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facettes

facettes has closed down this section
Why?
Because we found a site that already does what we were trying to do on a better and bigger level
So we decided to leave the job to them. Check it out, it is a grat site: Randomaccessmemory

if you are still interested in facettes, we left the first issue on the web as a substitute until facettes will be back with new ideas. It starts here:

this time we are interested in your food habits

tell us all about it

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
read what people wrote about "home"

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"Four blocks from my sophomore-year apartment was a 24-hour pancake house of, shall we say, international repute. The food there wasn't very good. But they had a large smoking section and bottomless pots of coffee, so my friends and I quickly became regulars. At the beginning of the term, we all had scholarship money, and lived the wild life for a couple of weeks. We treated each other to waffles, onion rings and orange juice at a mark-up that would make even a wine merchant blush. After we bought our textbooks, the debauchery ended, and we went back to collecting cans for coffee money. Dishes of fries were split five ways, and heavily buttered toast broken up for a midnight sacrament to the flames of scholarship. In such sparse amounts, our food didn't even have the animal allure of quantity to recommend it. But it was shared, and the glow of our friendship spilled out over the table, making even the limp fries seem a little magical."
By Marina Wolf, Food.com contributor
Do you love greasy burgers? Cooking? Vegetarian? How does your favourite dish look like?
Write it down, submit it, send a picture or whatever comes to your mind. Write one sentence or two pages,
We will publish your submission on this site as you send it
No quality control
If you wonder why, look at our submissions about "home" and read about the idea of facettes
send us your contribution by May 31, 2000 to facettes@gmx.net we will publish the collection of all contributions on this site in the beginning of June 2000 together with the next theme for facettes. Write no more than two pages, feel free to submit pictures of any kind. Please notify us, if and how you want your name to appear as the author. All information received will be used exclusively for publication on this site and will not be handed to a third party without your permission.
   
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contributions on "home" were sent to us in January - February 2000 when these quotations were posted on the site "When I was growing up in Piedmont, West Virginia, the TV was the ritual arena for the drama of race. In our family, it was located in the living room, where it functioned like a fireplace in the proverbial New England winter. I'd sit in the water in the galvanized tub in the middle of our kitchen, watching the TV in the next room while Mama did the laundry..."
Henry Louis Gates, jr. / Home / Vintage Books / New York / 1996 / p.48
"I have all of life's treasures
and they are fine and they are good
They remind me that houses
are just made of wood
What makes a house grand
Ain't the roof or the doors
If there's love in a house
It's a palace for sure.."

Tom Waits / Mule Variations /
House Where Nobody Lives
   
this is contribution "home #1"

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If I think on my home in my early childhood, I remember some ugly and painfull pictures of my fathers big, cold house and himself, big and cold too, and angry. He was not very nice.
After my parents divorced I looked for a home, by visiting friends and their families all the time. Sometimes I was not at my mothers home for some weeks. But whereever I was and how lovely ever the poeple there have been to me, it never has been my home.
Today I feel very fine and I not depend on any different places. My home is there where the humans are I love. My girlfriend and with her my unborn child. Where they are I feel at home.
Jan
   
this is contribution "home #2"

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Ideas on home


I grew up in San Francisco in a charming flat, but when I was a little girl I wanted to live in a house. I just thought it would be cool to live in a place that had stairs.There was a house down the street that had been on sale . It was stunning, even by grown up standards, lots of ivy and brick, and it was next to my best friends house - how convenient!

I told my parents about this house, and naturally they were skeptical. When we drove by, they saw how beautiful it really was. My father scheduled an appointment the following week. It would at the very least be fun for my parents, I on the other hand told my friend how I was looking forward to moving.into a house that had stairs.

This house was good looking, but it had been on the market for a while. That next week we went into the house saw how run down it was. It was a mess. No wonder no one had bought it.

I lost interest in looking for other houses after that incident. I lived in the same flat until I went away to college.. It was nice not having to climb stairs anyway.

Meaghan Kimball
   
this is contribution "home #3"

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We grew up in a small village, on a small island
Twenty-five kilometres from the nearest town,
It sat transfixed in its solitude.

We grew up in its mango grove,
Among its coconut trees,
In its sea.

We played the games all children play.
Jolen. Patintero. Agawan Base. Agawan Buko. Taguan.
But mostly, we played our own stories.
Stories woven from the tales of the island elders.
On hot summer afternoons,
Siesta time was spent under the shade of the trees,
beside the women,
who were washing, or weaving, or cleaning vegetables.
Stories about the mananaggal, the capre, the Anito.

