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| | vendredi, mars 26, 2004

I live in a cardboard box in the sewers of the Gare St.-Lazare.
It's no big deal. I'm used to it and once in a while, when the nights are cold, you can find a pretty warm place in the secret tunnels under the metro lines. It can be pretty cozy, with people lighting candles, playing 78 tours records on old wind up grammophones.
A week ago I found an amazing, extra large empty box on the street. The real thing: airy, heavy, robust cardboard with a soft upper layer. It read "Office supplies" in red capitals. I've been sleeping well lately, but I can't help focussing on the big office buildings with their frustrating mirrors sending you flickering beams of sunlight saying "you can't get in". Who works there? What are they doing? And why?

| | lundi, mars 22, 2004

bamboo shoots

| | jeudi, mars 18, 2004

Gray rainy days are excellent moments to observe the human species. Everybody seems to walk slower when it drizzles. The traffic lights are always red and sounds are muffled by the clouds.
Rainy days make desperate people even more desperate, make them crawl out of their hole in search of a newspaper, chocolate, the presence of other wet coats in the bakery, the post office or the grocery shop.
Today I had the privilige to spot a genuine specimen of the "dux disoccupato" or unemployed manager.
I saw him in the street when I was going through the humiliating phase of descending a huge traffic bump with my car, trying to forget the ungracefull appearance I was making. He looked at me with desperation in his eyes. Hurt beyond feeling. Darkness and anger. What a specimen. Just my luck!
I could immediately picture him in the board room. The way he had looked without the greying, untrimmed beard, his cheeks cleanly shaven, Smiling confidently. Now he was cursing the rain, the clouds, the wind. And probably me, for having a car, for crossing the hump, for looking at him.

| | mercredi, mars 17, 2004

My daily life. desert on the first floor. Scorching heat of the central heating. Emergency barracks with dusty carpets. I feel myself streaming away. But instead of a deep storage reservoir, all that remains is a small muddy pond in someone's neatly arranged backyard. with a plaster green frog in it. no it's not kermit no...

| | jeudi, mars 11, 2004

à la mode:

cocquilles St.-Jacques

| mardi, mars 02, 2004

You ask me about the woman's body. Is it still there? Undiscovered? Hasn't the wind blown away the leaves by now?
"No", I tell you, "it's not happening now. It happened a long time ago, Time is relative. She can be there for a very long time."
We are sitting near the window of our appartment and you are looking out to the patch of trees in the public garden.
"She's wearing a poncho, so I guess it happenend in the eighties. Nobody wears a poncho anymore these days."
You look worried. We've been having some fights lately. About time. Spending more time together. You want more time to yourself. I feel I'm acting like a whimp compared to your decision making. But I don't know what to do to win you back. You are already leaving me behind.
"She was pregnant." I blurt out. "She was 6 months pregnant when she died."
Your eyes become dark and shiny you are angry.
"You don't dare", you whisper. I know I have hurt you, but it's the only way.
You are going to take a bath. I suppose you will contemplate your counterstrike there and maybe cry a bit.
She was probably killed inside a house. Either drowned or killed while taking a shower or bath. Water in the lungs with remnants of soap.
I can't know all this because she hasn't even been discovered.

|

La porte

La porte de l'hôtel sourit terriblement
Qu'est-ce que cela peut me faire ô ma maman
...
(Apollinaire)

allez! entrez! entrez!

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