Encore un coucher de soleil...je sais...

Cold fire

This is the discarded log on which Emma Watson and I sat to play draughts. 

This, is a diary of hate.

"A story has no beginning or end: arbitrarily one chooses that moment of experience from which to look back or from which, to look ahead. I say 'one chooses' with the inaccurate pride of a professional writer who - when he has been seriously noted at all - has been praised for his technical ability, but do I in fact of my own will choose that black wet January night on the Common, in 1946, the sight of Henry Miles slanting across the wide river of rain, or did these images choose me? It is convenient, it is correct according to the rules of my craft to begin just there, but if I had believed then in a God, I could also have believed in a hand, plucking at my elbow, a suggestion, 'Speak to him: he hasn't seen you yet.'

For why should I have spoken to him? If hate is not too large a term to use in relation to any human being, I hated Henry - I hated his wife Sarah too. And he, I suppose, came soon after the events of that evening to hate me: as he surely at times must have hated his wife and that other, in whom in those days we were lucky enough not to believe. So this is a record of hate far more than of love, and if I come to say anything in favour of Henry and Sarah I can be trusted: I am writing against the bias because it is my professional pride to prefer the near-truth, even to the expression of my near-hate."


Graham Greene, The End of the Affair (1951), first two chapters.

This is one of my all-time favourite books. My dearest friend on this earth offered me a copy of the first edition, which never fails to give me an immense pleasure every time I read from it. I wish I could have written this book. I wouldn't change a single comma, nor a single idea. This novel is perfect. Graham, I hate you.

 

The Peripatetic's Preambular Guide to the Wild World

Recently, a friend of mine asked me to compile some sort of guide in order not to forget the basic things when travelling overseas. I hope I fulfilled her desiderata. It is composed of a handful of preparation tips before you set out on your journey (very few are inserted for the 'during' part). The information provided regard things such as: visas, equipment, guidebooks, maps, currency etc.

As per usual, if you have any comment and/or addition, please feel free to add up!

Safe trip!

The Peripatetic's Preambular Guide to the Wild World

Zoom on a nice altostratus

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.

The word made image made word again

"If I turned my daydreams into a book every time I had one, I could fill Ralph Willett's "Merly Library". Easily."

"If any of my daydreams turned real (turned out to be true?), I would still have daydreams - but not about what my life would be."

*Medium Scriptum: Neither are quotes. Could be though. Will be, who knows.*

My latest daydream involved meeting Emma Watson during my daily walk on the shore and playing hopscotch with her. We didn't kiss, didn't hold hands. Nor was porn involved. She was wearing a complete, head-to-toe winter outfit. I wouldn't have guessed she was smiling but for the tiny wrinkles at the corner of her eyes. She was on vacation, away from everything and everyone. She didn't want to meet anyone who might recognise her. I did, but it being my daydream, it was fine. She spoke with an almost perfect French accent. She hopscotched very well. At one point, while it was my turn to play, she took out a steaming mug of hot chocolate from one of her pockets. I stepped out of the box because of the smell and when I complained that she had been cheating, she just smiled. My arms fell limp at my sides. She came to me, put the mug into my hands and said "drink". Then with her foot she wiped the side of the box, picked up a twig and with it drew a larger box so that my foot fitted into it again. She had made my day. We played for hours on end, chitchatting about this and that. Finally she said she had to leave for Mexico, she waved at me like mad, like she was very far from me (she was standing just three feet away) and then spun around and walked away, leaving no footsteps in the sand. I lost track of her in a sunshaft.

I don't know anything about her (I guess few do), apart from her role in the Harry Potter movies. Which is heaven in a handbasket when you daydream: the less you know someone, the more you can invent him or her. I don't know if she is as lenient as I dreamt her to be, but the other good thing about daydreams is that even bad people can be good. But I guess she is, naturally.

Dear Emma (I hope we're now on a name-to-name basis, having hopscotched in the sand - which is so difficult), I apologise from the bottom of my heart if I offended you by daydreaming about you and writing about it. But I can't control the content of my daydreams (well, I can, but once you popped in, I wanted you to stay ^_^). I'll be happy to nuance this blogpost and have you smack me behind the ears, if thou wilt.

Emma dear, woman of my daydreams, please take care.

Full moon on Sunset boulevard

Buffoneria

"Io penso che la vita è una molto triste buffoneria, poiché abbiamo in noi, senza poter sapere né come né perché né da chi, la necesità di ingannare di continuo noi stessi con la spontanea creazione di una realtà (una per ciascuno e non mai la stessa per tutti) la quale di tratto in tratto si scopre vana e illusoria."

Luigi Pirandello (1867-1936)

"Je pense que la vie est une comédie particulièrement triste, parce que nous avons en nous, sans savoir ni comment, ni pourquoi, ni par qui, la nécessité de sans cesse nous abuser nous-mêmes, en créant spontanément une autre réalité (une réalité propre à chacun et jamais la même pour tous) que, de temps en temps, nous découvrons vaine et illusoire."