Enjolras - the marble lover of liberty

"Love, the future is thine. [...] In the future no man shall
slay his fellow, the earth shall be radiant, the human race shall love. It will
come, citizens, that day when all shall be concord, harmony, light, joy, and
life; it will come, and this is to make that day come that we are going to
die."

Victor Hugo. Les miserables. °

Iceland : lava hot flower of the Rime Giant

ìslensku

At last, I found a good site to learn Icelandic, on the net, for free.
Nice.
Maybe I should begin my homeworks, instead of learning things which are totally out of subject.

http://www.icelandic.hi.is/coursetest.php

Smiling plug

Yesterday, young people ("les jeunes") burnt cars, broke windows. Some beat a man to death as he was taking a picture of a streetlight, before the very eyes of both daughter and wife.
They, the future of the country? They, the future of humanity?

It seems useless to consider one man alone. Consider rather Humanity.
Humanity is great, yes, and terrible. Violence is part of it, like fins are part of fish. A long sheer line of sorrow will follow its history to its end. Intertwined with a rope a creativity, smiles and enthusiasm.
Judge, love, admire, hate, despise, or whatever. Humanity is as Humanity is.

Looping light - taking a pic while moving the picture-taker

Statues

O world, the spoon of the world's sloshing through my blood. The knives of the horizon worry my thoughts like a rebellion of crows. Croak, my friend. I'm frightened.
Croak.
Another shellfish post. The blog was not meant to be a place where shellfish would thrive, but alas things do not always turn out as we wish them to.

I'm a human, after all. All the problem lies there. I tried to push the questions away. But humans are questions, each of them. I too am a question.
Like so many, merlin is lost.
"What have you done?" she longs to shout, lie down in the grass and forget about everything. Yes, what have I done?
The future. It does no even exist and here we are. Tormenting ourselves with it. When I think about it, the old fears rise again and I want to flee.
This is all so very silly, that I should only slap myself and go play the piano.
The piano.
The piano.
The piano is what first whispered to me : what have you done?
With the school I'm doing this year, I can scarcely play the piano. What, 2 hours in the week, plus 5 hours or so the week-ends. The problem is that merlin only exists when she plays the piano. Otherwise she fades, becomes a ghost a wretch.
My fingers feel so dirty, so clumsy. Should have I tried to become a pianist? Damn, if I had tried I would be a beggar in the street now. A pianist should be gifted.
Next Saturday, there's the piano concert. I'm looking forward to it, and working working. But tonight it feels like i'm not going to manage it. Bleak spirit? I swear I did not take any Elfbark.
I love the piano and my piano teacher. Seeing them both so little isn't easy. I'm just at the edges of their world.
I'm always on the threshold of everything. (oh poor deprived lad...girl !, in my case)
Now I'm scared by the huge mountain of homework that's waiting for me. And again it seems like i won't be able to do it. I wonder : was I right to do this school? What should have done? Go and study Icelandic, Norwegian and Swedish? Study biology? Photography?

Now, now, stop the whining. You exist, and look at what you're doing with the seconds that have been given to you?
You thought yourself strong, but after all you're even frailer than a window.
All is about snow.
Snow. To live is to accept the snow that lies in us, in the world. Even if it's painful to watch the snowflakes melt on our own skin.
It isn't a ghost you should become, but the keeper of the snowflakes of the world. Not the transparency, but the eyes who will remember each flake, each glow of a smile.
But what does the world need of a snowflake keeper?

[END OF SHELLFISH POST]

Looks like a Llu, doesn't it? *purrs*

Humans

A Friday, in Paris.
That day i felt something rise in me, something unexpected. So strange so frightening.
What have you become, oh weird merlin? Even more weirdly, why do you type it in a blog? Who knows which blue eyes wilL travel over these words, why not brown ones? Not far away, a cup of warm brown tea, crispy biscuits, an old book, two pens and a bit of paper. Toes burried deep in fluffly slippers, head filled with a phone conversation from the night before.

Friday. Or rather the result of days and days of watching and listening.
Humans. So full of feelings it's almost crazy, unbelievable! With such a storm in their chest, how can they walk and not be crushed by this uproar?
You so much want, need, to love and be loved! Love claws at you like a wildcat, sinks its teeth into you flesh.
Friday, then.
We were walking in Paris, the Poet and me. Oh, we talked of course; usually I don't speak much but that day I spoke a lot. Mainly I talked of pigeons, stones, colours, music and such. And of languages. Nothing surprising here. And then I do not know how, the conversation took an entirely different direction.

It turned to, well, love.

The Poet suddenly was sad, and, horribly a tear welled then tracked down his cheek. Red eyes. I can still see that big round tear.
He had realized that he loved a girl, who used to pester him, and he'd always thought he hated her. He didn't know what to do. Oh well, I wish you luck, Poet. Alas, I'm not a fairy yet.
Before, i've never really believed hatred could turn into love. Or that someone would willingly pester a loved one.
The pain in his eyes was horrible terrible. Tormented by love.
Such is our nature, we humans.
Amen.

Of course there is always pain in hearing the one you're in love with tell you he loves someone else. But the worse was his own torment. And then I realized it didn't matter at all that he didn't love me. That in fact that I didn't want him to. *grins* Think me crazy. I am in love with the world.
The world, a double-edged sword.
The world could be a wonderful place for everybody, oh yes. Why, the wars? Why, the tears? Why, slavery? Why,violence? Why, destructive hatred? Why, take pleasure in harming others? Why, destroy the Earth? Why, bitterness? Why, crush the smiles-to-be on a child's face ? Why, ignore a pigeon because it's 'just' a pigeon ?
WHY. cur. pourquoi. WARUM. por que. perche.
I wish I could speak every language in the world, wish I could understand every storyteller ! Wish I could cure hurts by blowing on fingernails. Wish I could help you soar !

He told me something terrible. He told me that the others at school liked me well enough. Really they did, but they were afraid of talking to me, of entering "my circle", he said. Stunned I was : what circle? We all live in the same world, don't we? And I thought they didn't care at all about me, even despised me. But they were...afraid! Of me!

Too many things for a single Friday afternoon.

A l'ami de sucre

.
Such is life, soft and spatial
the pale naiad who tears our gaudy eyes, our red hearts tormented by love
Such is the water which thunders, the lost voice of trees set aflame, mowed branches...the cool shepherd that Autumn is.
Thoughts are gliding and blending, my angel. Your hands like plane-trees, sweet friend, are like the lives, the red lives which fall down in Fall...
I have dreamt of a blue eye, where a naiad was swimming, faded in the grey frost of a wakening. That Wednesday, it was your eye, pale stranger. Pale friend, I have seen your eyes, which are unkown to me.
The whole world has greeted me, and on my face the red lines have smiled, drunken with the flight of pigeons.
Honeyed friend, such is life.

*

The grass which is still tender with teeth

both small and funny,

it's a child, the shards of a gaze

new eyes, fresh candies

round.

The child is the treasure of whom we are the gardian,

oh, friend of blue skies!

.

But there, bent,

the child pulls on his back

a coarse bag that weighs,

loaded with coal, black and heavy,

Coal like a hand that twists the frail blade,

The pimpled adult like a strangler of dreams.

Blackened, the little nails,

the little feet;

.

Arid their deserted eyes and

cheeks that no hand

would ever

tenderly

stroke.

.

Betrayed Childhood, treasure by misery sold,

is calling us.

Will we reply will we answer?

*

'

(translated from French, which explains the grammar errors and awkwardness)

Iceland !