Not just any stone

I am looking for a stone, but I don't want just any stone.

I have possessed a lot of stones throughout my life. At specific times I wanted a specific stone. I wanted a stone that shoots sparkles skimming across a lake. I wanted a stone darker than the night and brighter than the sun. I wanted a stone as smooth as a lover's skin. I wanted a stone to build a house with. I wanted a stone which would heal my wounds, repair my bones and soothe my spirit. I wanted a stone to hone a knife. I wanted a slabstone to mark a cenotaph. I wanted another to pave the way to my house.

All these stones have now pulverised. I now want one last stone, one I never had or never seen before. I am now reaching forty years of age, and I feel this last stone will define the remainder of my existence, burden it or support it, crush it or shelter it.

We carving men have shaped stones into idols, homes, watches, pencils, grindstones, troughs, canals, temples, needles. We seem to be able to make it assume any shape we want, yet we cannot bend it like we would a wooden board. We cannot fold it like we would some sheet of paper. Try as hard as we want, we don't have the energy to. I want a stone that can be folded, making it an amulet bearing the word which encompasses all moving things in this universe, from the littlest particle to the most massive black hole.

This stone has yet to be made. It's a stone movement folds, not gravity nor time. Why such a stone, I hear you wonder. It is an element which man cannot fold, yet it is made of folds. A much greater force than Man's did that, a long time ago. You cannot mend it. You cannot re-attach one bit which has been broken off and make it whole again. Unlike History. We know that History happens at the fold, and History is action and these actions necessitated a tremendous amount of energy to be shaped, just like folding matter into stone – this energy has been spent, is there, is gone, is there again. History needs equal amounts of energy to unfold and fold again, never to be mended.

I want a stone which can be folded into a shape which cannot but be perfect and imperfect. A stone in movement, because this would be the perfect material to build the world anew, to bend History so much it would fold and unfold at the same time. Yes, this is what I want to do: fold and unfold – disturb really – the universe.

This stone exists, I'm quite certain of it. Its existence has been hinted at several times in the course of our History, and many scientific papers have reasonably proved that it ought to be somewhere in our reality in order for it to sustain itself, without yet being able to ascertain where we should look, what we should look for, and how.

I don't want just any stone, for none so far recorded in our catalogue of all existing things holds enough pliability or enough resistance to be the foundation stone, the pillars and the capstone of the universe as it could be. One which doesn't require any chisel, any hand nor any will to be folded and shaped. Only this stone will do, and none other will be had.

 

What The Water Gave Me

When I first listened to this Florence and the Machine song, from Ceremonials (2011), the band's second studio album, I didn't immediately think of Kahlo's eponymous painting. I thought of Virginia Woolf. I know quite a bit about Woolf and have read and admired most of what she wrote, so it's no wonder it rang a bell.

What I couldn't make sense of at a second hearing I quickly researched, and it finally dawned on me that the song was far more complex than it appeared at first. I'm going to try and interpret the song in terms of imagery, and link it with its known sources and more. Everything I'll write pertains to my opinion, with which you're more than welcome to disagree and to which you can add your pinch of salt.

I hadn't shot wildly in the dark with Woolf and Kahlo. Here's what Florence Welch had to say about the song in an interview:

'"It's a song for the water, because in music and art what I'm really interested in are the things that are overwhelming," Welch said. "The ocean seems to me to be nature's great overwhelmer. When I was writing this song I was thinking a lot about all those people who've lost their lives in vain attempts to save their loved ones from drowning. It's about water in all forms and all bodies. It's about a lot of things; Virginia Woolf creeps into it, and of course Frieda (sic) Kahlo, whose painfully beautiful painting gave me the title."'

Here's a good quality version of Frida Kahlo's painting Welch is referring to.

Of course, death by drowning is a topos in all the arts (think of this this, this and that), so there's nothing new there. Nonetheless, it remains a powerful theme which Welch explores with a lot of insights and weaves it with the motifs of water, life and time.

I'll try and construct a(n almost) line-by-line analysis, so it will look pretty deconstructed...please bear with me. Each comment starts on the same line as the line it reflects on. (N.B. the lyrics can be had in a regular format from a link at the end of this article.)

Time it took us To where the water was That's what the water gave me And time goes quicker Between the two of us Oh, my love, don't forsake me Take what the water gave me Lay me down Let the only sound Be the overflow Pockets full of stones Lay me down Let the only sound Be the overflow And oh, poor Atlas The world's a beast of a burden You've been holding on a long time And all this longing And the ships are left to rust That's what the water gave us So lay me down Let the only sound Be the overflow Pockets full of stones Lay me down Let the only sound Be the overflow 'Cause they took your loved ones But returned them in exchange for you But would you have it any other way? Would you have it any other way? You could have it any other way 'Cause she's a cruel mistress And the bargain must be made But oh, my love, don't forget me When I let the water take me So, lay me down Let the only sound Be the over flow Pockets full of stones Lay me down Let the only sound Be the overflow (x2)

