Posts (page 2)

I don't have much to say.
I'm waiting to get a printer so i can manage to draw your face behind a mirror.
Then i'll scrap the silver paint layer and you will appear, glass without reflection.
Like watching a shadow on a lake, a chance to catch my eyes in yours.
At the end of the week, i've got a rendez vous but i don't really care.
The girl is cute and sounds smart. She draws and writes, from what i understood in the mist of tequila.
Yeah, right. But does she sing ?
I don't have much to say.
Last saturday i've been to the opening of a photography collective exhibition and i borrowed the identity
of one of the artists. I've walked the halls with his tag name on my black jacket. I've been talking to people,
describing a work that wasn't mine. God, your ways are mysterious but i still hate photography.
The guy didn't show up. He's from UK. Maybe he missed his train.
Maybe he didn't care because, even it the event sounded nice and smart, he was looking for something else.
I don't have much to say.
My friend is in big trouble. He may end up in jail after his trial in March. 9 months.
This is sick.
You don't have much to say either.
Rare drops of proximity, we're getting blurry, darling.
I guess it's the way it has to be with an ocean between us.
I knew but wanted to believe anyway. Life should never feel small, you know. 
We almost met. An intense 'almost'.

Tout le monde descend.
Et les vieux, et les bagages et les chats dans leur cages,
et les jeunes filles inconstantes et leurs fantomes apprivoisés
et les rêves de devenir autre chose que ce que l'on est vraiment
et les pilules qu'on aimerait faire avaler comme des whiskies à la pomme.
tout le monde descend.
Et les héberlués du bout du monde resteront sages,
comme un flash, aveuglé mais sans substance,
tu peux toujours courir pour les rattraper,
le train n'est pas encore parti que tu es déja arrivé.
Et tout le monde descend.
Reste des graines de tournesol dans les poches, des coquillages un peu cassés,
Tes empreintes dans la neige et des traces de maquillage au bout de mes doigts écorchés.
A la moitié du chemin, on n'ose pas vraiment regarder, le trajet déja parcouru
la peur au ventre.
Tout le monde descend, les corbeaux blonds et les écrivains du dimanche aussi.

This post has been inpired by a note left in the studio 49, a place to work, eat, meet people/world, dance and get drunk.

Despite my blog ID, I swear i answered the test honestly...

You are The Magician

Skill, wisdom, adaptation. Craft, cunning, depending on dignity.

Eleoquent and charismatic both verbally and in writing, 
you are clever, witty, inventive and persuasive.

The Magician is the male power of creation, creation by willpower and desire. In that ancient sense, it is the ability to make things so just by speaking them aloud. Reflecting this is the fact that the Magician is represented by Mercury. He represents the gift of tongues, a smooth talker, a salesman. Also clever with the slight of hand and a medicine man - either a real doctor or someone trying to sell you snake oil.

What Tarot Card are You?
Take the Test to Find Out.

I like to wander on boulevards, neon-like lights and beautiful empty cars (Audio section - Added : Sin_On Boulevards)

Yesterday night, going back home, i stumbled to my deepest surprise upon his car.
Of course, i was walking the elegant streets of her neighborhood, but even so,
the probability to find his new Audi if i looked for it would have been very low.
Karma has strange ways.
One day it leaves you out and shivering and the very next one it brings you diamonds on a silver plate.
I checked the interior, looking for some evidences it was really his. The plaque number was telling it all but
i was feeling dizzy, hearing blood pumping in excitment, hammering my veins and wanted to be sure.
I saw the silly plastic thingy hanging at the review mirror and a pair of her shoes at the back.

Yesterday night was cold, on boulevards. I was turning around the car, raving hunt dog around a fox hole,
carressing her dark blue angles with the palm of my hand. Imagining myself driving her fast, so fast
the motor would have heated up, red hot, her tires melted and flames spread in the interior.
I walked for a moment, inspiring the white air out of this dark night. It smelled gasoline and rain.
Did you fuck in his car ? I bet you did. Smelly black leather seats, roughly caressing your tights.
Under the orange electric lights, i was alone with the still machine. Many ways, there's many ways to do this.

