ça ira

Jpromettrai jamais d'être toujours là pour toi
Ni même toujours quand il faut
Jpromettrai juste d'être là, parfois.

Et on est du genre à accepter ça,
se dire que c'est l'Univers qu'a voulu ça
et que parfois, bah ça ira.

mouldy lemons

There are a few months of my high school years that I will never forget. Hyper-romanticise and extrapolate on yes, but forget, no.

I was under the control of this guy, just a year above me. Very weird. Weird as in trench-coat and briefcase. At highschool. 

This was the dawn of facebook messenger. We would chat for hours all night, school nights and never talk in the day. Not a look, not from him anyway. 

He was my source of extra-curriculum knowledge. Those juicy, sciency, philosophical facts that are facts in my head only. I have no doubt that he is a genius. A master of lies.

An older guy. An old man. A teacher. A mental abuser. 

Cuz it fucks with your head to have someone so, so present on fb, but unapprochable even though you're in the same group of friends. 

To have someone write your astrology future, a full, 3 pages. And make you start believing in it. These things hack away at your brain, one emotion and email attachement at a time. 

He also taught me the internet, the dark world of 4chan. Full of red light district channels and
trenchcoat trolls. 

That's what he was, an immature, mysoginistic, lustful and controling troll. 

And I fell for it. I wanted our online communiom to ammount to a physical one too. 

I really nearly followed him outside the school gates once. Really nearly followed him to his racist, rightwinged father's home. 

The only thing that saved me from him was myself and my trust in my instincts. Because he smelft of mouldy lemons to me. His weird looks had grown on me but his body smell, never. 

I know many of my since relationships have been similar. Intense and imbalanced intellectual relationships following onto some cocktail of love and sex. Enough to knock anyone out. 

I blame my innocence and his acertiveness for my kinks today. My submissive searches are fueled by the elation I found under his mindfucking mentorship.

Drug of choice.

Drug of choice.
That's nonsense.
You don't choose a drug. It summons you and you pray.
My god is procreation, but the end goal is elation.

Are you over 18?

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Porridge

Can I remember you before you became ?
Can I remember you before I was disillusionned?
I remember when you had no shame and I had no pride
Remember you when you were the coolest in my school list
When you still listened to french rap
You became a cop

Do we still own our childhood?
Are we still something, years after the fact?
Am I still intitled to old times' sake?
You are.

At some point in the night, I've watched too many series.
I can't go to sleep now, I've been up too long.
This night is not for resting, it's for waking the dead
This is where we belong now, in the unread
Peas porridge cold, facebook message, 3 years old.

Miss Heard.

It happens to me, or rather I ___.

That uppon a thought of a joly day get suddenly ambushed and become a prey.

I'm walking down a mundane street when I notice a stranger's feet.
What happens to my mind? does it walks on innocent and gay?
No it stops. It lapses!andlapses!andjumps!and screeches.
My fingers don't curl.don't.bend.they contract and pulse and I scrape my sides.
I'm being watched so I stop.
I walk.
There's a few meters to go to that second a few hours ago when I commented on my lover's foot in my vagina. It's not something I care for nor something I scare, let it be known, heavens forbid I actually admit to having fantasies.

I'm answering the phone to another fucking caller when my mind drags up
the drudgery of finding a rhyme to end this concertina.

I have to. I have to write about this disgust also. Disgust myself with my what things I've or said and done.
I'm besieged with thoughts of my enamoured time in the shower with my lover. Slitherin skin.
Oh this one, I love him, I admire him, I'm intimidated by him and I love him again.
For every ten lovers I love dearly fondly non-commitently and sanely, one!floats!by.

Drags me weary and makes me wary. Wary of his delicately bearly therely stroke of my thumb. How my lungs lunge when they lunch on his.  Of my flute he plays as he fondles my nave.

Oh this one I would gladly write letters to and blog post our animal nights together as I soothe my bruised pubic bone today Monday in the office. Full of dirty dishes and dripping kisses. But most gladly of all, I'd wake a foreigner's god, to be rid of the cursive curse of saying, in a soaken mess "me too" when I misheard "let's undress".

driftwood words and pumkin thoughts

I can say, right now, with reasonnable certainty, that nobody is thinking about me.

