Jouer avec la vie afin de s'en moquer~


- Salut, parlez-vous anglais?
- Oui.
- Mon frère m’a envoyé ce message. C’est pas pour moi. . c’est, c’est pour mon fils. Voila alors, est-ce que vous pouvez me le traduire?
- Mais oui, bien sûr.

"We all know what you did in the past and what I did back then is what every uncle would’ve done. You did something wrong and it was a turning point in your life but everybody makes mistakes and twelve years of guilt is long enough. Now it’s the time to draw conclusions and put the past behind: We forgave you, you need to forgive yourself. Always remember that you are a good person, always remember that you have us. Now put your head up, you still have a bright future ahead. Best wishes from your uncle who loves you so much. T."

- Meilleurs voeux pour vous aussi! les lunettes ne cachaient pas ses larmes.
- Merci..

“The syntactical nature of reality, the real secret of magic, is that the world is made of words. And if you know the words that the world is made of, you can make of it whatever you wish.”

― Terence McKenna

As I Walked Out One Evening

As I walked out one evening,
  Walking down Bristol Street,
The crowds upon the pavement
  Were fields of harvest wheat.

And down by the brimming river
  I heard a lover sing
Under an arch of the railway:
  "Love has no ending.

"I'll love you, dear, I'll love you
  Till China and Africa meet,
And the river jumps over the mountain
  And the salmon sing in the street,

"I'll love till the ocean
  Is folded and hung up to dry
And the seven stars go squawking
  Like geese about the sky.

"The years shall run like rabbits,
  For in my arms I hold
The Flower of the Ages,
  And the first love of the world."

But all the clocks in the city
  Began to whirr and chime:
"O let not Time deceive you,
  You cannot conquer Time.

"In the burrows of the Nightmare
  Where Justice naked is,
Time watches from the shadow
  And coughs when you would kiss.

"In headaches and in worry
  Vaguely life leaks away,
And Time will have his fancy
  Tomorrow or today.

"Into many a green valley
  Drifts the appalling snow;
Time breaks the threaded dances
  And the diver's brilliant bow.

"O plunge your hands in water,
  Plunge them in up to the wrist;
Stare, stare in the basin
  And wonder what you've missed.

"The glacier knocks in the cupboard,
  The desert sighs in the bed,
And the crack in the teacup opens
  A lane to the land of the dead.

"Where the beggars raffle the banknotes
  And the Giant is enchanting to Jack,
And the Lily-white Boy is a Roarer,
  And Jill goes down on her back.

"O look, look in the mirror,
  O look in your distress;
Life remains a blessing
  Although you cannot bless.

"O stand, stand at the window
  As the tears scald and start;
You shall love your crooked neighbor
  With all your crooked heart."

It was late, late in the evening,
  The lovers they were gone;
The clocks had ceased their chiming,
  And the deep river ran on.  

- W.H. Auden

Endless Loop

Endless Loop

“You would remember her. Your second person. You’d count blessings and beating hearts and follow lifelines like callused palm readers. You’d trust in the earth beneath you. You’d trust in the stars we’re made of. But then. It came and chose. When time was measured in heartbeats per minute, you found warmth. Darkness crept in. The sun started to fade and the starlit night began to dissolve. And, even as the sky went dim and the world fell apart, you impressed the earth. Those were The Orchid Days.”
- L’Orange, Unreliable Narrator.

Coffee Shop Mess

Coffee Shop Mess

L’ordre logique s’effondra avec le toit
nous applaudissions les pluies entre nos murs
rapiécions avec ferveur les accrocs des toiles d’araignée
Nous étions fétichistes
ma mère tirait les cartes aux merles moqueurs
mon père frappait le sable
frappait Dieu
à la saignée des nuages
sur le dos courbé de l’air
Notre salut viendrait de la nature
nous attraperions les rousseurs des automnes
le dénuement de l’hiver
nous finirions en sarments
en fagots
pour affronter les colères brèves des résineux. 

Vénus Khoury-Ghata, Anthologie personnelle, poésie, Actes Sud, 1997, p. 27.

A Radically Condensed History of Postindustrial Life

"When they were introduced, he made a witticism, hoping to be liked. She laughed very hard, hoping to be liked. Then each drove home alone, staring straight ahead, with the very same twist to their faces.

The man who’d introduced them didn’t much like either of them, though he acted as if he did, anxious as he was to preserve good relations at all times. One never knew, after all, now did one now did one now did one.”

- David Foster Wallace. 

Comment me voir sans toi? 
Comment nous dissocier? 
Comment écrire le poème que tu es?

Comment me voir sans toi?
Comment nous dissocier?
Comment écrire le poème que tu es?

OCD by Neil Hilborn

The first time I saw her,
Everything in my head went quiet.

All the ticks, all the constantly refreshing images just disappeared.

When you have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, you don’t really get quiet moments.
Even in bed, I’m thinking:
Did I lock the doors? Yes.
Did I wash my hands? Yes.
Did I lock the doors? Yes.
Did I wash my hands? Yes.

But when I saw her, the only thing I could think about was the hairpin curve of her lips.
Or the eyelash on her cheek—
the eyelash on her cheek—
the eyelash on her cheek.

I knew I had to talk to her.
I asked her out six times in thirty seconds.
She said yes after the third one, but none of them felt right, so I had to keep going.

On our first date, I spent more time organizing my meal by color than I did eating it, or fucking talking to her.
But she loved it.
She loved that I had to kiss her goodbye sixteen times or twenty-four times because it was Wednesday.
She loved that it took me forever to walk home because there are lots of cracks on our sidewalk.
When we moved in together, she said she felt safe, like no one would ever rob us because I definitely lock the door eighteen times.

I’d always watch her mouth when she talked—
when she talked—
when she talked—
when she talked;
when she said she loved me, her mouth would curl up at the edges.

At night, she’d lay in bed and watch me turn all the lights off.
And on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off.
She’d close her eyes and imagine that the days and nights were passing in front of her.

But then. 
She said I was taking up too much of her time.
That I couldn’t kiss her goodbye so much because I was making her late for work.
When she said she loved me, her mouth was a straight line. When I stopped in front of a crack in the sidewalk, she just kept walking.
And last week she started sleeping at her mother’s place.
She told me that she shouldn’t have let me get so attached to her; that this whole thing was a mistake, but.
How can it be a mistake that I don’t have to wash my hands after I touch her?

Love is not a mistake, and it’s killing me that she can run away from this and I just can’t.
I can’t go out and find someone new because I always think of her.

Usually, when I obsess over things, I see germs sneaking into my skin.
I see myself crushed by an endless succession of cars.
And she was the first beautiful thing I ever got stuck on.
I want to wake up every morning thinking about the way she holds her steering wheel.
How she turns shower knobs like she opening a safe.
How she blows out candles—
blows out candles—
blows out candles—
blows out candles—
blows out—

Now, I just think about who else is kissing her.

I can’t breathe because he only kisses her once -
He doesn’t care if it’s perfect!

I want her back so bad,
I leave the door unlocked.
I leave the lights on.