Month: September 2006

Defrag, scandisk et al

Posted on

Deleted. Not yet. Not quite.

Coming back. Regaining some kind of human form.

The deletion amplifying as my mind eases into a comfortable position. 

Like passes. Like a file cleaner. How many passes should I allow?

Complete irradication. Or traces. Lost file fragments.

Things are starting to make sense again.

Reality is not hiding, not a nightmare, not unbearable.

I don't want to disapear, not as much anyway.

Thought I needed to format, but 

BSOD… Memory dump. Reboot.

The files survived after all.

Compress old files? Yes. 

I'm much quicker on startup, with minimal damage.

 

De la fuite dans les idées

Posted on

Je sais pas trop d'où l'idée m'est venue. Mais entre le sofa et la chaise, entre la clope pis le joint. La fin de Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip (plate), le générique qui défile à mach 2, mon gmail notifier qui fait un saut. Les pas entre ces deux mondes m'ont fait oublier la raison de l'élan que je m'étais donné pour quitter l'île inclinable pour le radeau sur roulettes. Devant ma source et mon puit sans fond.

Je peux prendre, prendre, prendre sans arrêt. Je lis, sans arrêt. Les mots, partout. Français, anglais, même espagnol. Je ne commente pas beaucoup, je ne participe pas. Je regarde, j'absorbe, me submerge dans les consonnes, virgules, la grammaire chante son air si familier, si réconfortant. Je me berce des accords, des participes, parmi les subordonnées, les radicaux.

Je peux donner, donner, donner, sans arrêt. Déverser, déborder. Mais aussi offir. Nulle part ailleurs je pourrais donner autant, sans retenue, sans remords, sans rougir. Fermer les yeux et tout garrocher. 

Mes langues me torturent parfois. Une phrase m'arrive, comme ça, sans avertissement, en pleine conversation, en train de mettre du gaz ou de brasser les pâtes. Je regarde toujours par en haut quand ça arrive, mon souffle attend que ça passe. J'écris dans ma mémoire:

Is bleak a color?

Et ma tête part en français. Qu'est-ce que je fais? 

Ça fuck tout. I think in images. Comme quand j'ai quitté mon île. J'ai vu quelque chose. C'est peut-être la légende sous l'image qui est en anglais. Course entre l'image et la légende. L'mage gagne. Mais souvent au prix de l'idée. 

Moment #4

Posted on

C'est pas le moment. C'est pas les butchs de cigarettes.

C'est pas la toune. C'est pas la lumière du lampadaire sur la chaise.

C'est pas l'écho des images. C'est pas l'air des mots abandonnés.

C'est pas le combat qui m'a achevée. C'est pas les traces que la folie a laissé.

C'est pas la vision sur hier. C'est pas les demains aveuglés. 

C'est le vide

C'est le silence

C'est le vide le silence le vide le silence 

Pulling out

Posted on

What's funnier? Steve Martin pretending to care on SNL or Johnny Knoxville shopping a taxidermist for his grand mother? Exactly. Watched Amadeus today, with the volume way up. What happend to Tom Hulce anyway? Right now Kenny Rogers is urging me to buy the Superstars of Country Collection, for the pleasure of listening to Ray Price, Conway Twitty and Merle Haggard again and again. All digitally remastered. I could switch. There's 8 Mile on MMM.

Or I might pick up a book. Haven't read much lately, but bought books like crazy. I'm about 10 books late. A mix of noir, sci-fi, auteurs québecois and poetry. And that's not counting the comics. I am of an addictive nature. It used to be dope. Then paperbacks. Then TV. Then something else. And now I'm trying to wean myself again. But TV won't do it. Nor trash novels. Drugs are out of the question. Now I really get what cold turkey means.

I posted the Dylan song because it says so much about appreciation, acceptance of the inevitable or unavoidable. About not having regrets but embracing the past and caring for your memories. I have a choice. My past is mine. I can decide what it means to me and how I look at it in the rearview mirror. Reajusted it. Like when you let someone borrow your car and everything is out of place, out of position. Reajusted. Perfect view. Clear. My hand is on the stick. My eyes look down.  The needle moves up. Stops on D.

From the north country

Posted on

Well, if you're travelin' in the north country fair,
Where the winds hit heavy on the borderline,
Remember me to one who lives there.
She once was a true love of mine.

Well, if you go when the snowflakes storm,
When the rivers freeze and summer ends,
Please see if she's wearing a coat so warm,
To keep her from the howlin' winds.

Please see for me if her hair hangs long,
If it rolls and flows all down her breast.
Please see for me if her hair hangs long,
That's the way I remember her best.

I'm a-wonderin' if she remembers me at all.
Many times I've often prayed
In the darkness of my night,
In the brightness of my day.

So if you're travelin' in the north country fair,
Where the winds hit heavy on the borderline,
Remember me to one who lives there.
She once was a true love of mine.