My mum is in the room, sleeping on the bed on the floor, gently breathing. My brother on his phone, my grandmother asleep too. My father, I have not thought of for a few days at least, I know he too is sleeping a few hundred kilometers from here.

David, sleeping or having sex. My other close but faraway friends I haven't spoken to in a few weeks. The ones I made on my journeys are icing sugar someone breathed on. Deliciously light and floating but impossible to retrieve. Maybe some guy from Okc is thinking about me.

And I think back to my short time in the Pyrenees, where eating pumpkin, leeks and sauté potatoes with soy sauce was the glory of the evening candle light wooden dinner table. Surrounded by these people I wanted dearly to impress, to love and to be loved by.
My heart -not that physical, blood riddled one- but that eery one that errs through my body. Seeks harbour in the least fortunate places at the wrong time of night.
That heart, is driftwood. Driftwood is so peaceful in our mythology of words. Yet so sad. We only see it once it drifts no more.
I wasn't thinking about my heart, during those pumkin fueld evenings where we worshiped the dirt on our dining table. I was thinking of sleeping, of making a fire, wondering whether I was pulling my share in the automnal tasks. I was moving slowly in my sleeping bag during our morning medidations.

A rythm is made of zeros and ones. If it were just ones, just positives, it would be a constant, unnoticeable thing. And life is the same. That pumpkin time was a one. Our hearts, physical, fall immobile to zero between every one. It's my heart, the eery one, drifting to a halt sometimes that makes me realise that at other times it was drifting through my body. This gives me hope to continue in the zero part of my life,  knowing, I have to go through this to get to one. It gives me hope at some hours anyway.

What do the thoughts become, those words we think at the cusp of sleep ? Tonight I wrote my driftwood heart down, others, I don't.
Tonight no one thinks of me, just as I don't think of them.

Life advice:

 When trying to be a sexy hippy girl by not wearing any knickers under your dress, don't try to buy a bicycle.

Body Flooding, number 2 of 3

There are a thousand solitudes.

Just as there are a thousand friendships, each one fractaling into itself over the years.

A thousand solitudes.

All this documentaries about Partition in India.

All this documentaries about Partition in India.

All this is making me terribly longing. I see the old man comforting the woman about the horrors that were done to her familly and his and many others. Giving her his blessing. Reminding her that it is all in God's will. I miss this. Remembering that is it all in Nature's plan is easy when you're happy, knowing it about the sufference too is something else alltogether.
India to me has become the kindom of spirituality. Not because it is more present there, I believe people bring their own spirituality into their life anywhere in the world. But India is where I have learnt it.
My childhood was lined with the Buddhism of Nichiren Dai Shonin by my parents' daily practice, you would have thought this would have seeped into me more than it do. What seeped into me was their disdain for Christianity, the omnipresent religion in europe at the moment. I grew up learning to look down upon the biggots and reactionnaries who became synonymous with spirituality. Religion and spirituality can join and enhance each other, but they can also be very much separate, to the great loss of religion I feel.

Maybe it is because the places I went in India --Auroville, and more recently Dharamshala, the refuge town of the Dalai Lama-- were open and trying to encourage people towards greater personal beliefs.
I have, being back in england, forgotten to work towards world peace consciously in my every action. And I feel how much I'm missing out.
I've come to realise how beautiful it is to have this shining thread to follow in your daily life, how beautiful it is for the image you project (through clothes, hair, makeup..) to be influenced by your spirituality. This reminds you that you are a child of Nature and so is everyone else, through their good days and their angry days. How beautiful it is to remember why you do practice certain rituals. Yes they can be supperficial and done out of habit, but the strive to better yourself for the benefit of humanity is holy and can be remembered through these actions.

It's our awareness of our will to better ourselves for others that is important.

There is still a lot of stigma around sex.

I'm a rather open person sexually, in what I do, who I like, and what I talk about.