Coming back, few minutes later, i wasn't thinking anymore, I let wrath decide and i went with the red flow.
I just lifted the thick steel tube. Glass shards like fallen stars on the street. Metal hurled in loud bangs.
Hitting it, kicking you, frenzied, I lifted the thick steel  tube. Windshiel d   gone in  three tries, p ure  ANger ,
got     blo ood t aste in my    mo uth and         hands     hurt hands hurt  I     c    r ied and i   l   a  u      g  hed        and  and   lift ed the thikc   steel    tu b e     i'll break     your b o    o nes    crush          next   time. Alarm  yelled    since the sta rt but i did n 't reali ze.  Peop le were watching  by the window. 
I had to go.

How i like to wander on boulevards, neon-like lights and beautiful empty cars.

It has been a week that i've been sleeping only 2 ou 3 hours per night.
It has caused trouble already, home is a mess and my mind goes in the usual wrong direction.

Poker games, daylight boredom and writing are my main excuses, this time.
Except i don't write so much.

I listen to the national radio station.
The guy (mellow tone/almost no inflection) speaks about philosophy & plays west african music.
He tells stories about non euclydian architecture and century old politics.
He says the shared communication technologies between production tools
and consumer goods will inevitably bring our society to its end.
(Or maybe am i already asleep and dreaming...?)

I know someone in Texas.
While i listen to radio, she listens to wires.
She's made of colors and spices. She's a dear friend.

For her, i will turn the radio off.

I rule an heavy protected fortress. Every passage is under control. Nothing may reach the inner chambers.

I haven't seen her since i moved, and today, we went to an exhibition together.
She's still a beautiful young woman. Her hair is now darker than it used to be. Slim. Delicate.
No make up, as usual. No perfume, unusual.
She wore a tight pair of jeans and a short leather jacket over a grey cotton tshirt.
I was following her, throught the stairs, up to my apartment.
I watched her body move, i understand the way she moves.
She dropped her bag open on my sofa while we talked about the follow up of our lives.
We got nervous. We talked fast as we had to fill the silence and barely supported direct eye contact.
I watched her hands instead. I made some coffee.
I've put tons of concrete between us. She closed every door.

But we were like kids in front of this massive photographic installation.
She talked about building a great set of nature pictures.
She said the painting we drew together was not fitting her new interior. Colors are too light, she said.
It's a fucking white painting, my dear. I've always tought we should have added colors on it.
But she liked it this way.
We walked the hallways of the museum. We tried not to stop at the same spots but we have built our
tastes together. There was this huge mechanical advertising display rearranged so it showed abstract paintings.
We stared at it. Close. The everchanging panel was making a brutal metal sound. Regularly. Again. Again.
Rythm of two lovers, i remembered every sleepless nights.
I remembered your soft skin against mine.
The taste of your sweat. The way your legs shivered. Your intense look when i yielded to you.

The exhibition was not as important as we thought it was, so we left.
Walking back to your car, we didn't say a word, (morning) strangers again.
We kissed goodbye. Your smile was beautiful when you asked me to take care.
I will.

I've built a invincible fortress, made of white ivory walls and guarded by 10.000 warriors.
But it's now haunted by the ghost of you.

 

Back from work, I sat at the very back of the railroad car, discretly opening my Razr to scan passenger's phones around. Via bluetooth, you can send anonymously messages, pictures or sounds to mobiles in a limited area if they're configured to accept such connection or left on default settings, wich means 50% of the time.
It's full of possibilities and/or troubles, depending who you bluejack.

I was coming back home late but still, i was able to list 6 'listeners', surrounding me.
Some phones are named, some are just labelled with their model number.
I spotted one called Code0000, so trying to figure who it could be, i gave it a try and sent a pic.
A stylized deer, on black and white because i want wild life to infest our minds again.
Pic got sent and accepted but no manifest reaction among the tired crowd. 
A bit disappointed, i stood up at my station and left the car.
That's when i noticed her, by the window, with her grateful smile, the girl in wolf's fur.

