Le chateau de vent

Les artichaux were delicious, by the way. And so was she. "It has something to do with not feeling whole sometimes." she tells me, while we drink absinth from little crystal glasses. "In the heavy fog in winter, when watching vapour curl out of the dark oily canal against a cold grey sky, I want to break every surface, dig into the frozen earth, tear up the street to discover what's underneath. I want more." "But are you not happy?" "I can't answer that." she says decisively. "I feel like I am living at the wrong speed, at the wrong moment, on a wrong level even. My feelings do not belong to me. How can I say I am happy: I only feel happy when I catch a glimpse of a possibility. To depart. To disappear." "Are You seeing a shrink?" I ask, getting a bit worried. She stares at the hairy inside of her artichoque. "Of course not."

I went Lighthousekeeping yesterday evening. It was good. Confusing, personal, confrontational and most of all recognizable. Everybody needs a lighthouse. A light to set the water on fire. I revisited my lighthouse a month ago. Since I was young I have been circling around it, approaching, forgetting, calculating if I would make it there swimming. Las Formigues

"Can you help me?" a young woman of around 30 looks at me as if I am her only hope. "I'm only a fortune teller," I answer, "but please do tell me your fears." "Do you know the stories about these people who all of a sudden disappear and never ever show up again? Normal people with jobs and families and kids and hobbies, who walk around the block one day to let out the dog or get some cigarettes or walk outside late, under the stars to put out the bin and... that's it. Gone?" "Yes, I've heared stories like that," I answer not sure what she means. "I think I'm one of them." she says, almost horrified at herself, her voice faltering. I look at her questioningly. "I have this urge, you see. I want to disappear. I've had it since I was young. But the feeling grows stronger. These last months it's been very difficult to resist." "But where will you go?" I ask. "I thought I co...

We are in your hotel room, getting bored. I don't know what to do with my arms and legs. Sit or stand. Where? It's been a while since I've last seen you and you look fresh, cool and alert. Younger. I wish there was a swimming pool in the room. Anything to get rid of this sweaty, hot feeling. You seem as restless as I am, looking at me with dark shiny eyes, trying to get inside me. I think about past decisions taken and start to feel worse and worse, unsure, arms still moving around without purpose one hand fidgetting with the other. I blink and suddenly there's a swimming pool in the room. It looks old. We are in an extremely big old hotel in Romania. You have just taken a dive. I watch your body in the black swimsuit and it looks so good. I never expected you to have such a muscular, firm body with a nice even tan. I want to touch you but you back away. Hurt, because I have rejected you before. I try to kiss you and eventually you give in, hesitating but excited...

I woke up this morning to a serenade of angry muttering sounds produced by my bedpartner. Complaints because the birds are singing too loud. Especially at 5 a.m. Impossible to sleep with that noise.

Sometimes I completely forget the reason why I'm not calling you when I feel like it, or sending you a birthday present, or writing you a pretentious e-mail trying to display my so-called literary capacities and trying to make you laugh. I forget why I'm neither responding to nor deleting your cellphone messages. The reason is love. I try to tell myself that as long as I do not forget this, you will be ok.

A client asks me how long he and his wife will stay together. I start to itch. An itching I always feel when a certain kind of questions are asked. I take out my crystal ball - it always impresses- and frown. The crystal ball is a very useful attribute for a clairvoyant. You know why? I helps channeling negative energy into strong and friendly vibes. The client feels good around it. It makes my itching stop. I used to think my paranormal capacities were a veneral disease. "It isn't going very well between the two of you, isn't it?" I remark, pretending to gaze into the inifinite wisdom of the crystal. "Eh, no (*sigh*) ...", he looks at me then the crystal ball, "We're having a difficult time. I'm barely home, always working." "2 kids?" I ask. He nods. What am I supposed to do?He is looking for advice from a third party to decide whether or not to flush his marriage down the drain. "She's having an affair", ...

Spring is here. Blossoms are falling already. Leaves are open and amazingly green. The sewers of Paris are restless and infested with flies and other insects. I'm coming up crawling out into the light. My varicose veins bursting with energy, sending a chill through my skin with every heartbeat. Bois the boulogne is preparing for the high season. The lonely men at dusk, the lonely women with tiny babies during the day. There's always someone to rob, to seduce or to lie to. My pink poodles, jean-pierre et jean-claude are losing their hair. All of it. They are a highly aristoratic breed and have ancestors with incestuously blue blood. The hair loss is only a small disadvantage I have to reckon with. I'm making a nice wigg out of it anyway and I've put both of them in one of my old corsets . It's orderly, it's fine. I'm going for a stroll. A la mode: baby birds