Never the less, I censure some of what I say or write, even talking to strangers on the internet, even on here now. Stigma is the reason I don't share this writing to all the people I would like to ; some of the censure is self-inflicted, but it always originates from forseen reactions of others.
Stigma is the reason I'm in cringy situations at the moment regarding my sexlife, which, funnily enough is my actual life as well. It's why I'm meeting people online, it's why I'm hooking up with guys from work and ending up, the next day, in a Tesco's car park, with moist car windows and a funny smell in my knickers the rest of the afternoon at work.

My desire-need-whatever for regular new encounters but my desire-need-whatever to keep them secret from my familly is what gets me into places that I'm not sure I'm at ease in. It's all exciting until he says "say NO to me once more you slut and I'll... !" and I remember how we didn't talk about safe words, how I had to remind him again, that of course he needs to wear a condom and how no one, NO ONE. knows where I am right now. That's when I realise that his hand grabbing my jaw and thrusting in my mouth could turn in an instant from a thrilling feeling of consented submission to something.. else. At that moment, all I can do is hope that he sees non-con fantasies as games to be played but that should never become reality. Non-con fantasies are a tight rope I often end up stumbling upon and realising too late I haven't got anything to hold onto and I'm trusting a stranger I met 38 hours before to remember that my stubborn little girl act is not only an act: when I say "I don't want to Daddy",  I mean it. At that moment, I'm hoping that he seing me say no to him turns him on enough that it sends him over the edge, towards this end of this episode. And I like that thought, because it genuinely turns me on, but I'm bordeline here.

This is where it all gets muddled up. This is where what's happening in my head is as foggy as the windows from our hot bodies.

And fuck am I aware that it's a dangerous thing to be saying all this, to be putting it out there, readable by any one who passes this street of the internet. BUT THATS WHAT I HATE: I HATE that it's dangerous me doing this, it shouldn't be. No more than wearing a short skirt is asking for it. I am not asking for it. I'm asking for the liberty to meet safe people in safe place and do no-longer-dangerous things with them and then to be able to talk about it to the people around me without feeling any shame about it.

I'm also angry at myself for liking these kind of things. In the same way I've had gay friends who were once angry about their homosexuality, I'm angry about my fierce heterosexuality.

Every day I question wether it's nature or nurture. I wonder daily wether I brought these my fucked up fantasies of submission to guys onto myself in my teens by getting into the wrong chatrooms late at night and being intrigued by seeing the wrong images. Did I bring it onto myself or is it society as a whole that makes it so much easier and part of the course of things, for me as a ciswoman to want to be dominated by men ? And, if I found an answer, what would I change ? I would still not be able to change those parts of me.

I try, strongly, to overcome my straightness and my kinks. I actively search for partners who are into BDSM, but, try very hard to instigate a conscious, poly and balanced relationship between me and them.
I felt a needle prick of shame, last saturday to be leaving the gay pride to go fuck a guy. And is my anger legitimate, when aimed at one of those parisien-subburb-queer-gatherings, where I felt in the wrong and out of place to be in a commited relationship with a man when, internally, I do have questions about my gender and my attractions and feel I don't conform and do identify as queer when I'm on my own googling my anguish. Not being attracted to the opposite gender is not frowned upon within queer communities. But, me not being attracted to my gender, what does that say about me ? In the same way I know being less attracted to people of colour is constructed, and is something I have to actively work on.

By engaging in these cringy car park activities am I perpetuating the myth that all women are sluts deep down, that when we say no, we mean yes. Am I not making enough effort to deconstruct the building blocks society has made me with?

Caresses like stars on my skin and words written to me, kisses to my mind

Monday not bad, tuesday's okay.

It's wednesday morning I find myself in bed in dread.  I should be up washing my hair but I find myself  in bed dripping with the coldness that comes from tiredness.
I should have a shower, I should wash my hair with more than dry shampoo. Not even the thought of putting nice clothes on is rousing me today, even tho it's as close as I'll get to being creative today.
The tiredness is double. Yes, I should have gone to bed a half hour earlier at least, but, when only a quarter of my allotted 24hours is spent actually doing things I want to do, it's hard to not want to push on a bit longer, a bit longer scrolling.
And the tiredness is double because it's the tiredness of boredom. We can rely on a surprisingly little amount of sleep, providing we're having fun. Providing my days are not spent sorting files in alphabetical order. It would be alright if I didn't have to recite the whole alphabet just to get to s.t.U.v.
I know now that the next two days will be suffured in this state.

