All around, in a pool of bones, whispers of tired skin.
I fold. I bend. I slip under everything.
Could my blood reach the stream?
Inspirations
must.fictionalize.blog.
"You should write some fiction again. You're too much into your personal stuff right now"
And? I don't have a fucking contract. No assignment. I vomit or cry or laugh or cum here. Do I bore you? Well, tell someone who fucking cares.
Funny thing is, I don't write fiction at all. Nothing is made up. Created at best. From the reals, the truths, the days. Reflexions and thoughts brought to life through Words that sometimes make no sense, or too much.
I hate that idea that a blog must entertain. Must adress the reader. I must nothing. You must? Good for you. When I stumble upon your blog and I read your musts, I won't judge you. That's what you like to do, must. When you stumble upon mine, and read my musn'ts, please keep going if that's not for you. I swear I will not loose any sleep over it.
I want to tell you about a fantastic fuck, a miserable evening, a great walk. Blog, whatever that word means, to me it means I can come here and be. Whoever, whatever I want. In the form I choose or feel right for the moment.
Dear diary, tonight, I wrote about you.
In concrete
Sandra loves Éric says the sidewalk, as I put my feet on it.
I could've avoided it. A second before, when I saw it.
Walked over a summer love. Didn't leave a dent.
Over a beer drenched french kiss.
Over curious fingers on a slow afternoon.
Over Sandra's tears and Éric's regrets.
Wet cement, as tender as the softest tree trunk.
As smooth as the tallest rock on the side of the highway.
As permanent as the folds and lines in my hands.
I looked. I saw. Felt. Then put my foot down.
They're not going anywhere, Sandra and Éric.
I am.
XXX + X (wow, original comme titre)
Je suis étendue sur le lit, j’attends. Mes cheveux sont encore mouillés. J’ai gardé mes bas. Noirs, mi-cuisse, avec une couture derrière la jambe. Tu arrives, passe une main le long de mes jambes, les écarte un peu, explores ma vulve, mes lèvres, je suis déjà mouillée, alors tu mets ton doigt dans ma bouche pour que j'y goûte.
Tu me tourne sur le ventre, te mets à genoux entre mes cuisses et prends mes hanches pour me relever, me mettre à quatre pattes. Tu prends une poignée de mes cheveux, tires pour relever ma tête, mords mon cou, et parles tout bas dans mon oreille, pour me dire que c'est maintenant, je le sais, tu vas mettre ta queue en moi, tu vas me fourrer, et j'ai peur un peu, je ne veux pas que ça fasse mal, mais tu ne me laisse pas le temps d'y penser, et ta grosse queue, je la sens pousser contre mes lèvres, fort, et tu y es, tu me baise, et j'arrive pas à prendre mon souffle, parce que tu y vas vraiment fort, et je te sens vraiment loin en moi, au bout.
Tu craches un peu sur mon cul, tu me tapes, parce que je suis vraiment une salope, et tu mets un doigt dans mon cul, pour le préparer. Tu arrêtes, soudainement. Tu te retires. Je suis un peu inquiète, je ne sais pas ce que tu vas faire. Tu me dis de me coucher sur le dos et de relever les jambes, très haut. quand tu vois ma vulve, mon cul, comme ça, t'as vraiment juste envie de m'enculer, alors sans rien dire, tu t'appuie avec un bras sur mes jambes, et avec ta main libre tu prends ta queue et tu la pousse contre mon cul, mon souffle s'arrête, je suis certaine que ça ne rentre pas, mais tu ne t'arrêtes même pas, et tu continue a pousser, et je crie un peu, mais il est trop tard tu es déjà loin en moi.
Ça va, tu sors lentement, reviens, plus vite, plus fort. Jusqu'à ce que tu sortes complètement de moi, m'enjambes, et viennes mettre ta queue et tes couilles dans mon visage. Ça sent bon, et je passe ma langue dessus, tu mets ta queue dans ma bouche un peu, et tu la ressors, tu viens, tu éjacules dans mon visage, mes yeux, mes joues, mes lèvres, et je sors ma langue pour en avoir un peu.
Place your bets
There was this time when I walked into a room and felt immediately at home. Regardless of the squalor. The buzzing of a million flies. The stench. I knew where the good spot on the sofa was.
I'm still sitting there. Transfixed by the decay I've let happen. Everything is so old now, it has dried. No more flies. No more smell. They've cut the power. The window is opened, a light breeze is moving the dried shit around, not quite strong enough to do any real change. And I still sit.
Maybe tomorrow, I think. Maybe tonight. I mean, so far, it has served me right. In the sense that nothing has happened. Nothing good, but nothing bad either. How can it get worst? As I swing my feet, making circles in the dust, inhaling my bad memories and regrets, I understand that I'm wrong. That my thinking is paralyzed by fear and cowardness. That all this non-action will never kick me in the butt, but rather sooth me back into a coma I once left.
When it's dirty, when it stinks, when I'm close to throwing up, when my gut is turning into a bottomless pit of pain, when my spit tastes like acid, why is it easier to accept than a single moment of happiness? How much can I take? A whole fucking lot. I know. That must be the ultimate bet. What are my odds? Well, I'd be a fucking goldmine in Vegas right now.
This post was inspired by Moonwart's Soup Opera. If you haven't done so, go read it, and the rest of his blog. Now.