Water is here seen as the end of everything yet water gives much in its present state. We don't know yet what it is. Love seems to connect this “us” in the first line. Time is important, but it's both short (first line) and long. Like water, it's ambivalent (both benevolent and malevolent). It echoes very strongly with her last letter to her husband: “Dearest, I feel certain that I am going mad again. I feel we can't go through another of those terrible times. And I shan't recover this time. I begin to hear voices, and I can't concentrate. So I am doing what seems the best thing to do. You have given me the greatest possible happiness. You have been in every way all that anyone could be. I don't think two people could have been happier till this terrible disease came. I can't fight any longer. I know that I am spoiling your life, that without me you could work. And you will I know. You see I can't even write this properly. I can't read. What I want to say is I owe all the happiness of my life to you. You have been entirely patient with me and incredibly good. I want to say that—everybody knows it. If anybody could have saved me it would have been you. Everything has gone from me but the certainty of your goodness. I can't go on spoiling your life any longer. I don't think two people could have been happier than we have been. V.” Water is still the source of a great gift, like something you'd pass on when you're gone Take a moment to read Michael Cunningham's beautiful prologue to his book The Hours. The pockets full of stone will thus make sense. As you can read at the end of the extract to Cunningham's prologue, sounds have a very important place, as in a lot of Woolf's writings (one example, read The Waves) The image of Atlas carrying a great burden but having to endure it is much reminiscent of Woolf who had to bear a great burden for a very long time, which is made poignantly clear in her lesser-known last letter to her sister before committing suicide:“Dearest, You can’t think how I loved your letter. But I feel I have gone too far this time to come back again. I am certain now that I am going mad again. It is just as it was the first time, I am always hearing voices, and I shan’t get over it now. All I want to say is that Leonard has been so astonishingly good, every day, always; I can’t imagine that anyone could have done more for me than he has. We have been perfectly happy until these last few weeks, when this horror began. Will you assure him of this? I feel he has so much to do that he will go on, better without me, and you will help him. I can hardly think clearly anymore. If I could I would tell you what you and the children have meant to me. I think you know. I have fought against it, but I can’t any longer. Virginia.” By the roundabout way, Atlas was made to carry the celestial spheres (i.e. the sky), not the Earth or the globe as commonly thought, on his shoulders. Initially I thought of Helen and the Greek fleet, but then I thought of Iphigenia. Made much more sense considering the ships left to rust could be the ones at Aulis because of unfavourable winds. Iphigenia is the daughter of Agamemnon who agrees to sacrifice her to gain back the favours of Artemis whom he has crossed – by the way I'm taking my reference from Euripides' Iphigenia in Aulis – but when it becomes clear to her that she'll be sacrificed and not married to Achilles as she was first led to believe, she decides to let her be led to the sacrificial altar willingly – it's a gut-wrenching moment in the play, forcing the admiration of many – in order to keep her honour intact. If we are left to think of Iphigenia accepting her fate, it makes a lot of sense to hear her ask to be laid down. Aulis is a port, so the overflow could be the flow and ebb of the sea. She doesn't commit suicide, but her death is, like Woolf's, connected to water. This could be said to Agamemnon, but it could also be said of many parents who have lost a son to war, or it could be said to someone who has sacrificed him/herself for the benefit of a majority, as in the example of Iphigenia. This 'she' could very well be Fate (often personified as a woman, and remember the old saying: “Fate is a cruel mistress”) with which bargains must be made, or sacrifices – but as in any shipwreck, some things can be salvaged. What the water taketh away, the water bringeth back. Complete surrender to the water, hence back to Woolfian motif. She 'lets' the water take her, having regained some control over her death. If you look closely at Kahlo's painting, you'll see that if the water reaches the overflow, it will submerge everything, even herself. The tram which knocked her down and broke her pelvis could have left her paralysed from the waist down, and her ability to walk freely would have been taken away from her. It left her in constant pain throughout her life, and the “lay me down” could be construed to refer to Kahlo's possible suicide (read Note 1 of this blog post which summarises the most contentious points).

In a nutshell, I was amazed to realise that this song deals with death and suicide in a subtle, literary way. The various 'surrenders' to water, the reference to the burden one has to bear, sometimes alleviated by time and water itself, will be submerged, overwhelmed by Fate, Life, Time – whatever name you want to give this driving force that sometimes drowns people metaphorically, psychologically, crushes their destiny underfoot. There is an element of resignation and acceptance on the narrator's part, which the imperative form also imparts on the person addressed (I / two of us / my love) some form of acceptance and resignation.

What Welch says in the interview, namely “ I was thinking a lot about all those people who've lost their lives in vain attempts to save their loved ones from drowning”, is to be taken both literally and figuratively: drowning is death by being submerged by a body of water, but also when your sorrows, your problems, your demons drown you. So it's not entirely Water specifically with which one fights, but Time, Life and Fate too. Bear in mind the way these are described as flowing, or seen like a an irresistible current against which one can't fight.

Finally, I have to say that I've always liked Florence and the Machine a lot, but I do even more so now. It's a great song with powerful, thought-out lyrics and great fitting orchestration (I wish I were better versed in music to be able to connect the instruments and the lyrics/sources).

I took the lyrics off Google Play Music. Follow the links to access the sources.

 

