that word

I was thinking thinking that I can do this as easily as it would be to sit and do nothing since it’s all in here. All in here but the thing is I have to let it come out. Obstructed funnel.

So, I was thinking, one of these days, yes. Then one of these days came and still nothing. I’m sitting here, sleep deprived, semi-drunk, heartbroken, lonely and desperately mute with the loudest loudest loudest fucking party in my head and I am NOT invited.

call the cops

If you didn’t care, what happened to me, and I didn’t care, for you, we would zigzag our way through the boredom and pain. Occasionally glancing up through the rain.

we. that. word. we. will be the end of me.

you know when the end comes, all they will say is, all she wanted was to be loved. by any means necessary. I was thinking that. no way, no fucking way. but all I can do is get angry at myself again and again. and it’s the easiest thing in the world.

I drive men mad. away. and so I was thinking that we business is just an excuse to get me some free abuse. once I wrote I wrote forty thousand words to explain why and how and yes it hurts but it’s ok because that’s all I deserve that’s all I’m good for. I’ll deny myself my bed, food, water, but do anything. any. thing. for we. and don’t you understand that that’s what you need too? can’t you see that. I’m just mad. insane. I was thinking I can’t say that so I’ll write it but. it’s all the same. my mind is gone along with the words.

all changes saved

I think I was somewhere

I was going places I had dreams I had no we but a strong I and then I. went mad. that’s where. occasionally glancing up through the rain.


Bon, oui, je réalise que c’est pas mal déprimant ces derniers temps. Mais ça va hein. On vire pas fou avec ça. C’est ce qui sort et qui se rend ici, c’est tout.

J’aurais dû vous parler de choses super trippantes qui me sont arrivées ces dernières semaines, comme enfin rencontrer Éric, lire La Solde (je ne suis absolument pas bonne pour les critiques ou les résumés. C’est bon, c’est drôle, c’est tragique, c’est lumineux, c’est noir, voilà), des partys entre amis vraiment agréables (les amis ET les partys).

Il y a eu des soirées ici aussi, devant l’ordi, à échanger des tounes sur avec les copains qui tweetent. C’est dément comme expérience, faut l’essayer!

Il y a de la musique. Et encore de la musique. Des nuages parfois, bien sûr, mais pas tout le temps.

Mon prochain rêve est dans un dossier, en photos seulement pour l’instant. Septembre. Je sais pas si ça se réalisera, mais plus je me pratique à rêver, mieux j’y arrive. C’est comme la guitare, faut pas lâcher, même quand les doigts font mal, même quand ça fait ploïng krouïng crïng.

Blast from the past: Released

Publié la première fois le 30 janvier 2006

Le 17 novembre elle aurait eu 62 ans.

Le 12 décembre ça a fait 11 ans qu’elle est partie.


When she told me her doctor was putting her in palliative care at Notre-Dame, I knew it was over. She acted like it was a temporary thing, just to get some strenght back. I never asked her if she really believed that. I could hardly deal with it myself. All it meant, all I heard was “I’m going to the 5th floor, to die”. Because that’s all it meant really. I had been looking at the cancer killing her for six years. Looking at death making it’s way, drying her skin, rotting her teeth, pulling her hair, eating her flesh, taking away her life so slowly I almost wanted to help her go sometimes. For some years she did good, but the last 9 months were a complete waste of life. For everyone. I mean, how many times can you say goodbye, how many times can you prepare for death, how many times can you go over the paperwork to make sure everything is in order? Six years is a long time. Nine months is an eternity.

Before she was sent to the fifth floor, she was at the long term care unit, with the crazies, homeless, kinless, lifeless. People strapped to their chairs, sitting in their shit all day. People screaming all night, not able to get sleep. We couldn’t have her at home, not with two small children. For us, but mostly for her. I could see she was going. She needed medical care everyday. So that day, when I came to see her, and she told me she was moving up, she seemed almost happy, relieved.

She sat in a wheelchair and a nurse brought us to the fifth floor. Exit the shit smell and the screams. The elevator door opens to carpeted floors and classical music coming out of nowhere, paintings hanging on the walls. A volunteer greeted us and took us to her room. Private, huge, filled with sunlight. He asked her if she wanted anything, she asked for a glass of juice. He brought it in a wine glass on a platter. And yet everything spelled death. I couldn’t even talk, it was surrounding me, hitting me, killing me. I helped her settle in her room, we visited the music room next door, the smoking room across the hall, the kitchen where she could keep her energy drinks and stuff. Then I left. The following day I came back and put some christmas decorations up in her room, it was the 9th of December. On the 10th I brought her home with me to have a small dinner and put up the christmas tree with the kids, we sang some carols and I took her back to the hospital. She threw up in the elevator, even though she barely ate at home. She was really weak. The following morning, the 11th, my birthday, the hospital called me at work.

