Id

My two tongues

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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!

Why did you come here?

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It was just to see, just to see, all the things you knew, I’d written about you.

But you never came back. Still, you are around. Still, you talk.

The two worlds travel side by side. You are stuck in reality.

I am stuck in the words, again.

Images, moving images. Flying sounds carrying your voice.

I am surrounded by you, separated by the waves.

I made room, too much room when you leave.

One play, one role, one line.

Cut. Let’s get rid of the script, for once.

When the lights go down, when the make up comes off, let’s escape.

Take your path. To my parallel world.

J’ai faim… encore

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Même si les tiens sont imaginaires, les yeux des hommes me rendent toujours belle. Après avoir imaginé leur visage se perdre dans le parfum de mes longs cheveux, leur regard s’attarde sur mon visage, mes lèvres qui les invitent, mes yeux verts pleins de promesses. Mais jamais très longtemps, jamais assez longtemps.

Leurs yeux descendent toujours plus bas, où mon corps prends son envol. Là où tout ce qu’une femme désire d’une autre se trouve. Ils voient leurs mains monter lentment de mon ventre vers mes seins, les peser, les caresser, s’émerveiller de leur grosseur. Quand je leur tourne le dos, je ne brise rien de leurs rêveries, je leur laisse plutôt l’image de leurs mains tenir mes hanches, admirer mon cul. Parce qu’il est vraiment admirable. Je l’aime mon cul parce qu’il porte ma vie, il change avec moi, mais toujours il est admiré.

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Mon lit est sous la fenêtre. Le matin quand mon réveil sonne, le soleil me plombe dessus. Je repousse les couvertures. Je m’étire de tout mon long. Je regarde mes beaux orteils colorés, mes pieds, mes petites chevilles, mes grandes jambes. Je sens le soleil chauffer mon ventre et mes seins. Je passe mes mains dessus, je fais durcir mes mamelons. Ils sont tout petits, dans une grande auréole. Mes mains descendent, mes doigts décrivent le contour de mes lèvres, descendent encore un peu. Un doigt trouve son chemin en remontant. Et me donne un sourire pour la matinée.

Drips

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From my fingers
From my eyes
From my heart
Between my legs

All the drips converge. They mean the same thing. Fusion of my fluidity.

I am water. I am blood.

I realize that everything I’ve tried to put into compartments actually belongs together.

The reasons for this, the explanations for that.

The noise… of course it won’t stop. It’s the perpetual garbage truck.

And it’s the drips.

I fucking ache at times.

I fucking leak.

The frayed ends of sanity

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Just flirting with paranoia. Just sweet talk in my ear.

I’ve created I think.

A space, a time.

Angers, justifies, explains.

The eyes, the minds that judge me.

I am alone, I am surrounded.

I drown within the black of my hopes.

I do not falter under the weight of your good conscience.

I am the center, bullseye on my fingers.

I am love, I am embrace, I am despair, I am sorrow.

I will give until I am emtpy, weather there’s a taker or not.

Femdom

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At my most dominating I feel weak.
At my most submissive I feel powerful.

I could be a goddess.

I tower over him, command him, order him, and still, vulnerability invades me.
I might be playing the wrong part.

I am told to obey, I am shown the way, and I feel strength.
I know this part suits me. At this moment.

I could be a goddess.

I am ready to give in. Ready to let go. Let go of control.
Teach me what I need to learn.

I give power back.
At my most submissive.

I am a goddess.

Really?

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A few things…

I’m going to kill the stupid fucking bitch I work with before tomorrow. I swear, I’ll tear her fucking head off. She’s stupid, ignorant, arrogant, petty, she lies… FUCK. I hate it when I can’t deal with someone. And she’s the kind of person that talks ALL THE FUCKING TIME. She can’t shut up. She thinks out loud, that’s the worst. Always mumbling something, asking questions, answering herself. Arrrrrghhhhhh!!!

She’s sitting in front of me. Right now. And she’s typing something, and she’s fucking TALKING, actually saying out loud what she’s typing… Get me out of here please…

Oh, that’s another thing… I’m at work. Never posted from here before. But that’s how quiet it’s been. It sucks, I hate it when there’s nothing to do. The less I do then the less I want to do when the volume picks up…

It’s the first time I work for such a big company (1/2 a bil in revenue last year…) and I can honestly say that security and proximity were the two major reasons I came to work here. But it’s been 2 years, and I realize that I don’t belong in this place. I’ll never socialize, I’ll never make friends, I’ll never eat in the cafeteria, I’ll never change my attitude (something that they actually HIRED me for, and pay me big bucks for) and never fucking pretend I like someone because I have to work with him/her. I want to be able to say fuck off, shut up, get the fuck out of here, don’t bother me with your shit… I used to be able to, the other companies I worked for, but here NO. They want me to be pleasant, smiling and shit. No way. That’s not me, just do your job properly, I’ll do mine and see you tomorrow. Clock watchers… all of them.

Well, gotta do some work now, the crazy bitch is gone for lunch. I hope she fucking chokes on someting and DIES.