Affront

Help will not come. No living soul passes here, and if one would, it would not stop, it would not linger. He does not know how he is still alive. There is blood everywhere. His blood. On the grass at his feet, on his shoes, on his pants, his shirt, his hands and face, his hair. His sword is spattered with the boar's darker blood. He can feel his blood still flowing from the wound at his side, soaking his shirt and sticking it onto his skin. He is lying on the ground. On his back. He is panting. His flesh is burning, he is sweating, he can feel the beads rolling on his forehead. He shivers. The pain redoubles. He does not know what really happened, if he attacked the boar or if he was charged by the beast. He cannot really remember what he was doing in this part of the forest. He does not know when or how he struck the brute dead. If he passed out or not. What time of night it is. He cannot see the moon. The sounds of the darkness breathing in his ears come muffled, distant, as if they were not really there, as if they were happening in another reality, in another time, as if they came from the moon and that by the time they reached him she had already gone. All he knows is that help will not come. He grabs a handful of grass and presses it on the cut. He does not know why he does this, but it soothes him somewhat. Like filling the hole where his flesh was, as if it could make his skin whole again. The gash runs deep, he can feel the depth with his fingertips. Help will not come. He has to do something. He rolls onto his stomach and he yelps and he can see white dots floating in front of his eyes. Outside of him, darkness prevails. It tries to infiltrate his body through the cut. He pushes on his feet and knees, his right hand clawing at the ground ahead, and crawls. He does not know where, but he crawls on. He cannot remember if there is a clearing nearby, or if the forest is as dense as legends say it is. Perhaps he crawled for hours, for the spangles in the skies have dimmed and the obscurity has faded. He can see somewhat. Never has he suffered so much. He cannot remember if he has ever heard anyone tell of so much pain. It seems now that his dreams have fled, that everything he has lived has come to nought. And the pain. Sharp, steely stabs of pain, spurring at his side, radiating through his chest, numbing his fingers, knotting his throat, churning his innards, crushing his mind. He can die, this he is certain of. His mouth is more parched than when he and his brother were lost in the desert. Back then his body had felt as dry as the sand, but it had felt resistant enough to withstand the ordeal. There had been no breach in his body, no blood spilt. His hair is matted with clotted blood, and he can feel patches of dry blood curdling on his face. He is still crawling, but he does not know how, or why. Or where. The sounds of the daybreak feel less distant, somehow. The pain has not abated, yet the bleeding has ceased. The white dots are still hovering. He does not want to look back, in case he loses his impetus, the little willpower he has mustered. But he cannot know how far he has crawled, he cannot see where it is that his life has changed, for ever. Never has he felt so lonely. He stops to catch his breath. Something is rasping in his throat. Still knotty. He can feel spasms in his left leg. He can feel it jerking at times. Sometimes it does not respond. He rests his chin on the ground and looks around. Trees are less dense, and he can see the sun a little to his right. For now it is only a thin line of purplish red, curved like a nail-cutting. If the trees are sparser, and if he goes on more or less in the same direction, he will come across the cave he has spent the previous night in and in which he has left a few provisions for the return journey. All he can remember at present is the brutal onslaught and his feet being lifted off the ground and the tusks boring through his ribs. On foot and uncaring about the future, the cave is a half day's journey ahead. Help will not come. This land no traveller roams. So he will have to confront the ruthless bite of the sun, the occasional nibbling of the crows which will spring him back to life. This will scare them only a short way off and they will follow and watch. He will have to suffer the thirst, the heartbeats drumming in his side, his wound bleeding again. He will have to suffer the consciousness of the slow progress, the realisation of the imminence of death, the loss of both hope and despair. Nightfall comes and another pain makes his mind swirl. Hunger. Weakness slows him even further down. He is afraid to fall asleep and not to wake up. He is afraid that if he loses consciousness the crows will eat him alive, that some wild beast will finish him off. But darkness is covering the land, fast. Regaining prevalence. He must find a shelter to pass the night, take his chance at sleeping and regain some strength. He would have to find some nook beneath some flat stone at the feet of the mountain, and there he would lay flat on his back and abandon himself to sleep. He would then dream of the boar furrowing in his side as if he were mere ground, and feast on his flesh, its snout dripping with blood and the occasional bone cracking would mark the progress of the banquet. He would feel his body rock and jerk, and the intense, fiery pain electrifying his entire frame. His eyes would only see the fingers of his left hand resting on its back, a little curled, smeared with dry blood. Dirt under his fingernails. He wakes up and finds dawn breaking. He still has a long way to crawl, and his strength seems to have ebbed away in the night. He feels so weak he can barely breathe. Dew dripping on his shoulder. He moves his head a little, lets the drops land on his tongue. It has a strange metallic taste. It has melted the dry blood on his tongue, but it feels strangely reviving. Soon the drops cease to fall. His tongue pecks at the underside of the stone. Salty taste. His heart sinks, he feels like crying. The end is near. He must leave, at once. The return journey is now. Never did he forget the hours he crawled towards the cave, these hours which passed like years; never did he forget the dry thunderstorm which split the skies in twain, which made the ground shake, which splintered a nearby tree with the spine-shivering, crackling noise of bones breaking. He never forgot the pulsating solitude of those hours, the excruciating sadness he felt when he sighted the cave and the sharp feeling of emptiness on that instant as he felt drained from his last resources. He sleeps on the spot, uncaring, ready for either death or life to come. He cares for none, and none has come, it seems. So he crawls forward, unminding the world around him, the rocks snatch at his clothes, tear at his hands, flint roll under him. His mind echoes like a beehive. He cannot think but for the constant buzzing. If he could weigh the heavens up above, each of his eyelids would feel twice this weight. Each of his limbs is a heap of pain, an agonising mass which he drags against its will. Going through the crevice, he realises that he now has to build up a fire, collect water in the pan and boil it, sit up and undress. All of these now sound monumental actions. The routine of living appears as a shocking waste of energy. He has to bathe his wound, sew his skin back into place. Help will not come. He has not done all this to die now. He cannot die. If he survives this, never will he let anything or anyone stand in his way, never will he let a heart break his, nor a sword match his; and spear in hand, he will affront this pig of a world.

Silex

Against all odds, blood came out of his friend's throat. In one single, deep red gush.

The stone he'd slingshot, a silex, had penetrated deep into the flesh, leaving a carmine gash like a thin pair of lips on the side of the gorge.

Against all odds, the silex had rebounded off his foe's forehead, leaving only the thinnest cut, and had flown with a butterfly's fluttering whistle straight into his friend's throat.

He had vacillated for some seconds, as if suspended on strings, and his hand was about to cover the wound when he crumpled down, as if his legs had given way under him.

He had a look of surprise on his face.

That was more than ten years ago.

The foe he'd slaughtered with his bare hands and teeth, shedding tears for the loss of his friend.

A fortnight ago, for the first time, he had opened up. He had even been happy. How he regrets it now.

Today, the carapace is curling around him once again. The lips are mouthing something. The silex tooth is munching on the flesh. He is tired.

Yes, he is tired.

The lips won't stop. And what seem like thousands of butterfly wings flutter in his ears.

Tomorrow he'll shape a silex like he used to do, and stop being a coward.

Les Nocturnes

Le jour passe avec une lenteur d'été. Les heures s'allongent. Les secondes s'éternisent à tel point que mon cœur pourrait battre deux fois entre chacune d'elle si seulement il ne s'était lui aussi mis à battre comme une cloche d'église. Et à chaque instant cette impression de glisser tout doucement dans un semblant de mort, de sentir mon pouls défaillir ou tomber dans l'incertitude. Battre ou ne pas battre. Il y a des fois où je le lui interdis, mais il persiste. Comme s'il savait mieux que moi. Comme s'il savait qu'on ne meurt pas d'être amoureux, mais uniquement de jalousie.