It gets into you this rain. Like murky washing up watter, you've got orange rubber gloves on, but somehow, unsurprisingly, there must be a hole in them cuz today, all I feel is dread.

Tonight, yes a few hours have passed since th first letters of this piece. As I look for a quote by Kerouac about depression and washing up water that I CAN'T FIND, I remember that we are alike in some things he and I. We are alike in the intensity. And I  realise, more importantly, that the abysmal low I feared would come after my Indian high is nigh. The reason I feel such elation is the reason I feel so delfated now. Because I feel everything so strongly. Maybe we all do.
I ask myself many times wether I would prefere a constant lowkey satisfaction or a great heights and deep lows at unpredictable times. The aspirational

Urgh this is shit. It's thoughts I've thought a thousand times, put into words while on the bus and taken out of words again while walking home. This is me writing because I want to not because I have anything to say. It started okay, started off raw and sleepy and lonely, ended up being some posing metacognitionny nonsense. 

Mindlessly passing my hand over my chest, only to find the odd bit of caster sugar. Nice, i'm gonna hide more food around my body I like these surprises.

Danse.

I've never really got started on this, never written on it. Ah the merging of loved arts... :D

What struck me with this, and has many a time before, is the redefinition of aesthetics in art.
Everyone has deep rooted ideas of what is pretty. Looking at the way Mucha draws fingers, tapering off to the end, the ornamental lines that were eye pleasing at the time, long strokes that curb suddenly and interlace each other.
In ballet classes when I was ten, we were taught legs taught and feet pointed. And this dancer does that, but what makes this piece stricking is when she doesn't. It's the moments you see her arm muscles, her strong upper back, the way it pumps and explodes on the beat. It's the contorsions no longer reserved for contorsion acts in freak shows. It's saying ok, this is cool now. Our bodies can do this therefor there is beauty in it. This foot suddenly sticking out is power. The way her pelvis is pushed forward and back rounded, complete opposite to the sexy booty jiggling about and breast thrust forward. It's the alternance of harsh movement and  self awarness she is showing off. In art, even when the goal is to not attain beauty, aesthetics are involved and reached and create a greater overall beauty.
And when I dance, I'm aware of these things too, I long to delve into dancing properly outside of parties because when I am at a party, among the mass of mindless head bobbing people what I'm doing is working. I'm practising my movements, trying things working out my new beauty, remember the air of other dancers I've seen at other parties. I'm thinking what shape is my body making is it something we're used to, how have I evolved over the years what will be the next influence to me ?

Be in the Love

This is the first part of a tryptic.

I have always drawn people, but only recently have I questionned who I draw.
I'd started thinking about the Guerrila girls statement, --do women have to be naked to get into museums-- and went of to want to draw male people but found it quite difficult and keep coming back to women.
Yesterday, I found this website called Women Painting Women. And it's so great, I'm finding new arguments. A man painting a naked women's body is not the same as a women doing it.

It's important to wonder why we need naked bodies and are they always necessary, in my new found love for Art Nouveau, and Mucha, I see that he used naked women for advertising, most of his work was promotion from anything from train trips down to Monaco to Washing Up Powder. This I find wrong, so I find it wrong too if I'm just puting a scarcely clothed woman in my painting for aestheics only.
But I'm not, by chosing who I paint, and adding variety, moving away from the able, white, beauty-norm conforming bodies and using them to promote other ideas such as healthy love and peace as I know I will in my next work, I'm not ashamed of gaining inspiration from a tad muddy background.

I love the complexity of the world and of intersectionnal feminism. I love that who you are gives complete different meanings to what you do and what is acceptable for you. I know I'm far from being clear about what is ok for me to and am surely making many mistakes allong the way.

Hokay, one of my first illustrations I guess. I've recently fallen upon Mucha and Art Nouveau. This is heavily inspired by this image, for no particular reason than me liking it. Until the Il bit. I'm gonna explain it because, unless you're super into french gender-neutral linguistics, you're not gon get it.

