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 :)
It makes sense though, writing about writing, since it becomes part of your life.
ReplyDeleteI guess, to me, that,s what writing is about, I understand you (general you) have to write about events and doing description of life scenes, but all this comes from thoughts, as you wrote us in the beginning :"
My thoughts about who am I in different places, and who am I with different people."
And that's why it's powerful !
Obviously, being able to observe thoughts and writing about them is not enough, you need then, to translate them into words, understandable but in the same time esthetical, that gives me the pleasure to read you.
I already told you how bad I felt about being proud of someone, but what the hell, it's how I feel when you brilliantly transport me, one more time in your mind.
It feels like another way of being around you !