people

Paris again.
A sidewalk somewhere, under the bright sun and hot air.
A blond woman was sitting there, amid bags and such. She wasn't young, but not old either. She was holding a kind of pale cup, waving it about so passing people could drop a piece of money in it.

When I saw her, I was smiling because I'd just seen a turtle in a shop and was in a good mood. You know the feeling : as if you had a balloon inside your head.
I gave her a piece of money, and then, foolishly, instead of just going my way, I opened my mouth and spoke. Of course, I said the most stupid thing I could say.
"Aren't you too hot, sitting here in the sun?"
I don't remember what she replied. A second later, another blond woman (a friend of hers I guess) looked up at me and began shrieking.
"What? Those who ask such a question aren't normal" she exclaimed. (Such a shrill voice she had!) Your head is cracked. You're completely crazy!"
The other said : "We like the sun. If I am too hot, I'll go elsewhere".
They spoke, on and on, and I was frozen, reeling. I tried to control myself and find a suitable answer. What should I have said? That indeed, yes, I was crazy?
But the vehement reaction of the women frightened me, and I felt I was going to melt right there on the street.
I said : "Sorry, I didn't wish to intrude" in English. And fled, their voices sticking to my back.

What took me to speak in English, I don't know. And why I felt like crying was another mystery. Even more baffling : Why, why did you open your mouth, o wise merlin?
I just wanted to be kind. Nobody was speaking to them. I couldn't walk as if they weren't there! I just intended to acknowledge their existence with a few words.

They hate me. That's probably why it's bothering me. They hate me, because...Because, what? I live under a roof, and can eat whenever I want?
My question was stupid.
I should just forget it and read Fitz. But...It's like a shard. A thorn.

Humans and their words. Sometimes it is so hard to deal with them!
One learns from things like that. One must make mistakes to learn.
Now I know : I'll never open my mouth if it's not necessary, especially with strangers (and people as touchy as beggars). A nod should be enough to acknowledge their existence.
Words are too dangerous.

I met a lizard on my way home (tiny black one, probably enjoying the hot day too). I felt a bit better after that meeting. I wish I had stayed in the shop with the turtle. It had a really astounding face.
But I can't forget the women and the shrill voice shrieking at me.

Alive

Lo, Lo, Lo!
The Earth smells like a giant swirling onion, and suddenly I can feel snow brushing lashes and mountain tops!
Lo, Lo, Lo!
Behold the world and push the moon away! Open your hearts, eyes and mouth. Let your voice unfurl itself from your rubis throats!
Lo, Lo, Lo!

That keyboard exists, that screen exists and those words exist too, as does the heart that beats in my chest.
The walls exist! Feel their still paint and color!
The air that flies between us exists, as are the thoughts that swirl in your heads!
We all exist with the world, and the wonder of this is so big it could burn the sun to dust and turn books into butterflies!
Flower, water and fingers, how come you exist?
Shadows, why do you flee and refuse to answer my questions?
How did the matter that constitutes the universe come to be?
Puzzle, puzzle. The wonder is too huge!

Lo, Lo, Lo!

Magic Strawberries.

Books -- yes, always

What do you need to write a book? Do you need to take lessons, be gifted, have the 'knack' of writing? Do you need to be full of stories?
Because, there is book and Book. One could just fill hundreds of pages with mere rubbish and publish it. That makes a book. But, what about a Book, a 'good' one?
Do you need a story? A plot? Good against Evil? A setting? (do not even mention the writting style...but the style is the matter with which the book shall be built...) 'Characters' ?
A Book should not be boring. Writers want to write books that are enjoyable, don't they?
Should a Book have a unity, a solid spine?