Toujours est-il que je me consume dans l'attente d'un amour qui ne vient pas, qui ne peut venir et qui ne viendra pas. Et quand je pense à elle, je sens les nuées de papillons dans mon bas-ventre qui s'éveillent, comme s'ils sentaient une bête ou un nectar parfumé.

Dormir devient absurde parce qu'il n'empêche pas de penser. Le manger et le boire sont relégués au rang des besoins que seul le désert invoque. Regarder devient obsolète parce qu'il ne peut empêcher l'esprit de se figurer sa silhouette. Sentir trompe autant qu'entendre et je me laisse berner par mes sens qui me font croire qu'elle est là alors que je suis seul.

Je sais que je devrais passer cette colonie de papillons par le feu, que je n'aurais jamais du les laisser s'installer, mais j'avais l'envie de les retrouver chevillé au corps. Et tant qu'elle ne la déracinera pas d'un sublime coup d'estoc en plein cœur, elle sera là, cette stupide envie. Lorsque ce coup sera porté, je fanerais, lentement, comme une kitanka. Non avec le panache du combat, non avec la gloriole de l'amoureux déçu, et encore moins avec l'absurde fierté d'avoir aimé. Non, je mourrai avec le cuisant échec de n'avoir su lui montrer le bonheur.

Parfois, je me dis qu'il vaudrait mieux continuer ma route avant qu'il ne soit trop tard. Mais à quoi bon ? J'ai cette sinistre impression que les choses suivent leur cours, que chaque seconde plantant sa fourbe lame se doit de la planter, que chaque mot de détachement n'a vu le jour que pour cet instant où il me transperce. Comme si l'Attente elle-même avait couvé des siècles durant pour n'enfanter que dans cette ridicule attente-ci.

Alors j'attends, et j'étouffe. J'ai des bouffées de froideur qui enserrent mes poumons dans une gangue de glace. Je fais parce que je dois faire, je marche parce que mes jambes impriment le mouvement, je respire parce que je n'y pense pas. J'ai beau essayer de mettre un terme à tout cela, je n'y arrive pas. J'ai les pieds en plomb, le sang comme de la mélasse et l'esprit englué comme une mouche sur ces papiers jaunes tombant en spirale du plafond.

Juste là, maintenant, alors que j'écris, assis en tailleur sur mon lit, je viens de mourir. En donner la raison n'aurait pas grand intérêt, car dans ces cas-là, seul le résultat est pris en compte – et il n'y a pas de petite case pour des cas comme le mien.

Donc demain, qui est déjà là depuis quelques heures encore sombres, sera difficile. Il ne faudra pas me demander de sourire ou de chercher le moindre rayon de soleil. Les morts ne sourient pas et se réfugient dans l'obscurité, à ce que je sais. Je ne parlerai pas plus que nécessaire, je ferai la sourde oreille et je longerai les murs. Les morts font ça aussi. C'est absurde de mourir pour ça, j'en conviens fort aisément, mais qu'y puis-je ? Tout ça parce que j'ai cru pouvoir partager de ces moments qui, dans un pied-de-vent, semblent posséder une aura hors du commun. Quel benêt je fais. Heureusement que l'on n'en arrive pas tous là...sinon le monde se serait vite dépeuplé.

Et ensuite, après cette petite mort qui prépare à la grande, il y aura beaucoup de bruit et de fureur et des intervalles de calme comme quand on flotte après un haut plongeon dans la piscine, en attendant le long silence des nocturnes.

Senses

Most of the time, people are faces for me. Sometimes they're just eyes. Or lips. Or some conspicuous facial feature. Some I recognise by their gait or the sound of their heels striking the pavement, or their back - specially their back, as I continue watching someone long after we've parted ways. Some people are chomping noises, or gurgling noises. Some are rasping voices. Whatever they are to me, I don't see or remember anything else of them.

Apart from her. If only I could draw what's in my mind, I could limn her down to the last beauty spot or to the last scar. If only I could detail her smell, you would know. You would fall in love like I did. If only I could describe the grain of her skin, or make you hear her laugh, you would, no doubt, fall for her, like I did. Three days ago, she was still but a murmur in my mind. Now she is so meticulously, incredibly loud and painstakingly vivid my senses hurt to remember, and not to feel.

Verso-Verso

'Tis like watching another self go about his work. A feminine version of myself. Oddity among oddities. Of all places, of all people.
Mirror, mirror

(22.07.12)

Tant qu'il y en aura

Tant qu'il y aura des rivières, il y aura des bibliothèques.

Je m'explique : il existe des relations intrinsèques entre les différents éléments de notre monde, catalysés par la Nature, la culture, la société, les relations humaines, le travail, les us et coutumes, le hasard, la génétique, l'instinct, le rêve, le libre arbitre, la politique, la paix et la guerre, l'idée de l'Homme, l'obsolescence programmée et parfois quelque chose s'apparentant au destin. Tout est lié.

Ce qui me fait dire que tant qu'il y aura des rivières, il y aura des bibliothèques.

Car tant qu'il y aura des rivières, il y aura des ponts qui les enjamberont.

Car tant qu'il y aura des ponts, il y aura des néons qui les éclaireront la nuit.

Car tant qu'il y aura des néons, il y aura des papillons nocturnes qui graviteront autour d'eux.

Car tant qu'il y aura des papillons nocturnes, il y aura des épeires des fissures qui les prendront dans leur toile.

Car tant qu'il y aura des épeires des fissures, il y aura des entomologistes fascinés par elles.

Car tant qu'il y aura des entomologistes, il y aura des noms latins qui les désigneront.

Car tant qu'il y aura des noms latins, il y aura des dictionnaires qui les traduiront.

Car tant qu'il y aura des dictionnaires, il y aura des bibliothèques.

Et les bibliothèques, il nous faut les garder.

Plus de rivières, plus de bibliothèques.

Et les rivières s'assèchent : 7 lakes and rivers that are drying up: Bone dry | MNN - Mother Nature Network

Le contemplateur

Passant ! ne perturbe pas le trait de mes cercles. J'ai assez du vent qui disperse le grain de ma craie.