Christianity is riddled with gendered concepts and that is one of the many reasons I refuse it. "Ainsi soit-il" is the french translation of the latin, Amen. Il is the masculin pronoun, also used in place of neutral, it. Like in english and the more and more common use of they and them to refere to anyone, a lot of people are looking for gender neutral alternatives in french, and I love this because it melds two of my favorite subjects, feminism and linguistics. There are different ways of doing this, you can refere to someone who doesn't wish to be gendered by ielle, the mix of il and elle, and the advantage of this is that you can hear the difference orally. However, it didn't fit so well on my page, so I went for the lesser used but still visual, ille. 

It's always good to queer things up. 

Brighton. 3 pounds and 8 pence. I had to buy 10 pencils and a whole pad of paper.

This is what I want. The urge to write, before it goes, because I've just been living and know there was something special about it. It's special every day.
Right now I'm good, it's 8pm, I'm knackered, can't walk straight and nearly got runover. But I'm walking to the train station and I'm pretending to myself that I'm part of this noisy funny group of people. It's funny to me anyway, they don't know I'm pretending. They don't know I just got what I want.
What I want is not staring into someone's eyes, promising years of the awkwardness of the mundanity. I want the awkwardness of funny new encounters. I want the conversations we do because we want to talk but don't quite know how to talk together. Knowing it will come.
I want the awkwardness of going back to their place, knowing full well there's nothing to do there but each other.
Somehow, through lapses of varying akwardness so blatant it honestly isn't, we're there.
I'm there in the darkness of our mouths, light absent because I'm seeing with my tastebuds now and all else is forgotten but my hand on his penis and his hand on my vagina. If medidation is undadultered concentration on the present moment then I'm there. The tunnelled vision into the triangular loop that we are. I don't care for the dripping pussies and hard dicks, I want the ones full of sweat and blood and salty and sour because they're the ones we have. And I don't want the mind numbing orgasm, I want the one that makes me want to cry and hug it's creator. I want the beauty you can't place, the one that makes you smile and want to look some more.

I want the like-drunken walk home. If I was told my rhubarb ice cream had been mdma spiked I would not be surprised -- the elation of the attraction, the glory of the connection then the dispair of the separation. This is what people mistake for LOVE, for FEELINGS. This is what people think you base a long term full blown relationship on. The fact that they feel good together and bad appart and wait for texts to vibrate their phones and suddenly stop in the middle of the washing up because their mind was elsewhere lingering on the memory of a body. This is not.

But I think that yes, /because/ I do I want to see this person every day and would jokingly consider giving up my job so we can go back to the luxury of student life of spending entire days in bed; then we should. It's.nothing.more.than.that.

Quite frequently, the closest I come to dying is when my big toe gets caught in the big flowing throuser leg of my other foot. Its terrifying.

Mundane Munday (don't tell me there's not etymological link in that !)

I realise now how many of my thoughts range between the interaction between me and humans and me and places.

My thoughts about who am I in different places, and who am I with different people.

Home. I'm home in the sense that I'm at the place I called home for about 20 years of my life. I recently cleared my pink ladden bedroom, the glitter, the feather boas, the frog mobiles hanging, the dirty knickers and socks, hidden under the cupboards since about 5 years ago probably, and the Postman Pat poster that had been on the door forever - forever an in for all it's existence because this room did not exist before me. Before I was a child and used to sleep with my face pressed up agaisnt the cool white wall, lying on my right side. If I can't sleep at night I still picture that wall so I can remember what side I like to sleep on. Finnally emptied the suitcases of bits, those bits I know not what to do with, that date back about 4 years ago, the remainders of going back and forth to my new student home in paris and my childhood home in Normandy. Elisa's union jack cushion, Corentin's wednesday-afternoon-sex socks, that broken wing-mirror I found in the street and had to keep, because, memories. That box of my failed attempts at being a groupie, collecting my friends-that-were-in-a-bands' broken guitar strings and drumsticks. Well, I didn't fail that much, still got to sleep with them and be on all the official festival photos...

Those few square meters in that pink room are where I have spend the most hours of my life. Weird thought.

