20:21:00.000-04:00

Run

2007-04-29T20:20:00.000-04:00

2007-04-29T20:17:00.000-04:00

2007-04-29T20:16:00.000-04:00

2007-04-29T20:15:00.000-04:00

Midnight Cargo

2007-04-29T20:14:00.000-04:00

Turtle Island

2007-04-29T20:11:00.000-04:00

2007-04-29T15:25:00.000-04:00

New CocoRosie album!

2007-04-16T09:59:00.000-04:00

www.writingwrong.com/img/lol/joel.zip
click the link, hear the music, get childish

I am here.

2007-04-14T21:05:00.000-04:00

A crack, just a crack
that's all I ask.
To feel a cool chill,
a sultry breeze,
the heavy weight of a summer wind,
even that.

To swing curtained windows wide
'twould be the ideal,
an exapansive view from above
would below unpeal

And from up on high
again,
I could say,
"Here am I. I am here,
Come this way."

Charles Diamond about town

2007-04-09T15:55:00.000-04:00

check out the project!

Mein Lieber Aron

2007-04-08T23:11:00.000-04:00

Embarrassment

2007-04-08T23:07:00.000-04:00

The Happy Family

2007-04-08T23:03:00.000-04:00

Que solo

2007-04-08T23:01:00.000-04:00

mama on the left (horrible picture for which she would kill me)

2007-04-02T20:01:00.000-04:00

Mi papa

2007-04-02T20:00:00.000-04:00

Tragic Temptation

2007-04-02T10:30:00.000-04:00

The Soldier

2007-03-31T12:40:00.000-04:00

As darkness falls....

2007-03-31T12:38:00.000-04:00

Spring Thaw

2007-03-24T14:20:00.000-04:00

Duke Ellington and Whitey's Lindyhoppers Soundie

2007-03-20T00:19:00.000-04:00

Carnival of Spirits

2007-03-12T22:25:00.000-04:00

El Diablo

2007-03-10T19:52:00.000-05:00

Westalgie

2007-03-10T19:48:00.000-05:00

Warmth

2007-03-10T19:45:00.000-05:00

Un Amor Dinámico

2007-03-09T14:20:00.000-05:00

How is it that a dynamic, passionate love turns into a curse? What can cause such a love to dissolve into wavy streams of reality, truth and lie, myth and prophetic testament; nothing true, nothing false. Leadless, lifeless, left to my own devices which have always been destructive. I never loved myself until I met you. Not just that, but I loved who I was with you. I was passionate, awake, alive, constantly on my toes, ready for emotional, intellectual battle and it was fantastic. You made me bleed and it was a dark crimson red that spoke passion and life.

Now, drained as if a million leaches covered my body. I feel ashen, lifeless, hollowed out like a dugout canoe, left to float along the river of life without the slightest diversion in course. I yearn to feel as I did before and that longing for what exists only in fragmentary memory will stay with me. I know that now. It can hide itself like a dormant disease; new skin, fresh cells will cover it up, until one day, a slight poke or prod awakens it and it grows with every beat. Slowly, the cancerous cell swells. Each memory provoking it until it is met with the resistance of reality, then it sinks back, again covered by new growth, new experiences.

But it’s there, and worse than that, I don’t consider it a disease, but in a way, one of the most beautiful pains a person can feel. The pain of separation; no, of becoming one and then forcefully separated, that pain is cutting, violent, grinding, and finally laced with a sweet glaze of melancholy that makes one lick at the wounds, sucking every last bit of dark crimson from that hole, savoring it for its existence, its plain existence.

El Camino Oscura

2007-03-08T09:27:00.000-05:00

La Angel de Sal

2007-03-08T09:23:00.000-05:00

Dance with me in irreality

2007-03-07T12:49:00.001-05:00

Drunken Columnists

2007-03-07T12:34:00.000-05:00

Unattainable Beauty

2007-03-04T16:42:00.000-05:00

2007-03-04T16:40:00.000-05:00

The Peeling Barbie

2007-02-22T12:23:00.000-05:00

She scrubs and scrubs at night,
underneath the eyes,
trying as she might
to clear the glitter from her pores.

But underneath,
she hasn't seen.
A long time ago,
once upon a time,
it may have been that
she was there.

She peels and shlufs,
but never any closer does she get
to that person she once knew,
covered in a mask
that has become her skin
she has no task
and no sin.

American Morning

2007-02-10T16:27:00.000-05:00

2007-02-10T16:20:00.000-05:00

2007-02-10T16:19:00.000-05:00

2007-02-10T16:17:00.000-05:00

2007-02-10T16:06:00.000-05:00

Web 2.0

2007-02-08T17:05:00.000-05:00

An amazing video by a professor in Kansas. Post your thoughts on it, I'd like to get a little forum going about it.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6gmP4nk0EOE

SNOW

2007-02-06T18:26:00.000-05:00

http://rhetor.vox.com/library/video/6a00c2251caeb08fdb00c2251cb174f219.html

This was a video that three of my classmates and I did in Winter of 2006 during a class period when most everything was closed by a snowstorm...hence the inspiration of the title but with a 'slight' meta-rhetorical twist.