The questions (vultures)

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This is fucking ridiculous. How many times will I have to tell myself? Got… to… let… go. Maybe writing is keeping closure out of reach. To put it down, to read it, to have it read. It’s out, in words. The weight is off to some extent. But I don’t feel like I’ve dealt with anything seriously. Maybe I don’t need to? And there it goes again, circling, waiting for my guard to be down, for my thoughts to be available. The questions, the fucking questions. Why didn’t I, should I, have I, will I? Back to avoidance. I used to do it on purpose. It became a habit, now it happens without me having to make the effort. And outside, looking at the fucking questions, comes another one, a new one. Am I really feeling better, or am I avoiding my issues just because I can? And this is the one question I hate the most. And the one I’m not sure I want to come up with an answer to.

Further, deeper, I wander, wonder. Will I change if I face everything? In a weird way, sometimes I think my dark half makes me whole. Growing up, accepting, dealing. Won’t that make me a different person? Because with all my shit, my big ego, my smart mouth, my detachement from everyone else, I like me. What does “coming to terms with” mean anyway? If we really are a product of our childhood, I’d be dead today, a spike in my arm. That was never me. I never saw myself in all the people that filled my early life. I saw everything from outside and only today, at 35, do I realize it was me, it was who I was going to be, that was there. And I knew. So to what extent did everything affect me? Maybe not that much. Maybe a whole fucking lot.

It is very dark sometimes, more than I can translate into words. But I’m not sure it has to do with the past. I’m not sure it has anything to do anything. Maybe it’s just who I am.

Sometimes hungry, sometimes filled. My own balance.

Le bruit

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Mes mots me donnent mal à la tête. Ils font un vacarme intolérable. Je les entends la nuit, le jour, je les vois à l’écran, et sous mes paupières. Je les écris, pour qu’ils se taisent, mais ils restent. Ils prennent forme, ils deviennent vrais.

Mais ça c’était hier, ou ce matin, je suis pas certaine. Plus tôt de toute façon. Pas maintenant. J’ai compris tout d’un coup. Comme ça, devant la télé, et ça m’est venu. C’est mes mots, mais c’est juste ça. Je ne voudrais jamais avoir ce genre de discours à voix haute. Un peu, pour partager, un peu, pour pas exploser. Mais il y a des mots qui ne sont faits que pour être écrits, lus. Parce qu’une fois dits, ils perdent tout leur sens.

Des mots, commes des émotions, comme des souvenirs, qui ne se disent pas. Parce que j’ai ressenti, parce que je me souviens. Mais qu’est-ce que j’ai ressenti? De quoi je me souviens? C’est moi qui donne un sens à tout ça. La perception des autres, le son, le ton, c’est plus la même chose. Et je veux me souvenir de ce que j’ai ressenti, à ma façon.

Des souvenirs délicieux, des souvenirs douloureux. Des émotions trop intenses pour être racontées, trop folles pour être réelles, trop réelles pour être revécues. C’est à moi tout ça. Personne ne peut me l’enlever. Celles que je veux oublier, je n’ai qu’à les effacer. Celles que je veux revivre, je n’ai qu’à les écrire. Je n’ai pas à en parler. Et tout ce que j’écris ne me défini pas comme personne entière. Je ne suis qu’un fragment de mes mots.

Je me souviens, je me rappelle.
Le reste, c’est la vraie vie.

À fête du mort

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3 heures plus tard, quand tout l’monde fût ben gris
J’me mis encore à s’mer la zizanie
Je pognai l’cul des grosses matantes
Du spanish fly dans’ crème de menthe
À’fête du mort, y avait jusse moé d’pas triste

Les pénis, les fesses, les vagins
S’exitèrent en un tour de main
Ce fut un bordel merveilleux
J’emmenai la veuve à’sauvette
Tirer une pipe dans les toilettes
À la mémoire… à la mémoire?
À la SANTÉ du vieux

À’fête du mort y avait jusse moé d’pas triste…
-Plume Latraverse

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Y a des fois où je m’demande pourquoi je n’arrive pas à être triste pour les autres. Je peux être fâchée, en crisse, enragée même, envers quelqu’un. Éprouver de l’amour, de l’amitié, de la sympathie à la limite (très limite).

La misère des autres m’emmerde, j’en ai rien à foutre. Ça m’empêche pas d’avoir une conscience sociale, de donner aux pauvres, d’aider les vieux au centre d’achat, whatever. Mais fondamentalement, les problèmes des autres, ça ne me fait pas pleurer.

La mort c’est certain, c’est différent. La mort dans tous ses états, subite, lente, prématurée, anticipée. Celle de ma mère, que j’ai attendue en cachette, celle de ma grand-mère, que j’ai mal acceptée malgré son âge.

Maintenant celle de parents proches, de personnes aimées, jeunes. Une mère de famille, frappée par un cancer de merde, un père de famille, qui n’a jamais rouvert les yeux au matin. Un frère, une soeur.

La mort, qui chie sur noel. La mort qui nous fait un gros finger.

Et pourtant… Je vais me rendre au salon demain. Je vais embrasser et serrer dans mes bras ces 9 frères et soeurs, ces enfants, ce mari. Je vais compatir, leur offir des kleenex, les laisser pleurer sur mon épaule. Et je vais repartir chez moi, le linge un peu fripé, un peu humide. L’odeur écoeurante du salon impreignée dans mes cheveux. Mon maquillage aura même pas coulé.

J’m’excuse.