Où cours-tu ainsi ? Tu me dis que la guerre est venue jusqu'à nous. Peu me chaut. Si je dois servir notre Roi, je ne le ferais que parce que la guerre donne des occasions de savoir, parce que l'imminence de la mort ou l'impérieux de l'urgence force l'esprit à voir différemment. Va, passant, va, et ne perturbe plus mes cercles.

Philosophe ! ne perturbe pas la courbe de mes cercles. J'ai assez des hommes qui émiettent mon savoir comme du pain aux pigeons.

Où que tu cours, mes cercles sont plus importants que toi ou moi. Ce qu'ils entourent dépasse l'entendement. Tu devrais le savoir : personne avant moi n'a osé défier pareille orbite. J'ai auparavant observé le vol des pigeons et des faucons pendant de longues journées où la lumière de l'astre coulait sur moi comme du mercure. Tu me dis que l'ennemi est aux portes de la ville ? J'ai mieux à observer que cela. Tu me dis que je suis fou ? Et toi, la couardise t'a fait perdre la raison. Va, philosophe, va, et ne perturbe plus mes cercles.

Soldat ! ne perturbe pas la linéarité de mes cercles. J'ai déjà assez du temps qui blanchit la pierre et confond ma craie et son support.

Que restes-tu ici ? Pourquoi ne t'en vas-tu pas suivre le chemin de tes pas ?

Tirer ton glaive ne me fait point sourciller. En revanche, ton pied sur une circonférence si parfaite m'irrite. Tu lui donnes un début et une fin et ce n'est pas ce qui doit être. Je ne te crains pas. J'ai vu les hommes s'entretuer pour des parcelles de boue grandes comme la paume de ma main. J'ai vu des illettrés diriger des pays entiers vers le gouffre. J'ai vu des hommes de sciences et de raison accroître les richesses et le bonheur de leurs sujets. Tout cela en traçant mes cercles. Le monde et ses acteurs passent autour de moi, vont et viennent, naissent et meurent, mais moi seul le déchiffre, moi seul ose fouiller dans ses entrailles pour en découvrir les aruspices vérités. Tout comme le chirurgien qui a du sang jusqu'aux coudes alors qu'il sauve la vie du soldat transpercé d'une lance, j'ai de la craie jusque sur mon front alors que je résous les sombres équations du monde. Toi, tu as du sang jusqu'aux commissures des lèvres parce que tu dépeuples le monde de ses habitants. Tu crois le simplifier alors que tu le compliques.

Ah ! Le glaive que tu brandis arrêtera certes ma course, mais ni celle du monde ni celle du temps ne s'en trouveront changées. Que nous serons des os blanchis par le soleil ou réduits en poussière par les ans que le monde continuera de se déplier, de filer dans sa course folle parmi les astres. Ton bras ignore ce qu'il doit à la physique et aux corps célestes tout autant que ta tête. Alors pousse ton pied, soldat, et regarde : je te prouverai la supériorité de mes cercles sur la rectitude de ton glaive.

Frappe, soldat, frappe, mais ne perturbe pas mes cercles. Quelqu'un doit venir les achever et les comprendre.

Pour toi je me contentais de contempler le monde, je n'y apportais rien. Je lui étais inutile. Pour moi, je prenais le temps de l'expliquer, le monde, et tu avais ta place dans la grande équation. Tout comme moi. L'équation, elle, continue de s'étendre.

Va, soldat, va, et laisse-moi regarder une dernière fois mes cercles.

Nombre

J'ai rêvé de toi, encore. Ton nom a, cette fois, résonné tellement fort que j'ai entendu son écho en me réveillant. L'ai-je prononcé ? Peu importe, au final. J'ai passé le mur du sommeil, vois-là l'essentiel.

Tu n'es qu'un spectre de plus que je vais traîner comme un boulet de laine, comme une pelote de plomb dans la lumière de l'après-midi d'été, une lumière lourde et coulante comme le mercure.

Alors je vais t'emmener avec moi comme on emmène son ombre, là où je dois aller, cet endroit que tu n'as pas voulu voir. Là où le soleil ressemble aux feuilles du gingko biloba. Tu ne seras pas toi, tu ne seras pas là. Seul un vestige de toi comblera la brèche, espacera le vide de ce que tu ne fus pas, gorgera l'aplat de ce que tu fus.

Une existence inattendable, en instance de disparaître. Une passante qui aurait su trahir dès le premier regard. Qui a su, qui sait.

Douée d'une connaissance intime du corps, qui sait exactement quand n'en plus rien espérer, comme si tous les corps étaient strictement égaux, comme si l'esprit de chacun ne pouvait apporter de différence cruciale, être digne d'intérêt.

Tous les gens ne sont pas légitimement moyennables. Sinon nous n'en serions pas là aujourd'hui. Il aurait fallu se souvenir de ce que nous avons en commun : nos réflexes, notre instinct, nos désirs. Tous sont singuliers. Discordants. Tu aurais donc pu percentendre notre musique, avec la même volonté que les abeilles.

Dans la cacophonie des êtres nous étions le vent, l'herbe qui ploie sous lui. Nous étions la course des nuages dans le bruit et la fureur des marées humaines. Nous étions le rêve de la vie éternelle. En une nuit nous avions acquis le pouvoir de la conspiration et la liberté de sourire. En une nuit. Si je n'en avais pas habité d'autres, je n'aurais pas suivi ce bruit de cigale.

J'ai perdu un regard sur la steppe il y a déjà longtemps de cela, je viens d'en perdre un sur la toundra, avec toi. Ne me reste plus qu'un dernier regard sur le désert, et je serai là où personne ne pensera à venir me chercher. On me pensera simplement égaré parce que je n'aurai pas laissé de lettre. Alors que je n'ai jamais su écrire.

Je serai perdu, tout simplement, marchant mains entrelacées avec l'ombre de tes jours de feu dévastant les dunes et l'écho de ton nom pour seul lever de soleil.