ENJOY

danke mapyposa! mua!

Detatchment

2007-01-31T12:55:00.000-05:00

I have always had a certain talent for unfeeling. Most of us do. One friend in particular is an asshole. He knows it and it's his mask.. His favorite facade in which he feels most comfortable. When confronted about it, his only reply is "Defense mechanism, fuck off."
Another friend, she's constantly insecure, always looking for affirmation, so be it if it comes from across a country through virtual means...actually...it's better that way. All that you wish it to be it can be, want to forget about it? No problem, it doesn't even exist.
Yet, when reminders of an underlying attachment appear, what can be done? Nothing. Just try to forget.

The Boss

2007-01-20T13:58:00.000-05:00

The confused little boy,
unnatural in any environment.

Distance, Difference, Imaginaire

2007-01-17T10:41:00.000-05:00

Levels of Detatchment

2007-01-16T20:40:00.000-05:00

2007-01-13T19:23:00.000-05:00

2007-01-13T19:20:00.000-05:00

Cultural Diffusion and Choice

2007-01-13T19:13:00.001-05:00

It has long been debated, whether or not culture is created or reflected by the media. However, this type of short-sighted dualism can only be harmful when looking at such a complex and important issue. Media is at once the shaper and refiner of culture as well as the manifestation of culture. The nature of media is reflective and creative, not one or the other. First, in order to understand this dynamic process, we must examine the way in which Humans perceive this dynamic process, we must examine the way in which Humans perceive culture. WE are submerged in culture, we breath, bleed, and sweat culture; in a way, the only “real” identity that we can point to as our won is that mass manifestation of culture, not a personal identity. The images of our future and past (almost never our present) surround us, and through this reflection it is we who are created. Stewart Hall’s theory of Encoding/Decoding explains this complex interaction and the way in which culture is both built, transmitted, redefined (or reinterpreted) and then spread further. The subject reflects upon the cultural identity manifest and transfers their own existence onto the ideological image prepared for it by culture.

Now, as to the assertion that culture creates rather than reflects society, if we follow the logic behind this statement, one begins to see a sort of indeterminism develop which provides the subject with a freedom of creation and self-determination reminiscent of an existential view of life and freedom and choice. In a way, I’m a relativist when it comes to choice. If I choose to believe that culture is merely a reflection of previously determined material, then I am no longer a subject, but rather a passenger with no say over my destination. But this assertion (though I am a relativist) seems to hold little water. Even if we take Hall’s theory of encoding decoding, once can see that the subject plays an integral role in cultural diffusion and transmission; therefore in the creation itself. The idea that an origin of creation is long past; all that remains now is a series of imperfect copies which develop mutations (or novel nuances); these mutations become transmitted and ingrained into the pre-existing flux of culture (baudrillard’s simulacra) Now the bigger picture is beginning to develop; a picture where culture is subject to eternal regeneration and mutation. However, the subject is not left out by this theory. It is within the mutations themselves where the subject can reappear, reshaping its future through choice.

An old story....

2007-01-13T19:12:00.000-05:00

Out to Sea

She lay across from me, swaying gently in the colorful hammock. A book lay cracked-open, spine severed, on her rolling stomach. A salty breeze cooled my face as it came softly in off the endless, blue plain. I wiped my brow and sat up, somehow refreshed and somewhat eager to struggle against the dense humidity. In this place, gravity isn’t what keeps you grounded, it’s the humidity. That damn humidity.

My eyes reached out to the cerulean plain, scowering for something, for an image, a beacon. But none came. The land of water just seemed to vanish into the grey horizon, rolling on, and on. I lay back into the womb of my hammock and let my eyes be pulled shut by gravity’s surrogate. I slipped into a dream.

It began, not so much as dreams normally do, but as one of those blurs in reality that can only be brought on by the shear force of heat. I saw coconuts being twisted about in dancing chorus lines, floating up through the sky, higher and higher. Palms and bushes leapt skyward, creating dense jungles of slate sky-scrapers. The white sands shot out over the ocean, setting down four-lane highways of silica. The reality of my surroundings was being pushed and pulled by the pendulous weight of heat. Then I was inside. It was my home; a home that I do not have and maybe never will, but at that moment it was mine. No, it was ours.

