It's supposed to be online early tomorrow morning. But I don't handle schedules too well… So, please, if you haven't done so yet, go to
And click, click, click the links. Fantastic work as usual. I've discovered two new blogs through Jod{i} at Looking beyond the cracked window: Collage of clouded lucidity and Red Monkey, and I'm honored to have them linked this week.
It's supposed to be online early tomorrow morning. But I don't handle schedules too well… So, please, if you haven't done so yet, go to
And click, click, click the links. Fantastic work as usual. I've discovered two new blogs through Jod{i} at Looking beyond the cracked window: Collage of clouded lucidity and Red Monkey, and I'm honored to have them linked this week.
For a change…
L'écume des blogues… Go see… click click click baby.
*I just noticed the link didn't work! Sorry! Fixed now. Go!
Kick out the jams MOTHERFUCKERS!!!
(If I could scream one thing in a microphone in my whole life, that would be IT)
Why not click here for the tune while you're at it?
Could it be, I wonder… Could it be that my only fear is to deceive? To not meet the expectations. To let down. To hurt. To not be liked… Loved.
Could it be that in all the decisions I make, too many things hinder my judgement, such as the fear. There is an order, a logic, a sense of responsibility that I'm not sure I can grasp anymore.
Shifted, all the bases I used to plant my feet and claim. Futile, all the reasons invoked to justify.
"If death meant just leaving the stage long enough to change costume and come back as a new character…Would you slow down? Or speed up?"
-Proof (from Haunted)/ Chuck Palahnuik
On finding solid ground, I have nothing to say. If only it would stop shaking… The one I'm standing on would do just fine.
Skimmamarinkydoooooo… I – Love – You!!
Yes, the Skimmer. That's where I'll try and showcase blogs I love, written in English (and French too). An effort to bring your words to others. And another occasion to practice your second language, whatever it may be!
Today's post I wrote in French. Starting next Tuesday, I switch.
They flutter behind you your possible pasts
some bright-eyed and crazy some frightened and lost
Had I not erased a year in words, I'd be living in one possible past where I'd die. Of pain. Of being tired of being lost. Of being nothing but a memory, or a ghost, or a spirit. Awakened once in a while by some mystical incantation, to be used and then discarded. Put back in its vaporous box up in the attic of some stranger's good conscience.
I don't want to forget the possibilities ever. Not where I was headed, not where I wanted to be or go. Not the words, not the carvings on my skin, so tired and hurt already. And every time history will want to rewrite itself, I'll stick a finger in one of my freshest, deepest wounds.
Do you remember me, how we used to be? Do you think we should be closer?
Everything has a purpose. I've said this many times, meaning every word deeply. Every bad move, every mistake. To escape a possible past that I wouldn't want to live with. But ended up carrying on my back anyway, because it had a purpose.
But as my shoulders straighten, as my eyes open, as I make my way towards a path I haven't walked yet, the load gets lighter, the purpose finally guiding my steps. Next one will be different. Not better nor worse. A possible past, a purpose.
Un moteur gris dans le brouillard
Me pousse au fond de nulle part entre les anges dans le soir
Enfin, pas tout à fait nulle part. C'est au fond que je suis arrivée. Je l'ai touché, goûté même. Est-ce que j'ai essayé de sortir tout de suite? Non. Parce que je voulais sentir mes pieds pris dans la boue. Le froid, le mouillé entre mes orteils. J'ai ouvert mes bras, tendu les mains et passé mes doigts sur les paroies de mon puits. Humides, gluantes. Gratté avec mes ongles, pour m'assurer qu'ils seraient sales. Une trace.
Parce que j'en sors. Oh oui. C'est sec par endroit. C'est là que je met les pieds, en attendant que ça sèche plus haut. J'ai des fois le bruit de ma respiration dans les oreilles, et je me demande si c'est vraiment la mienne, si je respire encore, si c'est pas l'écho de la chute. Le fond descent, je monte, et pourtant je ne vois rien, ne sens rien, ne pense plus. Monter, monter, monter, c'est tout ce que je peux faire.