These stories wove themselves into our memories,
Stitching with our dreams, with the nighttime shadows,
with the tales from our mother’s and grandmother’s childhoods.
Summer is the season that has inscribed itself onto my memories.
Then, school was out,
And we no longer had to take the boat ride into the mainland.

We would sleep on the beach, in small nipa huts,
Its sides lined with mosquito netting,
And its floors matted with banana leaves.

The sun rose on our faces,
And we would walk the few feet into the sea
for a morning bathe.

You could walk along the rocky edge of the cove
and look for oysters to pick.
The fishing boats,
On their way in from a night on the sea,
Would pass by the island,
And the day’s first meal would be bought.

My sister, and brothers, and I would choose our trees
And race up for the coconuts.
A balisong would be used to chop of its top,
and a spoon would be fashioned out of that.
The sweet juice and soft flesh eased the
heat of the morning sun.

The days were spent venturing into the
seemingly untrodden parts of the island,
behind the cluster of trees whose thick foliage
kept us cool.

The women of the island all told stories
of the wild pigs that ran through there;
and of the skeletons,
left over from the Spanish and American Revolutions,
hanging from the trees.

We would walk, carefully, quietly,
lest we disturb their spirits.
The trees were held sacred
out of respect for the duwendes
that resided in their souls.

We had a special tree back there.
A big old mango tree,
surrounded by a crumbling stone well.
Someone had once lived by there,
but all that remained of the dwelling
were the broken pieces of wood,
and the capiz shell windows,
shattered on the ground.

The tree was the centre of all our games.
It was where the stories grew,
where our imaginations engulfed us.

It was where the capres took a life form,
where the duwendes spoke to us.
Sheltered from life on the shore,
its isolation took a form of its own.

When the sun began to go down,
and the day’s stillness was broken
by the wind and the cicadas,
we would head for the shore once more.

Dribbled water that lined the sand for our games
shone in the moonlight.
The bamboo lanterns on the beach
would be lit,
and one by one,
the houses on the hill would take on eerie
shadows from the kerosene lamps inside.

The outdoor fire pits were blazed,
and coaxed into roasting a dinner.
We would play on the sand bars,
under the night,
between the blanket of stars
and the bed of water,
until the dinner bells chimed,
and the summer day was over.

I left pulo for Los Angeles over two years ago.
I missed the white sand,
so fine, it never burned the soles of your feet.
I missed the smell of mangos,
sweet and sticky,
eaten with the hands,
with its yellow juice running down my arms.
I missed the smell of the sea,
salty and strong.
The air in America was different.
It smelled of city and cars;
it moved faster,
with people bustling around,
rushing to get places.

But you can never come home twice.
Back for Christmas,
I approached the island,
and the air was tingling with excitement.
From the sea,
I could smell bibingka,
rice cakes roasting over charcoal;
and putobungbong, purple yam heated slowly in
bamboo tubes,
until they grew soft and sticky,
to be eaten with shreds of coconut and
raw sugar, melted in clumps.

I could see the colourful paroles swaying
from the trees, their tails lightly fluttering in the breeze.
I could hear the choir of our small church,
their voices in practice,
lifted by the wind.

You can swim by the bangka that takes you to the island,
as it moves so slowly.
You come out of the water
wet,
but are soon warmed by the equatorial sun.

But my island seems so small.
And I wonder, why is it,
as I walk through the paths
made by the trampling of our feet,
not so long ago,
do I hear echoes that resound loudly through the trees –

echoes of sounds that carry movements from other places? Why is it that I have yearned for home,
when back here,
I am somewhat of a stranger
to this island that has stood in time?

People still find respite from the heat
in the caves,
which are moist, and damp, and cool
from the water that has
ebbed out with the tide.

Lunch is still eaten at high noon,
and its rays most damning.
The island still slows down and halts
after lunch.
Babies are laid down on grass mats,
and are fanned to stir the heavy air,
until sleep comes and takes over
both child and care-giver.

You can still hear the women,
gathering up the work of the morning,
singing softly.

Sometimes,
The lilt of a single voice soars
above the rest,
and the other songs become the echoes
of her melody.

The Church bells still chime at the onset of dusk,
just as they do at noon.
And once again, the island pauses,
and heads are bowed.
The Angelus is said,
each person murmuring quietly,
each voice contributing to a quiet roar.

This quiet roar transforms into a bustle,
as people move,
preparing for the evening and the night
that is to come.

The elders still congregate by the shore at twilight to recount tales of long ago.
But the circle is incomplete,
and of the children that used to sit around them,
listening in rapture,
there are faces missing,
and faces older,
and faces tired.

I scan the hill where the houses sit,
their azure roofs
melting softly with the
falling sun.