I have a...'character' (well, we should create another word for this). Yes. The setting is...everywhere. There isn't a plot, nor a story really. The hero is...hum...yes, he's kind enough to be good. But he's so frightening sometimes one could think he's the devil embodied. Neither good not evil. It's even so strange to picture him sitting on a bench, in the normal world, talking with someone.
He's more like a feather wandering on the wind. He's got no name, no history, no family, no home...just a lot of necklaces. And his damn wonderful stupidity.
And I promised I would write him into a book. I've tried, for 6 years now, to write the book. But...how does one write a book without a plot, a story? If I just put down what's in my head right now, I'd have the reader snoring in a matter of minutes!

But now I ponder. What if my...'character' is not made to be put into the frame of a plot and a story? Fitting him into a book is tricky enough, even without me tying to force a plot and a story on him!
Maybe I should just write, throw all caution in the ocean, and only then sew the pieces together.
What a messy book that's going to make! Just as messy and foggy as the...'character'!

Wood, one evening in the woods

Weight

As we grow up, we discover things, even those we already know.
A few days ago, I found out bodies have a weight.

How do we move? We shift our weight, ahead to walk forward, behind to step back. When one is aware of the bodyweight, one can move faster, whirl more graciously....
The tightrope walkers, the dancers are probably the ones who are most aware of weight and balance.
It's so heady to control our weight, shift it that way, or this way ; throw out your leg here and jump, and swirl...
I'm no good at dancing, but I don't care. I am now able to whirl and whirl like a snowflake, just with a right move of my leg. I can jump quite far, not just thanks to the feet that gives the impetus, but to the weight of the other leg.
My legs are sore from hours of jumping, but everybody should try it. They should teach things like this at school.

book....

Black and white, black on white go the tiny spiders, the black little lines...Words words that ring. Words that smell. Words that shine. Words words!

Damn you, words! Damn you! Why can't you swallow me forever? Why can't I melt in your black ink, oh books? Why can't we...
Anger. Anger is writting those words. Well does everybody know (*glares at self*) that words are but a frail shield, a thick blanket.
Some days they seem to have so much power. Yes they have. Then, how does one flee their power? By flinging oneself on books and clutch them, read them until one becomes a wraith?
But then but then...

Calling they are.

Shellfish

How does one make a vision come true?
Does one have the right to shape people's lives, let them be alive again, force them to drink the universe and be happy?
Where does one begin? How does one begin?

Changing, I thought, was the first step. Change the self before reaching for the others.But can one change its self?
I told myself : you have two years to crush your shellfish and stupîd self. Two years like a pupa, to become the one you long to be. Two years to mend broken windows and gather strength and ideas.
But *laughs*
I delude myself. As the time comes nearer and nearer, the old feeling rises again. Slowly, furtively.
Those you love are the ones who break you most easily and completely. Without even knowing what they did. I never believed this. But it's true.
How am I to meet her again, knowing what she thinks of me, she whom I came to love like a second mum, my wonderful piano teacher?
And once there's holed windows inside, how do you mend them? How can a frail, cowardly and disgusting fleeing self rise, change?
Useless, useless questions. Useless torture. Useless words.

A vision, and more. A delusion, a dream to fill the void of a ghastly creature? I hope not.
I promised Llu I would write him. If only...No. Llu's an Absolute. Llu is a magnificent Doll, a doll who will never yield, even if it leads to destruction.
oua, I dared to mention Llu in this internet blog! I can almost see his defiant eyes widening in disbelief.
Yes, I will dare. I will dare and become Merlin.

As the title of this "article" says so plainly, this is shellfish. Selfish. Choose as you will. No matter how one hates its self, one cannot destroy it without losing one's eyes.

Stop groping for tomorrows that don't even exist, silly!

