Dans l’auto j’ai relevé ma jupe un peu, enlevé mes sandales parce que j’aime conduire pieds nus. La fenêtre baissée, le vent. J’ai mis ma main entre mes jambes, poussé le bord de ma culotte, j’ai pensé à tous ces yeux, toutes ces mains, sur moi, en moi. Sur Bonaventure, à 120 km/h. j’ai même pas levé le pied de la pédale.
Month: May 2006
I rock… sink to the bottom
1400 people at the Montreal Traffic Club’s Lobster party tonight. That’s alot of toupees and cheap suits. That’s my world. That’s people I’ve worked for/with/against for ten years. That’s also alot of eyes on me. For the first time. In a long time. Eyes like hands. Eating. Drinking from my fountain. And I gave free refills. Cleavage, tight black pants, heels, leather coat. My hair like an aura. Eyes trying to see through mine. Smiles hard to contain. Both sides.
-They look at you like you’re a piece of meat!
-And?…
-My God, you look FAN-TAS-TIC!
-Why, thank you!
-Wow, the older you get, the better you look!
-Oh, that’s so kind, thank you!
-Hey! You lost weight! You look amazing!
-Thank you! Yes, 30 pounds!
-Swan, you are beautiful tonight, wow!
-Thanks Ex-Boss!
-Haven’t we met before? Don’t I know you? Oh, wow, I can’t believe it’s you!
-Awww, come on! (keep it coming)
Level 1 000 568 on the ego scale.
Home. I’m invisible. No hands. Crash. Back to square one.
Plus rien à voir
Je suis là. Mais j’observe.
Je suis là, je suis là, je suis là.
Mais.
J’observe.
Ce n’est pas possible
Autant se retirer
Autant tourner le dos
Le mal de ne plus voir
Fait plus peur que l’improbable
Le n’arrivera plus
Le passé sculpté dans ma peau
Le passé caché sous mon lit
Il est là. Mais il observe.
Let them in
It seems like I’ll never be what I wish I was. What I know I can be actually. Cause it’s right there, I feel the two (three, four?) trying to become one. The change could be emminent. If only I could let it happen. I try. In the silence of words written to be told.
Let’s use another word. Change is worth shit. Become? Evolve? Ah fuck… I got it. Mature. No, no, no, does it have to be that one? It means way too much. Aren’t I done with this? I don’t want to be mature. About anything. It shows the way to so many things I know I do wrong. That I enjoy doing wrong.
It’s not about responsability. I’ve been responsible all my damn life. It’s about me and the others. So many blogs I read, so many people saying they are not a people’s person, they are not sociable, they actually hate people. And I can totally identify. But at some point, doesn’t it affect my whole way of being, my ability to mature, to be part of life?
Nothing relates to me in the outside world. I can’t relate to anything or anyone. Yet here everything is about me. And it’s so easy to believe that this is the truth. I mean every word I write, yet I can’t communicate my needs out loud. I can verbalize my anger, my despair, my insecurities, yet I can’t bow my head and cry in my living room.
There was a time when I didn’t exist. When all I could do to survive was to come here and write. Because I was the ghost of someone wanting to be. Now I’m too big, too real. And I’m getting smaller and smaller as each day passes. I know what I have to do. I know what my words mean. Each and everyone of them. I love them, embrace them, make love to them. I have to let them back in.
Un paysage de l’autre côté
Mon regret plus rapide que son ombre
Au flanc d’une montagne d’attente
Je regarde en haut
J’en peux plus de courir
J’me laisse rattraper
Quand ça brûle dans mes poumons
Quand le feu prend entre mes seins
Quand mon corps est un ange de flammes
Quand l’air disparait, se sauve, m’échappe
Ça ne fait plus mal
C’est quand je reprend mon souffle
Et commence à monter
Gravir la pente vide, la pente totale
Que je sais tout
Que je sais tout
The Raconteurs
Isn’t that the coolest site ever???
Famine
The night air is cool and I want to cry. My skin calls the shiver of a kiss, the warmth of my hips in your hands. I would. Anything.