They are the same houses that have
stood there since I can remember.

The trees that line the shore rustle
Gently in the breeze,
And as I listen to the
stories of old,
my mind wanders,
and I realize that home resides in my memories,
and I can never return to the
same place again.

   
this is contribution "home #4"

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home - sweet dream and destination
by Henning Grimm

Are you at home right now? Stop reading for a second and observe your surroundings! Are you curled up in that comfy bed playing with your laptop? Or are your toes tapping unpatiently while loading webpages on a public net access before flight departure: Heading home perhaps? If so, where's that place? Ask a tribal nomad, a Mexican wet-backer, or a Kosmonaut aboard the "Mir" space station seeing Earth like a detached abstraction for his very first time; to them "home" means nothing but a distant dream? I don't recall seeing "home" among the listed destinations on the flight departure chart when I arrived to Miami International Airport. As I advanced towards the gate, odeurs of international middle-class climbed my nose, and clacking shoes danced the endless corridors where I mirrored myself in the oxydized glass. I understood where and who I was: I was one among many - on a journey quite afar from where my home should be. And in human life there is no end to this travel which is resolved merely by coincidence: "I was born in a cab on the way to a hospital in Manhattan", somebody once told me. However, he considered Brooklyn to be his home. Random events, compulsory geographical references, or administrative designations rarely determine where we feel at home. Moreover, home is a product of individual choice. A child who is born of diplomatic parents in Bonn, grows up in Washington and survives puberty in Montevideo may feel at home just anywhere and nowhere. If a letter with positive news from the Green Card Lottery hits your mailbox tomorrow, you future home could easily be, well, Anchorage? Suddenly, you might fall immortaly in love in Paris and...a home is a home is a home. Place of birth, place of work, place of living, place of loving, place of residence, place of useless writing...Whatever, home is in every sense an outrageously dynamic condition: Remember the shantytown-inhabitants of Caracas that lost their homes as they were flushed away by the december flooding in 99.

        The fundamental element - the soul - of "our home" is made of a mix of conciously-calculated, strategic and unconciously-driven emotional motives. Allow me to quote the words of the American writer, St.Jean de Crevecoeur: "...ubi panis ibi patria": where there is bread there is fatherland. When thinking of home in terms of a conveniant place to achieve financial, material and social wellbeing, anywhere from Wall Street; Silicon Valley; Copacabana to Nuuk University in Greenland would do just fine. Home can be a haven for maintaining ourselves whilst giving us a meaningful presence; much like a living system were people are one with their external environment, where their own mirror reflection from the outside world overlaps their aspirations. Within the word itself lurks the metaphor of harmony. It expresses physical and spiritual entity aligned with territorial integrity. A young actor might feel at home in L.A where he works to achieve his dream - to become a Hollywood star. The limited life-span of our own transient liquid and flesh can make our work (or its results) a strong evidence of our existence. If somebody gives life to it by reading, by talking about us or our work he gives meaning to our lives. And I believe that the perception of home is closely linked to the wish of doing something meaningful in life (like sleeping, eating and multiplying, or writing and reading less texts like this). To make some sense of this rabble, we are building a mnemoic bridge between eachother - right now! You (reading this text) and me (writing this text) deconstruct textual elements, interpret them and compare them with previous experiences and knowledge. We become connected - with a slight chronical postponement. While we think, you and me are forced to go inside ourselves. And at this very moment you are constructing your home, because "home" is always within yourself.
Whilst having something to do with arriving to one's own nature, home can also be where we explore our anti-nature. Walt Whitman once wrote: "...I am myself, when I am outside myself". It is when we estrange ourselves from our habitual environment that we recognize more clearly what has been hidden from our eyes. Within all of us lurks the urge to transgress borders, to violate against rules and break the chains of everyday life constraints; thus, telling us who we really are and not. But it is not until the thirst of our rebellious nature is quenched and when we find comfort in our precious sleep, that we are on our way. The conception of "my home is my castle" is deeply enshrined in the culture of Norway were the home serves as the altar of recreation, and a shelter against anything from rough weather conditions to nasty neighbors (which preferably lives half a mile away). The Internet works in a way that it can be manipulated to filtrate out influence we don't wish. It offers a global digital home connected to a socio-economic environment in which we can conduct our everyday activities, extending as far as to our spheres of sacred intimacy. At the same time, just like the airport, the net is the "via de escape" from everyday life and experience. Home is withdrawal. Not from reality but into a different reality. Home cannot be designated to simply one geographical location. It is a variable state of mind, an illusive goal which we keep pursuing. And if your not at home at the end of this text, be good, and switch of the computer!

   
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