The Vision

I saw a yellow sky dripping honey, a round sun like a freed lollipop, a banner of rainbows floating above heads.
I saw the greenest grass ever, with jumping laughing frogs and snails ; ponds of milk singing sofly, softer than all the pianos man has played.
I saw the old wise tree, branches like arms thrown around the World's neck. His roots were brown and purple, caressing the translucent skin of deep rivers. Silver birds and crocodiles wove a crown of clouds around its mighty leaves. The wise old tree was the bottle of comfort. The wise old tree was the Father with thousands protective hands.
I saw the wind, yes I did. It was drapped in robes of nougat, exuding existence wherever it ran. Wind was a joker : he swallowed children sweets and stole women's shoes. Wind was the pool where life swam.
I saw I saw. But did my eyes see themselves? Yes, they did.
My name's Merlin, and I have twelve eyes.

Once I saw a child smile, and all the answers were suddenly there.
Child child child! Speak, laugh and run, for you know what I seek! You are the one who will help! Child child child, don't stop smiling! You are the well where hope ripens. You are the wonder always new. You are the eyes that cannot go blind.

I saw a Window. A great Window which would never break. And I knew that I could do it : why, I hover over this world, insubstancial like the Window I saw.
Who could melt History back into its murky tomb?
Who could erase murderous science to store it in the rightful Mind?
Who would free the earth from the asphalt that throttles it?
Who would wipe tears from dried cheeks and mend the torn wings?
Who?

The children know the answer.

Green tiny light distorded by blue ink cartridge. (isn't Light magic?)

Up, up UP!

Shooting stars.
It is a night to taste sky, dark and eyes. Or rather a time for eyes to devour stars.

I sat among the aromatic tomato plants and looked up. In silence, am I tempted to add, but there is no such thing as silence. Let's say : wrapped with a speechless wind.
Because nightimes have their own melody : distant cars and planes, the shouts of people still up, insects buzzing and bats flying by. And even the occasional noise of a hedgehog running through the gravel, its long grey nose sniffing about.

The night sky is quite still (save for the planes), so when a shooting star passes by, the eyes jump on it and you can but gasp.
Some of them are little ones, others are flashing white and leave a trail of white smoke behind. It's an amazing sight : a white bolt gushing out of nowhere amid the summer stars!
And when you think of all the eyes that had looked at those same stars...that maybe people from another country are watching the same thing as you right now...

Light through glass and pale tea

Magic

The water is still, silence's swimming. Hark, here are the Great Moscow's Bells. Thrice they ring like grave soulquakes ; three lingering notes...one for the cold night, one for lost beloved, one last to wrench the skies.
Shake, shake! Above the resonance, rises another melody : ring the tiny bells, whispering to the stars. A story they try to weave, a world of numb spirits and calm springs. But here and there the Great Moscow's Bells call thrice, spliting the lakes in two. Stronger and fiercer they grow until the Moon splinters and fades like flour lost in snow.
Silence crawls in, and from the consumed coals

rises a spidery cry, a racing tempest. Man's sorrow turns the stars into shrieking bells, and the whole night's shouting raw.
Painful stabs, o airy bells! Mighty music swells, tumultuous. Powerful music's squashing all mountains, a lone meteor burning sky's cheek.

Thunderous music gushes from the bleeding heart,
Alone on the deserted steppes cries the man, his grave grief one with the Great Moscow's Bells lost melody.

Prelude in Do #...how come pianists don't melt on the white and black keys when they play it? Why don't people eyes break like creaking mirrors?
Dizzy fingers, such is Rachmaninov's magic.

The metro monster : out of the den (arts et metier station)

The other City

Under feets and houses, deeper even than tree roots lay the other City.
The Underground realm of the moving monster : the metro.

Fruit stalls, flower stores, posters and T-shirts sellers, musicians and painters...soda fountains...and the colorful people who walk through this world, adding a chewed-gum to the floor, taking a bit of the stations to the sunlight.
No plants dwell here, far from all light and sky. Rats, pigeons and humans have taken over.
The other City is swarming with possibilities : there is the map. You can go anywhere, choose the path you want to tread. That way or this way? This is a maze.

Arts et metier : an excellent, most classic and visited station, with its modern copper submarine atmosphere...
Ligne 11.

Metro Station : Arts et m�tier