She sat in the cushy Lay-Z-Boy, nursing her tea and watching TV. I came around in front of her, turned off the TV, took the mug from her hand and placed it gently on the coffee table next to her. I took her hands into mine, as the questioning look appeared on her face, and pulled her up. Her left hand I put around my neck. Her right, I fit into the palm of my left hand. I grabbed the stereo remote and turned on the burned CD I had made. It was all the songs that we once danced to, long ago, back in the days when we were still young. We waltzed, we salsa’d, we danced for hours around the living room. I twirled her around the furniture and dipped her over chairs. Not a word was said, and we never blinked. She laughed and smiled a coy smile.

Then as the music came to an end and our steps slowed, our motions became more deliberate. The edges of the picture began to blur out. The walls fell. Everything fell. I was standing in the middle of a room that had ceased to be. She was gone, the house was gone; there was nothing but falling color.

I blinked and everything stopped, all was white and then I saw her. Raised above me, shrouded in an ethereal light. She sat there, an unearthly, unbelievable benevolence radiated from her face. Her features had transformed, her being was perfected in the light of my imagination. There she stayed, sitting on her golden cloud, possessed by the winds of time and the light of hope. As the awe struck, she began to ascend. I watched her go and as the figure became a blur, the blur a dot, and the dot a speck I found myself back on the beach. Both hammocks were there, but she was not. I walked around the deserted paradise, looking for memories, clues to what may have happened. I peered out over the endless sea. It looked clearer for some reason. I stepped into one of the tidal pools that lined the beach, feeling the warmth of the sun they had collected travel up my legs. Then something came over me. A feeling to run, to move, to change and I sprinted until I was waist deep in the cool ocean and dove. I cut through the sun heated upper layer and into the dark, cold depths. The bottom of the ocean dropped before my eyes. Endless, bottomless, salient depths. I swam, and swam, deeper and deeper. When my arms began to tire, I just stopped. I rose up through the water, finally free of the humidity’s pull. The lightness of being brought me back to the surface and as my head crested the waves a rush shot through me. I swam back to the beach infused, enthralled with me, with my life, with all that now surrounded me. With the endless possibilities that lay before me on this…new land. I walked up the beach, shaking water from my ears and running my hand through my hair. I walked over to the hammock that was hers. The book with the severed spine lay there. Bathing in the sun, still open to the page on which she had stopped. I picked it up, turned it over. There was only one sentence.

“Wake up.”

Sea of Tears

2007-01-13T19:07:00.000-05:00

The door slid open with a pneumatic pssshhh and the stench (for that could be the only word to give the air the proper weight) of people, packed and crammed, the faint aromatic of piss and the sweetening yet sickening smell of sweat mingled into a perfume of delightful humanity. I didn’t have a reservation for the train and most all the seats car, cutting through the acrid air. I slung my hitchhiker bag into the baggage rack and found an open seat. Put down my other bag with all the gadgets and whistles that modern necessity required of me, stripped off the two coats and scarf that had been suffocating my body the whole walk to the train station.

I threw myself down into the seat and quickly became acclimated to that all too familiar but unusually concentrated smell. I stared out the fogged window at a frosty reflection of my own face and I felt the train begin to pull me from behind. The station slowly started moving away from me and I watched it disappear into the night. That’s when it all began to come into me, or rather out of me, out from inside of that ethereal little string that binds me together; it seeped through the cracks, a glowing red of fully oxygenated love.

I was back in her apartment, the first time in her apartment, the only time in this apartment. She was living and studying in Strasbourg at the time. She was there next to me, distant but there…at least she was there, that had been a change; or rather I was there; sitting next to her in her bed from IKEA, starring at the bouncing , morphing screen saver on her lap top.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“I don’t know, I feel like I can’t express what I want to express, there’s a wall. You somehow built a wall in between you and me.”

“Yeah, I did.”

“I feel like I don’t know you, like I recognize you but I don’t know you, or at least you don’t recognize me.” Her eyes looked at me solidly slowly, intently listening to my words but with an air of detachment that was driving me insane. “It’s like the person I know in here,” I pushed my fore-finger into my forehead and tapped with all my force, “isn’t here in front of me, like I’ve fallen into a gap between two realities…” With that word, all was lost and I sank into the deep dark crevice of suffocating passion. My eyes snapped shut, pushing out gallon upon gallon of water until the abyss began to fill with my tears. The water grew higher and higher and as it came up to my knees, my waist, and finally my shoulders, I noticed that my feet were no longer touching bottom. I began to float upon my tears.

I can still smell the dried salt cling to my face or maybe it’s that smell horrible smell of people, salty, sweet, oppressive, ugly; but without those tears upon which I float, I would have sunk, long ago, to the bottom of that bottomless abyss.

2007-01-13T19:01:00.000-05:00

Brussels II

2007-01-13T19:00:00.000-05:00

Brussels

2007-01-13T18:57:00.000-05:00

2007-01-12T11:32:00.000-05:00