Readers across the globe

 

Here is a map pinpointing all the readers (at a random point in time, on a monthly basis) of the blog in the world. Can you see your tag ?

 

Today, I went running again

After 10 months off the tracks, a motorbike accident and its subsequent, 6-month long convalescence, I went running again.

First observation: I shouldn't have waited this long. I realised the last time I had been running was in Malaysia...*smiley alert* (yes, I decided to warn you beforehand, as I rarely use them here) -___-' My shoes were tight, yes, tight, for lack of use.

Second observation: my ankles and knees need strengthening, and every time my feet touch the ground, I hear a clicking noise in my left ear. I should consult an osteopath, as clearly the accident has upset my entire frame. *smiley alert* >_<

Third observation: man, it's so good to run. I had to wake up early, but it definitely made my day.

First stretch: 3.5 km in a little under 20 min. I thought I was doing a fairly good speed. The timing indicates I'm 25% off my usual time. *smiley alert* O_O

Second stretch: 3.3 km in 22 min. Now that was expected. Doesn't soften the blow though. I knew I had slowed down, but the aim of this run was to get back on tracks.

Conclusion: I should consider myself lucky, considering I was in a wheelchair not so long ago. Now all I have to do is to set my mind to it and don't stop. Regularity is the key.

The Cast (in order of appearance)

The Hives (Veni Vidi Vicious) Thanks for setting the pace!

The Loire, whose shimmery surface in the morning sun was covered in white tufts from the poplar trees

The chorus of frogs (mating, that is, day in, night out)

The light breeze, the sun and the absence of rain (nice balance)

The ducks (for putting their butts up as soon as I came)

My legs (which kept going)

My lungs (glad I ain't smoking)

My Self (someone must do the driving)

Me (basically, I was lagging behind my entire self +_+)

That's a lot of time

Duration calculation results

From and including: Tuesday, 8 May 1979
To and including: Tuesday, 8 May 2012

It is 12,055 days from the start date to the end date, end date included

Or 33 years, 1 day including the end date

Alternative time units

12,055 days can be converted to one of these units:

• 1,041,552,000 seconds
• 17,359,200 minutes
• 289,320 hours
• 1722 weeks (rounded down)

(source: http://www.timeanddate.com/date/duration.html)

Requiem for a daydream

Emma Watson patted the log she was sitting on. That particular spot, where the big log of wood had drifted about a month ago and which acted as a bench, had become a tacit meeting point.

"Why the glum face, my friend? Didn't the doctor give you good news?"

I hadn't realised I was looking sullen. "He did. I am allowed to travel again. And this is good news indeed. Problem is, I am broke now. I cannot even buy a train ticket to see my friends in London."

She smiled. "You may have meagre financial means, yet you're rich in other matters and this should uplift your heavy heart. Do you want to see where all the seagulls go when the sun sets?"

I had never thought about it. I know where the ducks go when the ponds freeze. The absence of gulls at sunset did strike me one day, but my curiosity as to their whereabouts ended there and then. "You're right, they must go somewhere."

"Come on, I'll show you."

We stood up.

We walked to the furthest end of the beach, near the fishing cabins. A green and blue kite was lying on the sand. It didn't look so much as forgotten as left there on purpose. Emma picked it up and set it up on an imaginary shelf. The kite stayed levitating there. She hoisted herself onto it. She looked down at me.

"Give me your hand, I'll help you up." I had my camera in my left hand, so I held out the right one, but suddenly I hesitated. "What's the matter?" she asked.

"It's my bad hand. I can't give you my bad hand."

"Come again? Your bad hand?" She seemed genuinely surprised.

"My afflicted hand," I added.

"Will it hurt you?"

I shook my head. "No, but it's not very pleasant to the touch."

"Silly goose," she said and grabbed my hand. She hauled me up as if I were as light as a feather. We had to stay very close together as the space on the kite was quite tight. The kite flew away skywards at a slow, yet steady flight.

The sea from this viewpoint was picturesque. The waves were drawing riddles which mirrored the riddles on the dunes. Emma started singing a lullaby which I recognised to be one I had written years ago. "Do you know where all the birds go? So far, so far, so far."

The higher we flew the windier it became, until we reached the clouds. I had seen the blanket of cumuli, strolling to where Emma and I usually met, but now they struck me as particularly dense and fluffy. We went through them via a hole pierced by a beam of sunlight.

Once we were above the cloudline, the winds ceased. The pale grey surface of the clouds was almost even; it looked smooth and sleek, yet moving ever so subtly like an oily sea.

Emma put her finger across her lips. She mouthed "Look".

The spectacle was unbelievable. What I had mistaken for clouds was in fact thousands of seagulls nesting quietly. I looked down on lower cumuli. Swarms of birds were poised on the vaporous vessels: the trompe-l'oeil was perfect. Their robe was spotlessly white under the sun. They were all turned to the golden orb level with the horizon. It was eerily silent. No wind, no squawking, not a single wing flapping.

I was speechless. The bright light was flashing in every direction, bouncing on the back of the gulls, warming the still air. We stayed until the sun sank beneath the distant line of clouds.

When we came down, the entire sea was on fire. The shoreline was speckled with gold flecks. The more distant shore was streaked blue and grey. Planes had crisscrossed their white way on the scarlet skies. Everything the light touched was given life of a kind. Perhaps because it acquired or lost its shadow.

I alighted first and helped Emma down. She looked at me intently, took my hand, but didn't say a word.

I smiled at her and turned towards the purple cloudscape. "Now I know where the gulls go when the sun sets. Too bad I forgot to take pictures."

When I turned back again, Emma and the kite had vanished without a trace.

Buttons

Why buttons?

First, I love the word. Buttons, buttons, buttons. I could also say it forever.

Second, I like the button in itself. Until recently, I had looked at buttons in a purely functional way. A special someone made me look at them in a new light. They all come in different shape and size, its peculiar way of attaching itself on the garment.

Third, I love this special someone.

