Inspirations

J’attends toujours

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All these people drinking lover’s spit
Swallowing words while giving head
They listen to teeth to learn how to quit
tied to a night they never met
-Broken Social Scene

j’espère encore que ça revienne. j’espère encore.
y a jamais personne qui m’a parlé comme ça. jamais, personne.
je comprends maintenant, parce que je viens d’atterir.
je n’en peux plus d’attendre que le passé passe.
j’aurais pu y trouver encore du plaisir. mais pas au prix de mon nom.
j’attends toujours.
ta véritable identité.
la mienne est éventrée, en pleine rue, et les voitures roulent dessus, et les piétons s’enfargent dedans.
et tu y as jeté à peine un coup d’oeil.
c’était assez.
j’attends toujours.

Abandoned places

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Billie Holiday’s voice, only

In my solitude you haunt me
With reveries of days gone by
In my solitude you taunt me
With memories that never die

I sit in my chair
Filled with despair
Nobody could be so sad
With gloom everywhere
I sit and I stare
I know that I’ll soon go mad
-Eddie Delange, Irving Mills, Duke Ellington

And it’s back, so HERE, blinding.
I can’t breath.
So fucking lonely, it fills the space.
Inhabited by absence, lack, void.
Surrounded, abandoned, up to capacity.
There’s no escape from an abyss.
No exit from outside.
I think about here. I am there.
I think about there. I am here.
I want to go back forever. Live in your space.
Never will I escape the absence.

Here is nothing, here is the whole hole.

A little bliss in the gloom

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Then as it was, then again it will be
An’ though the course may change sometimes
Rivers always reach the sea
-Page/Plant

The sun is coming through the windows, warming the room, making her hair shimmer. Her head bowed, her face peaceful. I look at her. My eyes full of tears not meant to be seen, my love hard to contain, overflowing, going out to her.

-You are so good, really. I’m so proud of you.
-You are?
-Yes, I am. You must love this song very much, you were really into it.
-Yes I do.

She smiles, her eyes a little wet too, her cheeks flushed. Her head goes down again, and she starts Diary of a Madman.

I saw my 13 year old daughter play Ten Years Gone on the guitar this morning. I saw love. I saw a little bliss in the gloom.

On letting my guard down

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I once had a girl, or should I say, she once had me.
She showed me her room, isn’t it good, norwegian wood?
She asked me to stay and she told me to sit anywhere,
So I looked around and I noticed there wasn’t a chair.
-Lennon/McCartney

Opening that door for me was a mistake. I came in, looked around, found the place quite comfortable. Even though there wasn’t a chair. Stark, cold, grey, wet. But still I was comfortable. There was room, air, no ceiling. Eternal night, infinite abyss of black, opened, wide, no end. Inhaled your breath, exhaled my fear. I could settle for a lot less.

You lead me to the stairs. I’m now climbing, not even reaching for the railing.

A while ago…

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(More than a while actually, more like years) I wrote this. Doesn’t mean much, I just like the rythm.
……………………………………………………………………………………..

I want to apologize. Someone said to me once that apologizing is a sign of weakness. Still I don’t feel weaker now than I did before, and no more than I will later. But really, I want to apologize. What about you ask me? About a lot of things. But most of them don’t have anything to do with this, so let’s stick to the facts…I apologize right now, because I know that I’ll deceive you, one way or another. You’ll be doing fine, reading along, enjoying the story that’s told upon these pages, when it will hit you. Bang! You’ve been deceived. Now, I can’t pretend to know when that will happen, but rest assured, it will.

The next question to come to your mind now is probably this one: Why? Why will I deceive you? Because I can’t help myself. When everything is upsy-daisy, I’m bound to find a way to deceive even the truest believer. That being said, I feel comfortable telling you right away that you’ll read this story ’till the end, because as sure as I am that I’ll deceive you, I know that I’ll entertain you. That’s another thing about me, I’m entertaining.

Does that make me special? You tell me.

A while ago…

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(More than a while actually, more like years) I wrote this. Doesn’t mean much, I just like the rythm.
……………………………………………………………………………………..

I want to apologize. Someone said to me once that apologizing is a sign of weakness. Still I don’t feel weaker now than I did before, and no more than I will later. But really, I want to apologize. What about you ask me? About a lot of things. But most of them don’t have anything to do with this, so let’s stick to the facts…I apologize right now, because I know that I’ll deceive you, one way or another. You’ll be doing fine, reading along, enjoying the story that’s told upon these pages, when it will hit you. Bang! You’ve been deceived. Now, I can’t pretend to know when that will happen, but rest assured, it will.

The next question to come to your mind now is probably this one: Why? Why will I deceive you? Because I can’t help myself. When everything is upsy-daisy, I’m bound to find a way to deceive even the truest believer. That being said, I feel comfortable telling you right away that you’ll read this story ’till the end, because as sure as I am that I’ll deceive you, I know that I’ll entertain you. That’s another thing about me, I’m entertaining.

Does that make me special? You tell me.

I know, but…

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The meaning of the words here, and all over, is different for each of us. For instance, the post below, was not written out of sadness. That someone sees it in a different light is good, it’s flattering that someone can relate to the words. But that doesn’t mean one can relate to me, nor can I relate to someone who wrote a post that compelled me, or touched me.

My words are whispers in my mind, become screams sometimes under my fingers, but without this space here, they would never be born. And like a child, once born, they keep changing, their meaning unsettled, always open to interpretation.

When I started to write here, I was in a different place, a different time. I wrote differently. And in a year from now, still it will have changed. When I’m happy, I’d rather live it, feel it. It hasn’t inspired me to write yet, so raw the feeling is. And even while happy, some darker thoughts might spring, and here they end up, splattered.

Here is an outlet, not a barometer.

I know, but…

Posted on

The meaning of the words here, and all over, is different for each of us. For instance, the post below, was not written out of sadness. That someone sees it in a different light is good, it’s flattering that someone can relate to the words. But that doesn’t mean one can relate to me, nor can I relate to someone who wrote a post that compelled me, or touched me.

My words are whispers in my mind, become screams sometimes under my fingers, but without this space here, they would never be born. And like a child, once born, they keep changing, their meaning unsettled, always open to interpretation.

When I started to write here, I was in a different place, a different time. I wrote differently. And in a year from now, still it will have changed. When I’m happy, I’d rather live it, feel it. It hasn’t inspired me to write yet, so raw the feeling is. And even while happy, some darker thoughts might spring, and here they end up, splattered.

Here is an outlet, not a barometer.

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

………………………………………………………

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.