L’est n’est pas si loin /



Lettre à K /

An another night whithout sleeping. Another night going to bed at midnight, hoping falling asleep. Another night taking pills, be sick, can’t fall asleep, read compulsively « Just Kids » from Patti Smith. Another night telling myself i’m a loser, a loner. I’m so old and so far from what i wanted when I was in my youth. How confident in life I was, with an immensity of possible in the head, in my hands.

I’m in a long dark corridor except that when you’re alive there is no fucking white light at the end, just the same shit, same days rolling on your tired eyes.

I’m in a huge decluttering process of my house, and still feel disgusted by my stuff, like, it’s not mine anymore. I’d like to just have my red bag and go in Warsaw, in Lisboa, spending days reading, listening to Joanna Newsom, eating bread and radish.

But i spent a craziness amount of money, i need to work again, again selling shit to morons. Watching in silence Justine drawing 8hours per day, failing at attempting crappy contemporary art contests, trying again, scrapping her eyes with the sunlike bulb i offered her for drawing in the night.

Failure, loneliness tear my heart apart. I feel dizzy of sadness, unable to pick up my phone and try a last time to find a proper job i love.

It’s crazy how much in love i can be with A, how much i suffer from not just wake up in the morning, open my email box and find email from him. Each morning, the same disapointment even if i’m totally aware i’ll never will have some again. So i avoid to sleep, glutoning crappy sweet, greasy food with my earplugs most of the time in my ears. I just can’t bear world’s sounds. I could kill each person i met in the street, all of their poorness, their ignorance, their lack of sensitivity. Sod off my so called friends.

V is coming to visit me next week as he’s travelling in Germany. I just want to fuck during three days, be fullfilling with sex, overwhelmed, to be out of this craving of affection with someone i’m not in love with. To get away my abyssal asexual love for A. Faint to be happy at parties and not drinking too much champagne. Not drinking too much at all.

Forget that most of the time it’s dark, outside, in my house, that sun will hide during 5months from now.

I remember this woman who died last week in a shop close to the one I worked in this summer, falling of the stairs while looking for a coat for a customer.

How long it is to built a life, to be married, to have kids, and then you die for a fucking coat. You die for 200€ on a wenesday afternoon.

When I was 16 I thought I’d be married and have kids at 30, having done few movies and be happy. At 20 I accepted that I’ll never have a family, I made this pact that I dedicated my life to art, it was a hard decision, the hardest of my life.  Now I’m looking at my newborn wrinckles on my face, being totally freaked up by this, like « no ! not now, not yet ! » scaring to reach my 35 as it’s too close for my 40.

Why there is a woman on this earth able to come home each evening and finding A and her three amazing kids (trust me I never saw kids as beautiful as them !!) spending holidays in a big family house on the belgian coast, under the sun, and the plum trees and kids and friends laughing. Why is she so lucky and why am I still alone ? why each time I spend time to dress well, put some make up, get my hair ready, go to a bar and no one is looking at me ? like…no one. Why am I walking in the street and being so invisible that people constantly run into me ? why A already forgot me.

Shall I mention that I spend almost all the autumn in an uninextinguible tiredness ? sleeping 12, 13 hours per night, wanting to die at the second Justine is quitting the flat to do stuff outside. I just craving as death for change. I want to see you.

La marée /

Plus les jours passent plus mon amorosité m’épuise et m’attriste. Une lente mélancolie qui s’étale. Il me manque. Trois mots simples. Je voudrais juste pouvoir lui parler, le voir, exister dans sa vie, ne pas juste être un souvenir qui s’oublie. S’accrocher. Se restreindre. Tendre. Claquer comme un élastique qui ne va pas assez loin. Vouloir courir. Rester immobile. Vouloir tendre le bras. Le bras ne bouge pas. Dérouler cet espace prétendument « Happy place ». My life off the mat is ? Je cherche des signes dans sa date de naissance, son adresse, son numéro de téléphone. Les signes s’embrouillent. Il n’y a rien à lire. Les trains m’ont éloignés de lui, traversant encore une fois les paysages sans frontières qu’on ne regarde pas, le regard vrillé sur le point de départ. S’est créé un long corridor traversant les vallées, ses montagnes, les miennes, un long corridor créé par mon regard obstinément pointé vers lui et qui ne lâche pas. Les yeux rougis qui ne cillent pas. On me tapote l’épaule, on me tire en arrière par le bras, mon regard est toujours là-bas, harponné.

Alors ma vie me revient et va comme un ressac d’hiver. A l’aveugle je fais le nécessaire, pas plus. Les mains se fatiguent, les ongles se cyanosent de froid. le ressac me ramène chaque matin des coquillages diaphanes et mat. Je les collectionne en espérant avoir une étincelle de temps, une étincelle de tes yeux pour te les montrer. Te montrer que la vie va et vient, si pas de toi à moi, les trains continuent pourtant à en faire le chemin. Il faudrait juste monter à bord. Je tend le bras. Le bras ne bouge pas.

Dimanche sur le canal /

Une brume bleue roule paresseusement sur les toits et le canal. Les maisons sombres se tassent sous le poids des dizaines. Je vois les parquets qui craquent, les cheminées qui exultent, les mains froides caressant les joues rougies, les enfants extatiques. l’eau crépite sous les pas ralentis des touristes fatigués avançant le long de l’écluse dans la lumière fantasmagorique des réverbères du canal. Sinatra chante White Christmas entre les deux toits de mon chalet. Une tranche de pain noir letton, banane-chocolat. Un jour simple de l’Avent.