L’été, l’été, l’été c’est fait pour jouer
Ce sera un été chaud et humide qu’ils disent. Moi je l’savais. J’aimerais que ce soit un été qui sent bon aussi. Les concombres du jardin, coupés, salés, poivrés, sur la table. La crème solaire. La sueur. Le steak sur le charcoal. L’haleine de Mr Freeze des enfants. Le chlore de la piscine. L’eau du lac. Les frites sur la route de campagne. Le popcorn au ciné-parc. La barbe à papa à la Ronde. Le Kool Aid à l’orange. La crème glacée molle à la crèmerie. La bière froide sur le patio. La sangria sur la terrasse. Le joint sur Ste-Cath au festival de Jazz.
Plus de parfums du passé simple.
Des odeurs faiseuses de souvenirs.
Des mélodies aussi, comme seule l’été peut en donner. Les enfants, leurs amis et nous, dans la piscine. Les moteurs de bateaux. Les insectes dans leur forêt d’herbes hautes. Les voisins qui jasent doucement sur la galerie à deux heures du matin. L’écho du Grand Prix sur les rives du St-Laurent. La guitare au bord du feu. Les rires du party dans la maison d’en face. Les roues de mon vélo sur les cailloux du sentier.
Plus de ce chant lancinant, déchirant qui m’assourdi.
Des airs nouveaux. Soundtrack pour une série sans fin. Sans prequel, sans sequel. Real time.
Ma découverte ce soir: Shooter Jennings. Mais j’arrive pas à mettre le code pour le player pour le moment… suivez le lien si ça vous chante!
Shooter Jennings: Sweet Savanah (c’est pas un vieux porn des années 80 ça?)
That mood
Another time, another misplaced promise
At the end of the day, I was still in that mood
I don’t understand how everything works
But I do. Sometimes. Without much thought I know
I wish at times I wasn’t able to perceive so much
I wish at times I was wrong more often
Some inner working getting broken
So I wouldn’t anticipate so brutally
Spare me nothing but your lies
Don’t lead me on then float above my own high
Words cost nothing but are worth my world
I’m broke, I have said so much
There is nothing between your lines
That I haven’t read before
And in these silent bursts of lucidity
You’ll come to understand how much I know
Of all the things you haven’t said
One I will always know you wish you had
But time has eased the urgency
And life itself has escaped the opportunity
I can’t turn away, I can’t walk
If only because of how you smiled
A thousand thoughts, a million tears ago
But for a glimpse into the possibility
That I was wrong
Ce qui aurait été parfait
ta tête entre mes jambes, ta langue en moi, tes doigts
aussi, dans mon cul.
ma tête entre tes jambes, ta queue dans ma
bouche, ma langue, mes doigts, sur elle, tes couilles
aussi. je me confesserais de tous mes péchés, à
genoux, ta queue dans mon visage.
mains, langues, doigts, bouches. mes cheveux, tes
cuisses, ton ventre, ma vulve, mes fesses, tes fesses.
mais bon. ça doit être l’alcool qui parle.
bonne… whatever. soirée, fin de semaine.
A Crunchy story
From a comment came the idea… Why not? Why not offer you a little bit of my translated self? Here goes, for the first time.
From my previous post, Conte.
Here is the result from my translation tool:
—oOo—
Story
He was once an a bit lost girl
Which brushed the wrong way way in every junction
Which searched dead end streets
Where it was more facile to stop
He was once an adventuresome girl
Which had basted between trees
Which had blown all candles
Which searched the black at all costs
He was once a girl who meant goodbye
Which had realized that between trees there are dead end streets also
Which had roused himself eyes to be moved forward in his forest
It sits down the girl
It stops
It sniffs little
And ask to be never found
Here is my own:
—oOo—
Tale
Once upon a time there was a girl who was a bit lost
Who backtracked at every crossroads
Who was looking for dead end strees
Where it was easier to stop
Once upon a time there was girl who was adventurous
Who slid between the trees
Who blew all the candles
Who was searching for darkness at all costs
Once upon a time there was a girl who wanted to say goodbye
Who realized that between the trees there are dead end streets also
Who tore out her eyes from moving forward in her forest
The girl sits down
She stops
She breaths a little
And prays never to be found
—oOo—
The translation tool made this a completely different story, which I like. The perspective of course. But it did translate the tone, something I find amusing.
It’s very hard to translate a poem. Even some other posts, that are of a narrative nature. Whenever I start to write, the language has already been decided. And to put the words in an other one just takes out the meaning, I feel. But I enjoyed the exercise!
Incubation
I write my posts in Blogger. Never use spell checking. Never save a draft. Never go back to change. Anything.
I sit, I write, I post. I don’t work the sentences. I don’t rearrange the paragraphs.
I do use dictionaries, sometimes for help, sometimes for inspiration.
I don’t ponder about, I don’t think ahead.
I sit, with a worry, with a pain, with a smile, with a desire.
I write, I fly, I live, I breath.
I post, I give, I surrender.
——-oOSOo——-
I read my past sometimes
I have regrets sometimes
I am happy sometimes
——-oOSOo——-
A very generouse writer showed me the beauty of working with words, the movements of inspiration, the pleasure of constant company.
I just can’t explain the abouts and hows. I can about the whys.