Sunday, when I was at this guy's place (this guy that I'd only met once a few years ago and because we both wanted to hook up cuz didn't get round to it at the time, and for some reason we got talking on facebook again, so I thought it would be a good idea to go round to his for a party) So, sunday afternoon, after the excitment of the party, and the new people, and the nightime fun was over, I suddenly wanted to be with people I know. That translated into me calling my Mum and doing a 5 hour train ride to get here. And it's nice. I'm out of my life a bit, I'm in hers. Hers with the teenage brother who doesn't know what to do but smoke dope, Hers with the boyfriend who has a bad knee, hers with the artclasses and the kittens and the messy car. I'm just here for a few days, happy to be with people I know and to not care about any of it appart from a compationate way.

I'm trying to write about these parts of my life also, trying to not filter out only the highly trendy parts and glamourise them to the extreme, I want to write about the mundane also, and hope it is mildly intertaining to some people.Well, this is it for me today, maybe i'll add something later.

Bit of meta-cognition-writing here : i've gon from writing about writing in the first line, to being fully immersed in what I was writing, then, at the end, came out of it, looked at it in a critical mind, and wrote about that. Prettty much the path you, reader, will follow :)

beauty and young lust

To see the first moment you realise you want me like I want you. Your angelic face. I want to see the face you make, your eyes half open, unable to process the feeling. Your jaw gently dropped and your breath stopped. The few little whimpers seconds before and the moment after you decide you can’t take anymore.

Maybe a spasm and the fall. The realisation that you just came for me, that we moved in each other and exchanged breaths simply out of beauty and young lust.

This is still me.

I am a net trying to catch the foamy waves that are my thoughts. These thought-objetcts that are washing away by my actions of trying to catch them!. I am creating yet more swell running from one room to the next getting ready to get into bed and write my beautiful words that just came to me and are already polluted by the mundane. But I stem from the mundane. I can not extract myself from the mundane and am exacerbated by it.

Some people learn unnatachement through people. I have. But I have also learnt it. Am learning it. Through objects. The word-objects that I have lost in the flight when I lost my mind for a few minutes, --too high fever, too many drugs the night before, too many late night the months before-- a moment of forgetfulness and my book gone. 75% of the best words I've objectified, lost. Well, lost to me, found to someone else. I'm calmer now than a few minutes ago in my frenzied typing, my writing urge of the sea has just softened and I'm tempted to change the tab. Mundane. Hand ache. To much time on the computer at work. Mundane. My life is so less important to write these last few days. My days similar my thoughts similarer.
I'm calm about my book lost, my head is calm, my heart, doesn't beat any faster thinking about the loss, just a little heavier. I'm gently mourning the loss by remembering that I am who I am because I created those writings, they do not exist physically anymore but I still reap their fruit.

So what is the point of my writing ? The answer is mingled up in an urge to write for myself because I honestly believe these thoughts are my most sparkling possessions and every one that flows away is a terrible loss, and because I honestly believe there is truth in them. I need people to know the world as it is lived by me.

Watching a documentary about a science base in Antarctica, where a max of 90 people live there in the 3 months of summer, and sadly this year, none will be able to stay the winter. The people were sad. Sad to leave their home where no money flows, and where you don't have to queue in line to get anything. I recognise this sadness, the sadness of leaving their home caused by the joy of having found one. A home as in a physical place and as in a home of people.

So I write because it's a long rope linking my many lives together, showing me that although I'm not home now, I'm home in myself, and I'll go back to home someday. Showing me also, that whatever I do, I can't keep a hold on the times when I love people when we feel things together when we forget we're even feeling but that I don't have to forget them. I don't have to forget that me, Goodmorning this is Joanna at NewTimes recruitment is also Joanna studying ancient herbs by day and kissing dark boys on not so ancient herbs by night, laughing at the moon and saying hello to the trees. This is still me.

Tell me.

Tell me.
Just tell me, tell me when I take hold of your internal organs and turn them into butterfly cakes and fairy lights. Tell me because so many do it to me. So many, as you will probably come to read if these articles last on and I don't censure to much stuff.