La sortie, le haut, tout en haut, c'est comme un aimant. Comme l'était le fond. Mais je sais, je sais, que c'est une illusion. Que l'attraction ne dépend pas de l'aimant. Ce n'est pas en haut ou en bas qu'il faut chercher. Chacun leur tour ils m'attireront. Et j'aimerai chaque moment passé en leur présence, tout en me disant que je dois partir, que je dois monter… ou descendre.
Entre les deux. Perchée, perdue, suspendue dans le vide du centre, du milieu. Ce n'est jamais un non-retour. Le fond est mou, maléable. On peut toujours creuser. Le haut est infini, ouvert sur le ciel toujours clair, toujours bleu. Et même quand il est gris il est beau. Il m'appelle pour le moment. Alors je monte, oui, c'est vrai, je monte. Sans bagage. J'ai tout laissé en bas. Je serai de retour bien assez vite.
Mundane certainly. So fucking ordinary it would tank at the box office, that stupid story. That thing. That big wad of gum stuck under my shoe. But in a linear situation, where facts cannot be more usual, lies complexities, astounding.
Simplicity in words. When it just makes more sense to go for it than to weave and dance and
Leaving traces. I'm leaving traces but letting the path fading. I will not use it again.
I've weaved, I've danced. Justified and avoided. Until no more options were available. I bought all the extras, found all the easter eggs, played in God mode.
An end that dragged through my words, an end that survived this long because of them.
Pictures, drawings, songs… An idea, a life within a folder, a thousand paper weights on it. All for the sake of this one story.
It lived and now has died and within an instant it will be for ever erased. Within an instant I will destroy all the intricacies I've carefully laid on it. My bonds. My weights.
Life. Death. Creation. Destruction. Truth. Lies. Realities. Dreams. Nothing in between.
As I said. Simplicity.
Sometimes something happens… A turning point, as lame as it sounds. A turning point… A decisions made, or a word said, or a touch intended for yourself that ends up reaching further than expected.
I'd like to thank the Academy…
And sometimes you wear a smile that says pain is killing me inside. Or a pained expression that says I really don't give a fuck. Either way, someone ends up seeing through, and what do you do?
With a gun barrel between your teeth, you speak only in vowels.
Whisper too. Yesssss, noooooo. That's as much as I'm willing to say, considering my mouth is filled. My throat closing. Gag on spit and shouts that will not make it past my tongue.
I couldn't cry, so once again I couldn't sleep.
Ah, but the past tense is effective. My eyes are heavy… My cheeks no longer dry. Sleep has found me, at last. Being awake is only half the fun.
I'd watch the door to see her walk in every night. She usually came in on Tuesdays and Fridays. I would wait for her to take a seat, and then change my section with another girl to work in hers.
The bingo hall seemed to come alive to me. I would walk to her and sell her cards. She would always smile and ask how I was and give me nice tips. The first time I saw her, I blushed violently and a co worker asked me what was wrong. I couldn't answer, couldn't talk. My eyes followed her across the hall and all I knew about desire was thrown out the window. I didn't know much at 15, but enough to recognize this as something I would not experience often.
She wore a fur coat and when she'd take it off, that was the best moment of the evening. She had long brown hair, sleek and shiny. Her body was a sea of unkowns that I wanted to touch. Not a small woman. With wonderfull breasts and an ass my hands were hungry for. Once I was close enough that despite the thick layer of smoke I smelled her perfume. Ysatis.
For weeks I went to sleep fantasizing about her, her body, her skin, her mouth on mine, her hands showing me where to put mine, her voice in my ear, asking me to, telling me to.
I will always remember her, although I forgot her name a long time ago. And through the years I've lusted after a few women without shame, but without doing anything about it. But what I think I've learned early on is that falling in lust can be as consuming as falling in love.
That need, desire, hunger, that nothing can quench. Lust can be as fullfilling but also as damaging as love. The loss, the end, when there is nothing to do but to part. But to feel so real, so alive, so powerful, so whole, even for a moment, can be worth the pain. Yes we are animals, yes, we aspire to higher thinking when in fact all we really want is a good fuck once in a while. And so what?
Some days I think all this is accessorial. Nothing more than instant gratification that will lead to nothing good. But that instant when eyes meet, when fingers spark fires, when everything is senses, is an instant I feel alive. Without effort life comes to me. Once in a while, I enjoy that.