-Bob Dylan

Click anywhere… 

If a tree falls, it falls

Posted on

I heard it. I turned around and watched it finish it's course at my feet.

The tree fell. The ground wavered. The roots ripped open the earth and I cried.

Infernal noise as tendrils of life let go of the giving soil.

My shouts muffled, green leaves spilling their tears in my mouth. 

The branches bleeding as they are whiping against the forest.

And I touch the blood and bring my fingers to my lips.

My lips.

My tongue pushes softly called by the wetness.

My lips.

Do not open. I will go to sleep thirsty.

I turn around and let it bleed and bleed and bleed.

It's not the fall that killed the tree.

 

Prends-moi

Posted on

Depuis dimanche matin que j'y pense. Que j'ai l'article* plié placé à côté de mon moniteur. Toute la journée des bribes me reviennent. Surtout celle là: "…Plus rien ne choque personne. À moins de se voir dans un miroir pour la première fois.". Oh. Ainsi donc ça arrive aux autres aussi…

Je relis l'article ce soir et les mots exacts qui m'ont tant touchée à la première lecture ne font plus le même effet. Pas que je sois déçue, seulement je cherche l'essence de ce que j'y ai lu et je ne le trouve pas. Alors telle est ma réalité des mots. Ils sont entrés dans ma tête, ont chanté un air que j'aime et sont sortis.

D'autres* m'ont prise à la gorge. J'ai dit oui tout haut après que mes yeux soient passés dessus encore et encore.

On prend les mots comme on prend le bus. Comme on prend une fessée. Comme on prend une brosse. Mais on ne sait pas toujours quoi faire avec. 

Les mots dont je me souviens, je les ai pris, embrassés, suppliés, adulés. Détestés. Aimés. Cinq ans, six mois ou deux jours, ils sont toujours à se chicaner pour le center stage de ma mémoire.

Les mots que j'ai oublié, je les ai pris un court instant, le temps d'un souffle ou d'une saison. Et ils sont partis, sans fanfare, doucement, en laissant seulement une empreinte qui s'estompe lentement.

Mais ressentir l'emprise de mots. Les laisser me prendre, les laisser me porter, me punir, me saouler. Ne pas les placer ni les diriger, mais leur donner la clé. Leurs sons et leur cadence prendre mon coeur et mon esprit.

C'est une faim nourrie d'illusions mais aussi de vie. D'amour, de haine, de mélancolie, de folie, de détresse, d'orgasmes, de peur, de joie. Quand les mots me prennent, c'est là qu'ils me donnent le plus. 

 

 

*Liens

Patrick Brisebois dans La Presse 17/09 pour son nouveau roman Catéchèse aux éditions Alto (que oui je m'empresse de me procurer!)

Tony Tremblay: néant attitude 

Fear… less than. More though. An equation for sure.

Posted on

I said I suck at maths and it's true. So for me, one plus one, that doesn't always equal 2. Eventually yes. With time, understanding the mechanics that led me to the wrong answer, yes, it can make 2.

One. And one. If the ones are the same, then two is a big fat pile of whatever one is. I thought my main equation included shit. Turns out it was fear. At this point. Right now. 

Yes it's all about focus. Yes it is the test. (don't you hate always being right?) Focus on the smallest of actions. That is fearsome. Focus on the big picture is the easiest thing. The shit happened when I overlooked the moment. The shit that I always put in the equation was in fact the result of it. Fear and fear. Add them up. See what happens.

Gut wrenching fear, a moment when I thought I was actually going to loose my mind. My mind. Not in the metaphorical sense. Real. Faced with the small actions I didn't focus on, because the big picture was much more important. I thought.

Gut wrenching fear. Of looking at myself. And understanding. I wasn't overthinking. I was drowning the noise of my actions in the very comfortable bed of words that is my blog. I have made a trip to earth. And discovered I hadn't lived there in a while. Writing. Like drinking, downing pills, smoking. Just battling the noise.

Gut wrenching fear. That in all my selfconsciousness, my search for peace of mind, my clever thoughts, my claims to being a loner, I forgot about being human. I am paying the price right now.

I might never be the same again. I might remain the same forever. I know that I will have, for once, at last, finally understood what this means. The moment. The focus.

And I might also forget this feeling I have right now. Or I might pretend that I don't care too much. So before it all goes away, before I choke on my words, I want to say this:

I love you.

Every single one of you. I mean it and say it without fear. 

 

I think…

Posted on

I might make it. Soon.

Thank you for your comments. 

They gave, give me strenght. 

This space here, in a year has brought me to face many emotions. Many events.

But the real thing, life, is the most powerful and painful miror of them all. 

Silent, silent storm

Posted on

Life has sucked me in. It has no intention of spitting me out right now. I'm lost, very lost, in the deepest hole I've ever been in.

I might stay silent for another day, or a week, I don't know.

Everything I have, I am giving this hole, in hopes to fill it.

It might work. I hope so.

Thank you for being here, always.