So many turn my blood into clouds when they first blow into the room. So many turn my bones into waves of desire after a few chats and our tongues want to no longer talk but make sandwiches together. So many end up making my insides as messed up and wrong as a butcher's shop, all bloody and gore but I swear it is sweet (I have to say, the blood and gore bit is me quoting Hozier).

Tell me when I do this to you. And tell me when I'm crushing you. Tell me because I can't go through life thinking I am the only one this happens to. Tell me because I want, I truly want to create a little world where we can say theses things and I will be able to say back "I hear your heart grinding to a halt now and your feelings are beautiful" Maybe I have the same, maybe I don't, maybe I don't yet.

It's beautiful you're able to change your priorities for some time, and put some stranger-no-longer-a-stranger in your thoughts as you're using your credit card or not making your bed because these are the thoughts associated with that person.
In my head, when I am a butcher's shop inside, life continues. But at the same time, I know my blood is doing a Formula 1 race from my brain to my loins and I'm so sad no one knows the event is going on.

It's beautiful to have the privilege to do that. And, it's an act of awareness towards a world where loving someone instantly and insanely and briefly is ok and not a commitment to a life of sanitised marriage. And so I want people to be able to do this with me, I want to be a place where me not reciprocating your love with the same intensity is not the end of the world because there is no shame in it and there are many other places like me to put fairy lights on. And also because, I might just have the electricity to turn your fairy lights on...

you can show your ears Hozier if you want - he is recurrent in mine

Living and Leaving. ~05/05/17

Living and leaving.

In the international language that we still call english, these words have become one. People go through life, travelling. Different places, differents times. “Where are you living” becomes a homophone of “when are you leaving”. Say it a few times and you’ll see.
But it gets to me deeper than that.

In the constant departure from the past we forget that we are, in fact, living. Today, I am, living. And tomorrow, that tomorrow that comes in one month’s time, I will be, leaving.
Leaving breaks my heart. It throws a river of crying tears in me, pushing at the dam that is my soul. I can feel it now, gushing through my eyes, distorting the present. My home unrecognisable through the blur. I’m living in the future. ANd I don’t want to go there, to the unknown.
How could I ? How could I when the known present time and present place are so good to me ?
Exchanging fleeting love with strangers, love so much more pure and accepting than that I could give before. That painful love you give when all you want is.a.bit.more.
How could I want to leave when I am truly living now and feel I will die of sadness at the mere thought of being elsewhere.


I’m strong. Well, sort of. I thought I was. I thought I was stable. Stable in my joy. I’ve been stable in my joy for a whole week now,
But I’m stable in my joy until I’m not. I’m confident until I’m not, I feel accepted until I don’t and I feel loved until I don’t.
I thought I could find solace in my ever changing self, but turns out, I need the hugs and drugs on the rocks and on the streets. I need the gentle hand on my knee, cradling my painful heart, helping me strengthen that dam inside me.
Turns out, I think I need nothing more until I lose my bliss to a kiss and all I can feel is the erosion in my limbs.
Gravity is no more grounding but the mere physical attraction between me, the land and the planet.
The pull of leaving no more the escape from boredom but the sentence to a lifetime of eternal unsatisfaction.

And I’ll still be leaving.

insupportable, supportable

Il fait vert dehors la Normandie et j'écoute Saez -chose irrégulière précisons-le- en préparant des pates au fromage.
Comme tous, les paroles de Saez exhubent un sexisme boueux. Moins que certains, plus que d'autres. Mais mon féminisme n'est plus ce qu'il était. Il n'est plus un filtre obvious sur ma perception du monde, il est devenu ma vision du monde et me lacère à l'interieur que j'utilise le pronom masculin pour le définir. Il n'est pas non plus ce qu'il était parce qu'il a été rejoint par d'autres visons également. Par des visions que j'ai du mal à mettre en parallèle avec mes luttes parisiennes passées. Aujourd'hui, je ne regarde pas une personne qu'à travers un filtre socio-économique mais aussi à travers un filtre disons, spirituel ? Je suis intimement convaincue que tout se passe pour une raison précise et inconnue. Que nous sommes toustes enfant.es de la Nature. Toustes inconscient.es et toustes divin.es. Mais.
Une femme ne peut pas dénoncer son agresseur sans crainte, le peuple tibétain parmi tant d'autres est persécuté et des organisations afro-féministes ne peuvent rien faire sans que leur combat soit retourné contre elleux.
Et dans tout ça. Comment croire que chaque personne est divine. Comment croire que l'on fait toustes partie d'une même énergie, d'une même chose infiniment vaste et juste. Comment des atrocités peuvent-elles exister. La question n'est pas plus compliquée que ça. Et pourtant, la réponse, m'est plus difficile à trouver que la réponse à pourquoi la vie.