Fourth, I was allowed to browse through a wooden box full of them buttons (courtesy of my grandma) in order to find the more special ones. It was like rummaging in a chest full of treasures. Nay, it was like plunging your hands in a chest full of coins. For half an hour I was a pirate who had found the chest and was making the coins sing. I loved it.

Fifth, buttons.

Sixth, buttons.

Seventh, buttons.

Here is a link to the arch-site if you want to know all about buttons and become a buttonist.

Saint Claude Vs Saint Valentin

Je ne sais pas vous, mais pour ma part je préfère fêter la saint Claude que la saint Valentin. Déjà parce que c'est mon deuxième prénom, ensuite parce que je boite (Claude vient du latin claudus, boiteux. On retrouve cette étymologie dans le verbe 'claudiquer') et pour finir parce que c'est un superbe pied-de-nez à tout le merchandising qui s'est développé autour de la fête de la saint Valentin. Je m'explique.

Qu'il ait été prêtre ou moine, qu'il ait vécu au IIIème siècle ou avant, qu'il ait été de Rome ou de Terni ou d'ailleurs, le Valentin que vous fêtez (j'assume le "vous" exclusif) fut martyrisé par un Empereur Romain nommé Claude. Claude le Gothique fit torturer et exécuter (peut-être décapiter) Valentin de Rome. Claude le Cruel (on n'a jamais mieux porté un surnom pareil) fit rouer de coups et décapiter (là on est déjà plus sûr) Valentin de Terni. Tout cela sur la via Flaminia à Rome. Histoire de montrer l'exemple.

Alors la plupart des gens souhaitent fêter l'amour que les deux saints professaient, honorer leur mémoire ou pour le symbole de résistance et d'amour du genre humain blablabla. C'est beau, vraiment. Mais que ce soit en célébrant des mariages que l'Empire Romain n'acceptait pas ou en redonnant la vue à de jolies damoiselles, ou simplement pour le fait qu'ils furent chrétiens, ils professaient et moururent pour l'amour de Dieu. L'amour de son prochain également, cela va de soi. Mais pas l'amour à grand coups de bouquet annuel car il faut bien se le souhaiter. Pas les chocolats pour se faire pardonner d'être invivable les 364 autres jours de l'année. Pas les flonflons roses et rouges (couleur de la passion, certes, mais passio en latin signifie "souffrance"... et pendant que j'y suis, l'assimilé de la Saint-Valentin était auparavant une coutume païenne datant de l'antiquité dont l'église a fini par s'emparer, et toujours auparavant elle célébrait l'amour physique, et pas l'amour romantique comme maintenant - et en ça c'est pas un mal. Un peu de romantisme, bordel !)

Je pense, mais je m'avance peut-être, que chacun des saints aurait préféré voir des fleurs honorer l'amour de l'être aimé une fois de temps en temps, plutôt qu'une fois par an, histoire de sauver les meubles ou de suivre ces braves moutons de Panurge (qui, au passage - mais vous connaissez mon amour de la digression - est un pote de Pantagruel, personnages créés par François Rabelais, et qui s'interroge sur la nécessité du mariage dans le Tiers Livre, et qui encore aida à créer cette si jolie expression "moutons de Panurge" dans le Quart Livre en balançant un encombrant mouton par-dessus bord - afin que les autres le suivent. Ce mec savait vraiment tout faire - d'où son nom qui en grec signifie "celui qui sait tout faire" (Πανοῦργος, un truc du genre "Panourgos"). Parenthèse refermée.)

En résumé, si vous voulez véritablement faire un geste qui ait du sens, offrez des chocolats à votre bien-aimé(e) ou allez lui cueillir des fleurs...demain.

J'assume aussi le fait d'être un grand rabat-joie sans vergogne, acariâtre et/ou atrabilaire. Briseur de rêves aussi. Et oui, je suis célibataire (et je ne m'en porte ni mieux ni moins bien), mais cela ne m'empêche pas d'offrir des fleurs quand j'en ai envie et à qui je le souhaite (ou de les cueillir pour les offrir) ! Pour finir, je tiens à dire que je ne suis sponsorisé par aucune des grandes marques de fleuristes, ni ne les sponsorise d'ailleurs.

Coup de gueule fini. Ça va mieux.

Invitation

Today, I took a rather long walk, as if my mind needed to set off for a long daydream.

Talking about daydreams, the first thing my friend Katie told me about Emma Watson was that she didn't like her new haircut, because it was too short. Then she had me take a look at a recent picture of Emma, and well, all I can say is that she is a stunningly beautiful woman. I hadn't seen her after the last Harry Potter movie came out, and at that time she was still a teen I guess. And I do like her new haircut. Granted that depending on the angle of the photo, she looks a bit different. Whatever is different about her, something must escape me.

Anyway, today I didn't stumble across Emma Watson during one of my daydreams. I invited her. So we met again on the shore. We sat on a discarded log. She was wearing jeans and an extra large, grey woollen jumper, with some sort of high, fluffy turtleneck. So we sat there and started playing draughts with seashells. Upon her request, I told her the story of the battle of Hastings, and how Harold II was shot through the eye with an arrow (so the legend sayeth) and how Queen Matilda and her consorts wove the Bayeux tapestry. She was genuinely interested, and I'm still wondering why on earth she was. Then the conversation drifted on how to cook a good risotto. She explained to me that deglazing the rice was of utmost importance and shouldn't be underestimated. Timing was of the essence. As was the choice of rice. Carnaroli she considered the best, as it has a lot of starch in it, hence the dish is creamier. As was the choice of the white wine. Straw-coloured it had to be. She didn't have time to explain me why, for Katie turned up.

When I write 'turned up', she literally emerged out of nowhere. One second there was nothing, the next she was standing right in front of us with a beaming smile. She explained how she meant to go to the grocer's but thought about me on the way and wondered how I fared. Then she turned to Emma and asked her how she was doing, holding out her hand. An instant passed, where I actually prayed that Emma hadn't heard in my head that Katie has criticised her haircut. She just smiled. Whether she heard it or not, she let none of it transpire on her face. We actually laughed as the both of them proposed to leave the other two alone, at the exact same time. After that we chatted the sunset down. As per usual, Emma produced steaming mugs of hot chocolate from her pockets. They were really appreciated, as we were getting really cold and thirsty.

