These I Singing in Spring

These I singing in spring collect for lovers,
(For who but I should understand lovers and all their sorrow and joy?
And who but I should be the poet of comrades?)
Collecting I traverse the garden the world, but soon I pass the gates,
Now along the pond-side, now wading in a little, fearing not the wet,
Now by the post-and-rail fences where the old stones thrown there,
pick’d from the fields, have accumulated,
(Wild-flowers and vines and weeds come up through the stones and
partly cover them, beyond these I pass,)
Far, far in the forest, or sauntering later in summer, before I
think where I go,
Solitary, smelling the earthy smell, stopping now and then in the silence,
Alone I had thought, yet soon a troop gathers around me,
Some walk by my side and some behind, and some embrace my arms or neck,
They the spirits of dear friends dead or alive, thicker they come, a
great crowd, and I in the middle,
Collecting, dispensing, singing, there I wander with them,
Plucking something for tokens, tossing toward whoever is near me,
Here, lilac, with a branch of pine,
Here, out of my pocket, some moss which I pull’d off a live-oak in
Florida as it hung trailing down,
Here, some pinks and laurel leaves, and a handful of sage,
And here what I now draw from the water, wading in the pondside,
(O here I last saw him that tenderly loves me, and returns again
never to separate from me,
And this, O this shall henceforth be the token of comrades, this
calamus-root shall,
Interchange it youths with each other! let none render it back!)
And twigs of maple and a bunch of wild orange and chestnut,
And stems of currants and plum-blows, and the aromatic cedar,
These I compass’d around by a thick cloud of spirits,
Wandering, point to or touch as I pass, or throw them loosely from me,
Indicating to each one what he shall have, giving something to each;
But what I drew from the water by the pond-side, that I reserve,
I will give of it, but only to them that love as I myself am capable
of loving.

-Walt Whitman

dans pas long ça l'air que…

dans pas long ça va virer au blanc. blanc lumineux. blanc lu-mi-ère.

dans pas long ça va être l’été aussi. dur à croire, mais on y arrive.


Blast from the past: Fear… less than. More though. An equation for sure.

J’avais oublié… Oublié de l’avoir écrit, mais surtout ce que ça voulait dire.


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.


Publié la 1ère fois le 16 septembre 2006.

PVI, on décape la vieille peinture.

Quelques changements à prévoir dans les prochaines heures. Mon template est plein d’erreurs que je n’ai ni les connaissances ni le temps de corriger et qui entrainent des problèmes de navigation et d’accès à certaines pages. Et le site du designer est en russe… C’est tester ma patience un peu trop là. Donc ça se peut que ce soit down, ou weird, ou laid. Patience 🙂

Mise à jour:

Bon… Je pense que ça va être ça. Reste des modifs bien sûr. J’ai pas retouché la photo du header, juste cropée. Faut vraiment que je mette à jour les liens. Certaines couleurs. Certaines pages restent à modifier.

Mais à partir de l’original, je suis assez satisfaite du résultat. Dodo astheur.

Les Chucks et Marcel

Je fais un shift weird cette semaine, 13h à 21h. Il est 3h40 du matin et je me demande s’il serait pas l’heure d’aller me coucher. Oui, bien sûr me répond-je.

Depuis des semaines, des billets et des billets dans ma tête, jamais ici. Je sais et je ne sais trop pourquoi. La paresse parfois. La vie dans l’osti de vortex des heures à travailler, des comptes à payer et des quelques heures de plaisir qu’on arrive à y extirper. Fuck you là, sérieux.

“This is your life, and it’s ending one minute at a time”

C’est un peu plate quand même une quote de Chuck sonne cliché.

L’autre Chuck là, il me parle un peu plus sérieusement:

“There’s nothing to mourn about death any more than there is to mourn about the growing of a flower. What is terrible is not death but the lives people live or don’t live up until their death. They don’t honor their own lives, they piss on their lives. They shit them away. Dumb fuckers. They concentrate too much on fucking, movies, money, family, fucking. Their minds are full of cotton. They swallow God without thinking, they swallow country without thinking. Soon they forget how to think, they let others think for them. Their brains are stuffed with cotton. They look ugly, they talk ugly, they walk ugly. Play them the great music of the centuries and they can’t hear it. Most people’s deaths are a sham. There’s nothing left to die.”

Y au moins trois billets de la semaine passée là-dedans. Depuis que je tiens ce blog je dois l’avoir dit 100 fois. Et bien rien n’a changé. J’aurai toujours un préjugé défavorable envers les humains en général.

J’ai commencé à lire Du côté de chez Swann… Jamais lu Proust. Pas lu beaucoup de “classiques”, merci Flaubert en lecture imposée, que j’ai trouvé insipide au possible (désolée, c’est comme ça, j’assume). Ça m’a découragée pour le reste. Et puis un moment donné je tombe sur cette citation:

“Que de bonheurs possibles dont on sacrifie ainsi la réalisation à l’impatience d’un plaisir immédiat.”

Que les paradoxes m’emportent, ça m’a allumée. Peut-être moins le sens des mots que leur arrangement… J’en sais rien, mais on m’a dit “Oh, bonne chance, c’est le plus beau, mais aussi le plus difficile, dans le sens de complexe”. Euh, ok. Je dois être aussi compliquée qu’on me le dit, j’ai déjà quelques pages de lues, et je m’y sens à la maison. Je n’ai jamais rien lu d’aussi près de comment ça marche dans ma tête.

Regarder en dedans pour mieux voir dehors, c’est comme ça qu’il me parle Marcel, et je le comprends tellement.