Tomorrow will be an usual day, i'm going to take a whole shitload of painpills to make it go faster, dizzier. Don't ask.

Je suis rentré précipitamment à mon appartement. Je veux dire vraiment.
Mes excuses aux passants écartés, malmenés, bousculés.
Il était 18h30, je venais d'en finir avec une longue réunion qui avait occupé toute ma journée.
J'aurais pu suivre le reste du groupe et rejoindre la soirée offerte par la boite, jouer à l'animal social
pour pas un rond et profiter de quelques sandwichs salvateurs.
J'ai préféré presser le pas, évoquer un demi au revoir et bifurquer à la première station de tram venue.
Je développe un syndrome particulier en ce moment. Une forte inclinaison à la solitude.
Elle imprègne naturellement mon caractère mais je ne l'avais jamais laissé totalement s'exprimer par le passé.
Lors de crises aigües, on me reprochait de m'enfermer dans une bulle. Opaque.
Je devais alors, comme l'apnéiste un peu largué dans sa folie des profondeurs, remonter,
palier par palier, vers les autres et le monde.
Aujourd'hui, il n'y a personne pour se soucier de cette bulle et donc, m'avertir que je suis en plein larguage d'amarres. Oups.
La solitude est une voie dans laquelle on peut se trouver et se perdre.
C'est un paysage intérieur. Un karesansui parfait dont l'observation peut être éternelle.
Question : L'observation éternelle d'un jardin zen rend-elle meilleur, moins vain, plus riche ?
Pas sûr.

Au-delà de ce twist inquiétant, la raison principale de mon empressement était d'être sûr, ce soir,
de pouvoir constater avec précision comment/quand je prends le contrôle de la nuit.
Au fur et à mesure de l'avancée de la soirée, je ressens d'habitude une gêne sourde, angoissante.
Je met alors mécaniquement en route le rituel qui m'amènera à trouver le sommeil (de la fermeture de la porte à celle de mes yeux)
La torpeur nous prend tous, orchestrée par notre cerveau reptilien, commandant à nos muscles de se relacher, à nos esprits de s'engourdir. Une sensation de peur et d'urgence se forme puis s'accroit, au fil des heures, jusqu'à ce que nous cédions au rituel.
Or hier, j'ai, par hasard mais formellement, pu observer la zone (cela n'est pas un moment) où l'heure devient abstraite, molle. La nuit n'est alors plus à craindre. Elle révèle sa force et la nôtre par son étreinte.
Il m'est impossible de savoir si je me déplace vers cette zone, si elle vient à moi ou si une attente silencieuse et méthodique modifie l'activité de mon cerveau, me faisant entrer directement sous la barre des 14Hz, c'est à dire en ondes alpha, voire en thêta, sous les 7Hz.
La nuit s'ouvre alors, en mille voies, semblable à une forêt dont les sentiers sauvages seraient bordés de ronciers.
Elle devient une figure tangible.
Pour moi, une femme brune rappelant, sous plusieurs aspects, une louve.

J'ai une relation avec la nuit. Elle est une partenaire lascive.
J'embrasse ses lèvres noires plus tendrement que jamais.

There's a clue game in my head
Sunday evening, i should be working on an urgent job for a customer specialised in security systems.
But i prefer to stay still on my red carpet, pretending to be dead.
I'm listening to Pulp's record 'This is Hardcore', 1998 Island Records .
I'm submerged by the majesty.
I remain silent and still like an young man mummy, hands carefully crossed on the chest.

There's a clue game in my head
But someone stole the cards and left only the dice.
I wonder what Jarvis Cocker is doing on such a lonely sunday night.
He's surely drinking wine in a trendy bar, in London. He gets easily bored.
I should call him about the texts i have to write. But does he know a single thing about security ?

There's a clue game in my head
There's a girl that does not really look like miss scarlett, she tied my heart with the rope.
Sunday evening's versatile mood. Violins and piano get oppressive.
By the window, sleep falls on the lightened street. The night is making herself up.
She's a lascivious partner, i'll kiss her black lips more tenderly than ever, this time.