Sometimes the boulder is a real one.
Sometimes the boulder is just a prop, like in Hollywood.
Looking at them you’d never know the difference.
Anticipation of the effort ahead is misled.
I gamble a lot.
Month: April 2006
There was something
There was something wrong that summer.
She was drunk a lot, he was high a lot.
Too many people were sleeping over.
The music was always too loud.
Someone made me drink a glass of Tia Maria with milk.
We had a new car, a summer home, new furniture.
Something wrong.
We were three for the last time.
This is me, this was me.
I remember everything, except what I forgot.
Take and take and take and
So this is where you’ve taken me
On the edge of your time, your space, your conditions
And I bend over to see what’s down there
But not too far, not too bent, not sure
About that hand of yours, resting on my back
That hand that has led me, brought me, hit me, loved me
Found places I thought were dead, did not exist
That hand that I still feel hot, burning, searing
When it’s gone to another one’s secrets
That hand that has never belonged to me
So this is where I stand
On the edge of my will, my reason, my desire
And as wide and open that my canyon is
As full and available I let it be
You will never bend over to see what’s down there
There is a taker
Does not necessarly mean
There is a giver
My two tongues
Well, some would love that… lollll, but that's not my point. My mother tongue is French. I always lived in a French environement. I have no idea why English came so naturally to me. When I was a kid, I watched tv in both languages. Sesame Street, Road Runner and Tweety Show, later the after school specials, the sitcoms and then the movies, the news… It seems that I always understood English, even before I could speak it.
In my teens, when I started to write, I did so in English. It was bad, but it made sense to me then. And when I went back to school at 22, I went to Concordia University, even if I never attended an English school before. But never before I started to write here did I think about this seriously. I never questionned the reasons why I write in English. But surely it means something.
When I have a post, the idea is born from my feelings, which become thoughts, which become words. At what point does it take a language? Because that's what happens. I don't decide. The words do. Just like they have to be put down, typed, written or said, they need to be so in their own language. But what does this say about me? Does it mean anything? I wonder about duality, about split personalities, but mostly about remoteness. Does this remove me from what I try to express? At the moment I write, no, because I feel, I'm completely immersed in the sound of my words, the rythm of my fingers, my breath held, I sway on my chair and I am gone for the moment. But after. After it's out, not when I hit publish, then view. But later, a day or so. I read my words and wonder about the woman and her torments. Then I realize they're mine.
I'm not too sure if there is a division, a schism. I am my words, as they are me. The sound they make when spoken has no importance. The way the letters are put together, arranged has no importance. What they mean to me is all that matters. For the rest of you, well, there's always babel fish!