As it was growing darker and darker as the sun sank way below the horizon, Katie proposed to go watch a fireflies ballet. Only her knew where to find one, so we followed her. Emma was very excited about it. We walked into a crevice in the rocks and emerged, after a while, into a cave with a very high ceiling. There must have been an opening somewhere, for it was not totally dark inside. Then it started. What seemed to be million of fireflies set fire to the night, swirling in a choreography known only to them (similarly to the bees). Katie explained in a low voice that there were specific flight patterns, and that was how you could distinguish the male beetle from the female. They were buzzing everywhere, floating like snowflakes in the relative darkness. Strange thing happened: they sometimes whirred about me, courting me like I was one of them. Emma and Katie wondered about it. Perhaps because it was my daydream, after all.

Then all of a sudden Katie remembered that her grocery was still left undone, so she turned towards Emma and hugged her, did the same with me and in a jiffy she was gone.

We stayed for a while. When the fireflies came near Emma's face, they lit up her eyes in such a way that they gleamed a pale red. That was a beautiful sight. We then left the cave. When we came back on the shore, it was nighttime. She told me she had to leave too. She said that Katie was a very nice girl indeed, and that we should invite her again. That 'we' intrigued me until I understood it. I understood why the lightning bugs came to me and why they made Emma look beautiful. The answer is simple: I am a firefly. So is Emma. And perhaps Katie too.

When I slipped out of my reverie, Emma was gone. Again, none but my footsteps were to be seen on the sand.

Status update

Three months to the day after the accident, it's time to see where I'm standing:

1 Age: 32, going on 33. Christic(al) age.
2 Height: same.
3 Weight: 6 pounds extra (and counting).
4 Gait: limping.
5 Dexterity: coming back, chi va piano va sano, e lontano.
6 Job: none.
7 Money: next to none.
8 Social gatherings: every other weekend, when my friend Sheldon takes me out.
9 Social life: as it was very, very near non-existent, I decided to ostracize myself and make it a clear, round, resounding 0.
10 Dating: slightly lower than my adjusted social life.
11 Sport: None. See #3.
12 Daily activities: reeducation of my hand, reading a little, writing (blogging more often than not), researching a bit, daydreaming a lot, habitual daily 'Sunset walk', photography, waiting for Godot.
13 Cooking: resumed every now and then.
14 Travel plans: difficult to plan ahead with an unfixed end date of physiotherapy

Trois mois jour pour jour après l'accident, il est temps de regarder où j'en suis :

1 Âge : 32 ans, va sur 33. Âge cri(s)tique.

2 Taille : inchangée.

3 Poids : 3 kilos en trop (et ça continue).

4 Démarche : boite.

5 Dextérité : reviens, chi va piano va sano, e lontano.

6 Travail : néant.

7 Argent : presque néant.

8 Échanges sociaux : un week-end sur deux, quand mon ami Sheldon me sort.

9 Vie sociale : comme elle frisait le néant, j'ai décidé de m'ostraciser et de la niveler jusqu'à un grand et parfait 0.

10 Rencontres : un peu moins que ma vie sociale après ajustement.

11 Sport : Néant. Voir #3.

12 Activités journalières : rééducation de ma main, un peu de lecture, écriture (je blogge plus souvent qu'autre chose), un peu de recherches, beaucoup la tête dans les nuages, mon habituelle balade quotidienne 'coucher de soleil', photographie, attendre Godot.

13 Cuisine : reprise de temps en temps.

14 Projets de voyage : difficile de planifier à l'avance sans une date fixe d'arrêt de la kinésithérapie.

Triskaïdékaphobie

Mot barbare pour désigner la peur du nombre 13.


Judas était le 13ème à s'asseoir à table avec Jésus. Fallait pas être en retard.


Loki, le grand méchant qui n'attend que le Ragnarok (il y a bien un accent ou deux, mais je ne me souviens plus où) pour se débarrasser de ce bon dieu de serpent et des entrailles qui l'entravent, est le 13ème dieu de la mythologie nordique.


Du coup, pas de treizième étage dans les hôtels (en Chine et au Japon, pas de 4ème étage, chacun sa phobie (NB, le chiffre 4 'shi' est un homophone de la mort 'shi')).


Paraît-il qu'il n'y a pas de siège numéro 13 dans les avions. À vérifier auprès d'une charmante hôtesse (qui peut également laisser ses coordonnées téléphoniques ou géographiques).


Et je suis certain que le chiffre, maudit dans notre culture, alors que dans d'autres il ne ferait même pas transpirer un lama, ne se retrouve pas dans de nombreux exemples (si d'ailleurs vous avez des exemples de non-utilisation du chiffre 13, je suis preneur). Il y a même des calendriers de 13 mois (dits calendriers 'lunaires', notamment celui des hébreux et des chaldéens et le premier calendrier grec ; et si quelqu'un pouvait me confirmer que le calendrier musulman, que je sais être lunaire, comporte bien 13 mois, merci.) et ils ne se mettent pas à flipper pendant tout un mois.


Aujourd'hui étant un vendredi 13 (par ailleurs, la peur du vendredi 13 se nomme la paraskevidékatriaphobie), je vous souhaite à toutes et à tous de ne pas être superstitieux, ça porte malheur (bon mot attribué à Jean-Paul Sartre ou à Coluche, c'est selon). Le pire, dans tout ça, c'est que vu que 2012 est une année bissextile, on va s'en taper pas moins de 3, des vendredi 13. Soit on a trop de chance, soit on y passe tous. Je me déciderai le jour J.


Allez, c'est pas tout ça, mais j'ai un film culte à regarder et je dois aussi aller tenter ma veine au Loto. Il paraît que ça porte chance. Si je perds, ce qui risque d'être le cas (même si j'augmente mes chances de gagner d'année en année), je dirais que c'était à cause du vendredi 13, voilà tout.