“Your mother had an embolism last night. She’s a DNR, so we could only help her breath. Unfortunatelly she lost consciousness, and probably has only a few hours left.” I have no brothers or sisters, nor did she. No immediate family either. For the next 24 hours it was me and her in that room. Me and a body I could not touch at first. A face trapped in pain, invisible, silent. The nurses would give her morphine when we thought she was in pain. Slowly, I started to stroke her face, wash her mouth, massage her hands, I sang to her I think, told her secrets, stories. Told her I was there for her, that I loved her.

Around 2 o’clock on the 12th, I saw she was getting agitated. I was sitting next to the bed, a volunteer from the cancer support group standing next to me. In the music room next door a pianist was playing Suzanne, and I held her hand and told her it was ok, let go Mom, it’s ok, I’m here, I love you, but you have to let go now ok? it’s all right, her pain was pulsing, trying to rip through her, but I think that she was trying to talk, and I like to think that in her last few breaths I heard her say I love you. One last tiny breath, and she just stopped fighting.

And I held her hand for a while longer, talking nonsense to her stomach where I had lain my head, hearing the soft melody coming from the piano and then the slience. Only my breath against the blanket, my blood in my ears. And then nothing at all.


Tu me manques encore à tous les jours maman.

So You Want To Be A Writer

if it doesn’t come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don’t do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
searching for words,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it for money or
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don’t do it.
if it’s hard work just thinking about doing it,
don’t do it.
if you’re trying to write like somebody
forget about it.
if you have to wait for it to roar out of
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you’re not ready.

don’t be like so many writers,
don’t be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don’t be dull and boring and
pretentious, don’t be consumed with self-
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
over your kind.
don’t add to that.
don’t do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don’t do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don’t do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.

– Charles Bukowski

363 jours

je ne comprends pas trop comment pourquoi mais tout me tire me pousse et je veux partir me sauver vers ta vie me noyer dans ta vie n’importe où n’importe quoi sauf la mienne et comment ça pourrait être impossible comment il pourrait être trop tard alors qu’on a encore tant à vivre et tellement besoin d’aimer mais trop peur pour vraiment laisser la porte ouverte j’ai le nez qui saigne mais j’essaie encore et tant que je vivrai ça n’aura de cesse mais alors que l’évasion me semble la seule chose qui me permette de respirer sans souffrir

la réalité

ne m’oublie pas

alors résolument

je reste

sans toi.

Dancing days

J’allais écrire que je n’ai plus, pas le temps, envie d’écrire. Mais soudainement, j’ai versé un peu de rhum dans le reste de mon 7 up, direct dans la canette, en me disant que c’est de la grosse bullshit. Enfin, non, oui, c’est tout vrai, mais le besoin… Ben c’est ça le problème. Le besoin est là, toujours là à me dire come on, une ligne, un paragraphe sti, please. Et moi j’suis là, non, non, j’ai pas le temps, j’ai rien à dire, rien de bon, tu vois. C’est. Pas. Bon. Je disais y a pas longtemps, je déteste me voir en photo. Aucune photo, sont toutes laides. Je suis laide sur toutes mes photos. Ou Grosse. Ou laide. Et écrire, c’est comme prendre des photos, et poster sur mon blogue, c’est comme vous les montrer. Mais comment je pourrais montrer mes photos si je les aime pas? Mais des fois pourtant, dans le miroir je me regarde et je me dis, wow, ça ferait une belle photo, je suis belle aujourd’hui. Et c’est comme ça qu’il y a des billets qui apparaissent ici.

Des fois j’aimerais vous parler du garçon qui répare son bécyk pas cassé en épiant sa voisine Carole, du bébé à moitié gelé que la caissière du IGA a trouvé dans un panier au bout du parking, ou du village où ça sent la moulée à chien quand il pleut. Ça serait peut-être plus facile, j’apparais pas sur aucune de ces photos.  Mais le portrait final, ouais, c’est moi. Grosse. Ou laide. Ou juste Swan. Elle fuck le chien un ti peu des fois Swan. Je croyais qu’on était qu’une elle et moi. Mais j’ai bien l’impression que je l’étouffe un peu trop depuis un bout. Et puis là, elle me donne de la marde voyez. Je sais pas trop où s’en va cette histoire. C’est pas un combat à finir. Plutôt comme une danse, où j’ai pris le lead un peu trop longtemps. J’ai pas vraiment envie de m’accrocher au rôle non plus. C’est correct. Je peux laisser aller.

Il y a eu une époque où elle faisait plus que leader. Elle dansait pour nous deux. Équilibre tsé. Ça ne peut se maintenir d’un côté ou de l’autre bien longtemps. La balance penche à nouveau, à nouveau, ch-ch-ch-ch-changes. Je t’aime Swan. T’es belle sur tes photos. Même quand tu souris pas. Même quand tu te fâches. Même quand t’as de la peine.