Thanks to my friend Emily (check her blog here) who gave me the idea for this page. These were written over the last year and are organised chronologically. It's interesting what they have to say about me. Only one is in French. Only one has been read by someone other than me before.
Ici, vous trouverez un échantillon des choses qui me trottent dans la tête. Je conservais ces petits bouts de phrase mais personne ne les avait jamais lu (sauf un). Une amie a fait l'inventaire de son esprit sur son blog (voir Liens pas utiles) et ça m'a décidé. Ces fragments ont été écrits au cours de l'année passée et sont classés chronologiquement. Ils me racontent d'une façon ou d'une autre. Un seul est en français (pour l'instant, certains sont en gestation traductive).
What Adam told Eve
Don't you know I am the master of the universe ?
I am you, and me, and so much worse.
Our love shall grow till your insides explode.
And my seed shall people this garden, our world.
With a machete He carved your skull
Leaving hatred in your dark eyes.
Inside you there is an Indian
But Spanish is your language.
Your ancestors were both colonisers, and colonised.
Grandma to grandad
You've never seen me. You never have.
I was nothing but a creation
of your sick, virile mind.
And as such I have lived.
Le chant du signe et quoi encore
La prose la poésie : des morts.
Le cygne a perdu son référent
Son son sonne sourdement.
Ma langue fourche ma langue
Tourne sept fois dans ma bouche.
Dans mon inconscient vit une baleine
Aussi agile qu'elle est pleine.
Je la sens entre mes mâchoires
Je la vois, luisante, dans le noir.
Mais quoi à la fin quoi
Qu'attendez-vous de moi ?
Je voudrais me lover au fond des océans
Et n'y pousser que des vagissements.
To hard times
If ever you feel like stopping
in your solemn woods,
on your lonely path.
Think of me waiting,
in my solemn woods,
on my lonely path.
My life despises me, I can tell by its shoes
I walked in and stumbled upon the décor of my life. I walked in on my life : it was on its way. A busy look, a fast gait.
"Don't stop, its only me" says I to my life.
Do I have any power? How did I get here, in the secret back-alleys of my existence?
Choice... or circumstance?
But really I wanted to ask : "Where are you going?" of my life.
I looked around and my surroundings! My possessions!
Though once familiar, now looked forlorn.
As if I were seeing them for the first time.
Like everytime you look in the mirror. You look, and look, and, surprised :"Oh, that is what I look like!" That's the face people see, when they look at you, when they look at me.
So I did not ask her. The moment passed, I was tired. And in truth I was afraid. My life looked confident, it was going somewhere. When I am so idle and so bare.
I suppose my life still goes on to this day, on its stilettos, far away. I'm lost in its back-alleys.
Food goes in, food goes out.
I want sugar, I don't want trout.
Gimme pizza, coke. And fries!
Spare me the revulsion in your eyes.
Don't you see? Has my fat hidden me?
Or have you gone completely blind?
My eating disorder is not improper.
It is, in fact, an art.
Food is no fuel for action.
Hunting, fighting, building, climbing
Belong to the dark ages, Neanderthal times.
I eat because I can, and that is my stand.
Food is the aim.
Fat the award.
I have vanquished nature, evolution
And yes even common sense.
My arteries shall clog up,
My heart shall immobilize.
Its irrational, absurd.
Meaningless, just like art.
Burning at the the stake of humanity,
I am the ultimate sacrifice.
Agony when my fat melts and drips,
A good barbecue, that's what it's all about.
So, there you go. That wasn't so bad was it? I don't write often but when I do it goes on for the whole night. Its very appeasing : no syntax, no grammar rules. Just the words and their music. I don't really know how I feel about sharing them. I like to think that maybe you'll carry a line or two with you today. They're not mine, after all. Anyone could have come up with them. So whether we've actually met or not, this is some of the stuff that goes through my head..
Some of you may read a lot of things in there. The things I'm aware of : TS Eliot, Sylvia Plath, Bob Dylan, Robert Frost, Apollinaire, Buck 65. Anything else ? I'm curious as to the ways my brain works. And I suppose the real challenge would be to translate them. Some of them are done, others I'm looking forward to doing when I have a little more time on my hands. And it should be said that I didn't come up with kaleidoscope eyes, Lennon and McCartney did.