pièce en vers

je crois à mon chien d’être fidèle

le chien sait que je partirai un jour

j’ai donné un regard à une ligne

elle est devenue la vérité

sèment les feuilles à terre

ce que je désaccorde je ne sais pas ce qui est

je suis naturellement désespérée et décidément sans future

je ne peut plus viser le pistolet à toi

je préfère à peindre mon corps nu

si on donne un rendez-vous à

la ligne de chemin de fer?

il est honte de dire que ça a été bien passé

je voudrais au moins la rencontrer

23/10/2017

An occasional dream



As I open my book (a ‘book’ starting with M) to write a letter to my dear father who is now eighty-three years old, I feel my guts sinking in sorrows. Who knows what have caused these sentiments? It could be the dream I had this morning of him leaving me all alone (yet once again). It could be the article I read on the screen about rape and all the rest of ‘politics’. It could be the sudden flash of news popping without warning, in the case of today, being the end of David Bowie (physically only because his music wouldn’t), thanks to the ever-fast, ever-living internet (or, Internet). It could be a series of nameless emotions I am whirled into, each with its images and words, either from my past or from the past of the others. Those recent tsunami of feelings I am experiencing are certainly very different and new. My emotions had certain pace before. They would come but in times such as a long bus ride into the country, while looking out to the window or in the middle of the flock who try to get into the bus with heavy packs. They would arrive without warning but at least I would have been relaxed and solitaire before and after of such melancholic moments. Recently, I am shedding my tears and then, soon before they are fully dried, I would turn on once again, with a different but perhaps all related feelings.
Things of paradoxes make me howl and bawl. A mistake with its real definition cannot be called as a mistake, since we repeat the same mistakes all the time. A love (and/or a lover, indeed) cannot (theoretically) be singular at all except if you were a big braggart. The ideas and concepts float in my mind as definitions, as experiences, and as sounds and colours, of which, until a couple of years ago, I did manage to translate into canvases, words and well, sometimes, at karaoke’s. Now, it seems I am a hot potato in a thin ice. This psychological vulnerability has no excuse at all to show up like that, and I am small like a guilty, a shame and a child objected.
It is important to grow up they say. Simply, it is more important with who we grow up. Until now, I have grown up with the already grown-ups. Those already grown-ups were happy with me because I was to them, some kind of their youth of the past. I was happy with them because I felt like I was grown up (the job done sort of feeling). In reality I did not grow up at all. I grew up because I was different (with the grown-ups). I did not repeat my developments. Finally the need to re-( ) everything has been understood.
A letter is written. (Unfortunately,) I do not remember the first letter I have written. I was wrong in thinking though, that the reason I like letters, is because I can keep them. I thought the meaning rested on the physical materiality of the letters. I have a box of letters at home from the friends and the family throughout my life. I also have lost at least half of the letters at the end of my stay in London. I think the reason of liking letters isn’t actually anything to do with the contents or the actual object but the re-( ) of its actions. We repeat. We call the name of the person we are writing to. Dear.. To my.. Or, simply their names. Then we reappear. We salute each other. We recapitulate some news to share. As if we want to share the life we did not share together. We report which allows replicating the real relation we had before on to the paper. When the relation is renewed and reproduced, we are finally calm and satisfied. These needs to have endless redundancies are mysterious but very necessary. People say that it’s the age of reproduction. I don’t think so. It must have been always necessary. It’s only that now the means have developed to aid our desideratum.
I have some things I don’t know how to say. So, I decide to write a letter. It would be a sort of rehearsal before I gain enough confidence vis-à-vis. It will become a part played in my growing-up. A recital to marked events yet to come in my life. It will be a returning to myself without the cruel and abrupt cries of the moments covered in blood. It will be a refrained emotion in a relation without the needless surplus. I want to be able to leave the cave I am in. Never really too far, because in a way, the cave is also a big part, concerning myself. Just so that I would be able to spread my arms towards the others, especially those who love me and I love.
Surely though, there are certain situations where even letter would not reduplicate the once hopefully relation. In those circumstances, I would only have to pray and desire for them. In those circumstances, I have no other choices but to accidentally die and resurrect. Not forgetting to sincerely say, “I am sorry.”

“In our madness/ We burnt one hundred days/ Time takes time to pass/ And I still hold some ashes to me/ An occasional dream/ And we’d sleep, oh so close/ But not really close our eyes/ ‘Tween the sheets of summer bathed in blue…/ Gently weeping nights/ It was long, long ago and I can’t touch your name”
(David Bowie, An occasional dream)

the Charm of language [1]

There is a specific attraction in each language. If I were an aesthetically totalitarian buffoon of the world languages, I would gather each of these merits and beauties to create one whole language newly built from the old ones. In English, of which I am using to write right now, one of the most appreciated factors would be the broad amount of its vocabularies. It begins and terminates never… Synonyms have wings to fly and stay on the light. The poets try to get hands on them with their two hands. Looking for harmonies of rhymes would be like choosing your favourite candy in the confectionery; colourful, eye-popping, and tiltilating. Even when the night falls, you have dusk with that crispy sound, crepuscular to chew, and twilight to shine and gleam.

When travelling, you hear new languages spoken on the faces of the new friends on the road. There was a moment when even a little “si pero” (as opposed to “mais oui” in French) in Spanish could become a moment of discovery for me. When I was in France, I felt that the way we need to he or she-ize everything: objects that do not move, even, concepts that have no definition, was like a form of falling in love with someone. Each time, “il est.. [beau/bon/doux]” and “elle est… [forte/douce/belle]” but also “[qu’]il est ici une question de…” and “elle vise prioritairement des…” For someone like me who was more used to utilise “it” for the subjects that are not me or my family or my friends (hence, not humans) this brought a new sense of feeling to the sentences. I fell in love with all the subjects of the sentences. Look at that cow over there, it’s so dirty. Even the cow that is très sale, elle, elle est…

Recently, I rediscovered why the classic “Ne me quitte pas” was so appealing. It was not just of Brel in sweats and tears. It was also not just the sentimental touch of the title and the repeating of  “don’t leave me.” It was “je t’offrirai” pearls of rain and “je creuserai” the earth until I die. In other words, the future tense. I am enraptured by the prolonging of the vowels in the verbs. Not ending with hard sounds.. leaving the scopes of possibilities and accepting the not-knowing of the future days… yes, that was it.

Often we say language is not perfect.. not perfect grammatically, not perfect when describing emotions and so on. But in the sense that each language has its own uniqueness that can be attributed to their charm, I would say it’s almost perfect. Why? Each reason of glamor and handsomeness of the specific language works only for that specific language. We don’t fine one frame of beauty that is universal, in languages. Each has its own frames.

A Short Bio_Like a hurricane

On the night of the 12th of July, a man is singing inside the hallway of Green Park tube station, Neil Young’s “Like a hurricane” in the exact resemblance in voice and aura. This old tune plays, in my head, stronger than the 65 quid Neil Young Live Concert. My sadness increased as I realise how I am murdering all the things that love me. Just because I feel so lonely in a crowded room and just because I am tired of my indifference to freedom, just because I want to find what I can love. But is it really asking too much? Yearning for the same sensibility and the same sensitivity? Soon I will be old enough to notice signs like “Since Year 20xx”