Des fois j'essaie de regarder les choses de plus haut, plus haut en mode tout le malheur et le bonheur du monde s'égalisent à un niveau. C'est réconfortant pour ma vie de fromage fondu sur des pates. Puis je me vois expliquer ça à une femme subissant les violences de son mari. "Mais t'inquiète, de toute façon, au final, tout s'égalise, tu souffres et tu vis dans la peur constante, mais à des kilomètres, y'a une personne en train de vivre sa vie rêvée de hippie écoloe, donc tout est ok"
Ces pensées sont super dans mon carnet en papier recyclé avec des fleurs séchées dedans mais n'aident rien à la vie physique.

Et c'est là qu'on retrouve la dualité. Dualité obligatoire dans les réflexions. On ne peut pas tout abstratiser, on ne peut pas parler de la vie d'une manière qui s'applique tellement à tout que le général devient vide de sens. Comme les logiciels de traduction automatiques, créés par nous et toujours incorrects car nos pauvres cerveaux d'humain.es sont incapables de mettre des pensées sur un processus évolutionnaire naturel.
Elle est là la dualité, nous ne pouvons mettre des mots sur notre propre existence car nous sommes incapable d'avoir le recul nécessaire. Nous sommes, et c'est pour ça que nous ne pouvons le comprendre.
Et l'autre coté de la dualité alors. Le coté terriblement personnel, le coté relationnel, humain, immédiat. On en fait quoi ? on en fait quoi quand on est face à une injustice viscérale et qu'on cherche comment s'en sortir, quelque chose pour allévier la sensation ? Littérairement, j'ai envie d'arriver avec une chute, une réponse, je sais qu'en lisant vous vous y attendiez. En écrivant j'avais même l'impression que ça allait arriver. On fait quoi ?
Toutes les sages personnes le diront, la paix repose dans l'acceptation. Mais l'acceptation est-elle compatible avec le militantisme ? Si j'accepte que les injustices existent, est ce que je peux encore mener des luttes contre ? Ma tête vrombonne à une fréquence insupportable, supportable, entre ces réflexions.

the eternal compagny of myself

As I lie in my french bed, I wonder, will it be english or french ?
I'm writing but not really concentrated. There is the living moth, dying as we all are, swirling to close to the light and soring up again.
There is Teo on facebook, a conversation of blandness, fulled with love. Those conversations you have when there is nothing of interest to say, but you say it all the same, just to let the person know you care.
There is me here. Only me here, yes there is my familly meters away, but the ones I feel linked to by a string now are leagues away and probably not feeling linked to me.
What do I do with all these loose strings I have, winding round the world ? The strings that were taught 10 days ago, now lie, limp, loosening.I was there before. 10 days ago, I was in Bhagsu, my new found home. that feeling of knowing life is still happening there but I'm not. Someone walked into my restaurant the other day and noticed I wasn't there, noticed enough to message me. It's these things.

10 days ago, I thought, when I went down the unrationnal tears on my face, that my life would change when I arrived elsewhere, because anywhere was elsewhere from Bhagsu. But my life didn't change I am still me, I am the only one that stays, Wherever I will go, I'll be there. I've been there every moment of my life. Even that time I took mushrooms and died, I was still there. Sometimes this thought terrifies me, that feeling that if I go mad, I know it will be the madness of being alone, the solitude of my head translating to an incapacity to connect with others.
And that probably says a lot about me I guess, that my biggest fear at the moment is being in a state where everything is normal, but something is off, like being carressed by a gloved hand

Acceptance of this solitude, the eternal compagny of myself brings me solace and happiness.