Erotica makes my throat close and my eyes burn. The characters hate me. Hurt me.
Ripple through me in waves I’d rather not know existed.
Love stories don’t do anything for me. I couldn’t care less about their endless embrace under the stars. But when they take off their clothes in haste, to feel… I cry.
I cry the wet grass on my back. I cry the echo of my gasp of your whisper. I cry the leaves in my hair.
Twenty fingers locked.
Zone sinistrée
C’est une bonne chose qu’il n’y ait pas d’arme à feu à ma portée. Mais je regarde le dessus de mon bureau, et je vois les possibilités.
Brocheuse, ciseaux, règle en métal. Même mon téléphone me donne des idées.
D’un autre côté je pourrais très bien la tuer avec mes mains. Mes ongles aussi. Mes dents?? Ahhhhh oui, je sens son sang chaud innonder ma bouche.
Tout ce qui me passe par la tête quand elle parle c’est “ta yeule, ta yeule, ta yeule, ferme ta colisse de yeule avant que j’t’arrache la face avec mes dents, que j’t’étrangle avec le cordon de mon téléphone, que je t’assomme avec mon clavier, que t’enfonce ma souris dans la gorge. TA YEULE!”
Ah oui, j’ai l’image si claire, si vrai dans ma tête. L’élan de mon clavier, la poussière qui s’échappe d’entre les touches au ralenti, sa face qui s’affaisse contre le clavier. Ça doit tellement faire du bien. À elle. Ça la réveillerait un peu.
Ben non j’pas PMS… Ouan ok, pis même si je l’étais, qu’est-ce que ça change?
Ok, ok, je le suis, un peu, si peu…
On sait ben vous autre les hommes, on peut pas être agressives sans que vous pensiez qu’on l’est. Non, j’suis pas émotive, arrête de m’regarder, qu’est-ce qu’y a j’suis pas belle? J’suis grosse?
Respire, relaxe, c’est juste tes hormones, t’as pas de contrôle la dessus.
Arrrrghhhh, le monde est noir, je veux mourir, je veux toutes les tuer, fuck que tu me tappe sur les nerfs, décolisse!!!!!
PMSPMSPMSPMSPMSPMSPMSPMSPMS c’est pas rien qu’une excuse…
Promis juré. Je suis pas vraiment folle.
Or am I?
What it means
I wonderthinkdream about. I hope. I hope not. Did you? Have you? Will you? Why don’t you?
Fill
This will not happen. It happened. Fickle thread between stances.
Steps that I know by heart yet fail to remember when it’s the only thing that matters.
Wrongs that I walk around pretending they’re rights in need of repairs.
Air
Moving within the space where I was. Sucked out of my backtracks. Remember to breath.
Particles. Fragments. Pieces. Huge chunks. All in. I take it all in.
Anything you want to throw at me. Or flood me with. Don’t push me under the shelter. Please. Just let it fall.
FIlled
With air
Empty of meaning, consequences, decisions uncalled for, arguments, strike.
Strike. The thread broken by a single letter that brought our lips together.
And once again, on the outskirts of sociability (trust)
A family with an extra plate on the table will take me in. But only for one meal.
I can’t hang around too long. Don’t want to meet the expectations. Don’t want, not can’t. Closed, for fear of intrusion. But why do I crave my lock to be picked then?
Every one talking, laughing, passing around plates. Smiling. Engaging converstation. And I jump in. And as the evening grows, I start to wonder… Is my laugh too loud? Did I sound stupid with that quote? Did I sound obnoxious with that remark? Did they really think that was funny, or they were just being polite? Should I get another drink? Did I have too much to drink? Did I talk too much about myself? Did I listen well?
Air kisses, let’s exchange numbers, that was quite an evening don’t you agree, let’s do this again soon, please call…
I will sit at your table and eat your food and be thankful. More than you think. Even though we won’t see each other again.
I just hope there are no mushrooms in the sauce, I hate mushrooms.
This is part 3 of an ongoing project with Perrasite Premier. The first two parts are in French. Part 1 can be found here (That’s it) and part 2 here (Ça y est, encore).