Des photos pour aller avec les posts

http://djjcphotoplaylist.blogspot.fr/

C'est la saison

Noel! Noel! Noel!
18 days til Christmas

I have signed up for Reddit's Secret Santa,
Got my giftee's username and sent him a message.
Got a message from my Secret Santa.

Tis the season to be generous with upvotes
Re dit it it

I look forward to my first Christmas outside the states,
the Christmas spirit is the same wherever you go.

Lost and Found in Glasgow

I went to Scotland for a week,
Bought a Scottish dictionary,
Slept with a Scottish boy,
Got high in Glasgow,
And learned I'm the one with the accent, aye I am.

Fish'n'chips!Fish'n'chips!Fish'n'chips!Fish'n'chips!

Most of my photos include a grey sky, although my last day was a beautiful blue,
The kind of beautifully cold and crispy clean blue.
I found myself lost on the way to a museum,
I lost myself on the subway line, took it around twice.

Patrick, Kelvinhall, Hillhead, Kelvingrove, St. George's Cross, Cowcaddens, Buchanan Street, St. Enoch ...
Bridge Street, West Street, Shields, Kinning Park, Cessnock, Ibrox, Govan, Patrick, Kelvinhall, Hillhead, Kelvinbridge, St. George's Cross, Cowcaddens, Buchanan Street ...
Cowcaddens, St. George's Cross ...

I went to Scotland for a week
And someone's Gran gave me a scarf.

le changement aperçu

Aujourd'hui le 19 Octobre 2013, un samedi,
je suis debout et sur le train avant le soleil levé
la lune est mon amie, encore dans le ciel
la voilà: claire et pleine dans un ciel qui éclaircis avec chaque arrêt du train
les montagnes sont encore en obscurité: un noir de noirs
leurs ligne, cet bord, sépare la Terre et le Ciel

la lune, je l'ai perdu
l'éclaircissement de l'horizon peint le ciel et les nuages en rose, orange, bleu,
la lune s'est couchée, la journée se réveille, le soleil m'accompagne.

J'ai lu, je lis, et je lirai...

J'ai décidé de me plonger dans les livres pendant mes aventures, pendant mon séjour (pendant ma vie, si ça ce trouve que je reste) en France.

J'ajouterai à fur et à mesure que je les finisse:

Le vieux que ne voulait pas fêter son anniversaire par Jonas Jonasson (traduit du suédois), fini septembre 2013

La femme au miroir par Eric-Emmanuel Schmitt, fini novembre 2013

La lettre qui allait changer le destin d'Harold Fry par Rachel Joyce (traduit de l'anglais), fini le 2 décembre 2013

L'écume des jours par Boris Vian, fini janvier 2014

L'analphabète qui savait compter par Jonas Jonasson (traduit du suédois); fini février 2014

(en train de lire) Le potager des malfaiteurs ayant échappé à la pendaison par Arto Paasilinna (traduit du finnois)

écrit le 11 octobre 2013

Je ne sais toujours pas ce que je fais. A la même instant je me sens d'avoir une direction et d'être perdue. Le froid a fait disparaître tout le monde, sauf le vieux qui se promène et le mec avec son chien, et moi: la jeune fille qui écrit sur ce banc cassé. Mes mains ont froids; mes doigts gelés.

A post throw in the air, Un post dans l'air

This post has no first draft. Most others do. I'm skipping the pen this time: my pens are few and my ink low. This post mimics my thought pattern, a lack of properly structured sentences and things. Just my words on paper, that's best.
The sky is gray and the wind cold. Winter is knocking on my door and I refuse to let her in. I'm sure it is unwise, she will come howling soon enough, without asking this time. My room is lit and warm. My heart too. The vine on the neighbor's wall shakes, the leave move together, shivering in the wind. There's a calm in me that conflicts with the world around, yet I am balanced. I should really knock it off, these metaphors and such. This wordy poetry I try and write. I'm trying too hard.
But it is all true. I write what I see, and how I feel. I have taken to my blog like fuzz balls to Velcro. Most first drafts don't see the keyboard (I'd say typewriter, but let's face it: nobody uses those anymore, and if you do, why?), most first draft are my thoughts, tangled in themselves, no order and too many lost sentences. But the drafts that do meet the keyboard, that meet my blog, I share with those who read, those who happen to find this on the interwebs.
Nonsense.
But the balance in my soul. It wasn't there, I lost it. After a long search, after a long deep deep deep breath, I found it. Along with a straight back, a strong stance, and clear outlook.
This post will not reach anyone, it is a dart thrown far too far from the board, but it doesn't matter. I have listened to and almost forgotten the voice in my head, the one that said "you will be fine", but she's back, and louder than ever. You can't break me, my back is straight and my stance strong. The forces of winter can try, the negative people will try, but you can't break me. I've found my voice, and it's loud.
I don't know what I'm headed for, but I walking in it's direction.

Ce n'est pas que j'ai oublié mon blog... c'est du tout et du rien.

Pendant la pause du midi ce jeudi la,
Je suis assisse sur "ma" chaise, dans "ma" chambre.
J'attends la machine a laver, et puis je vais attendre que mon linge sèche.
Mes jours sont organisés, et j'aime ça. Mais, dans mon temps libre, je regarde par "ma" fenêtre, et je pense, a tout et rien.
J'aime chercher le pain le matin. Et j'aime pas conduire. J’écoute la ville avec le vent contre mes lunettes.

A tout et rien.
Je ne sais pas ou je vais. Seulement ou je suis.
Je ne sais pas de quoi je veux. Seulement de quoi j'ai.
Je ne veux pas pense a quelque chose. Seulement a tout et rien.
Je ne suis pas une poète, je ne suis pas une architecte, je ne suis pas un docteur.
Je ne suis pas certaine.

C'est le moment de la découverte, c'est le moment que j'ai pris.
C'est mon moment.
C'est loin du regret, c'est prêt du nouveau, c'est au-dessus les nuages, c'est avec le peur et la curiosité.
C'est moi.

Un matin a Grenoble

The sun hasn't yet woken up the streets. The local markets are setting up in the town squares, waiting for the people, for the city to come alive, every morning like clockwork. The church bells never let me forget. I'm sitting in Le Jardin de Ville, on a bench, feeling the sun slowly making its way onto my skin. The cool Septembre air is alive.

My little voice

It is not easy, and I don't know why I thought it would be. But the little voice in my head is telling me "You'll be better than fine." So I breath deep and believe her.

A la salle d'attente

I'm watching people from this waiting room, everyone going somewhere, a direction, a heading, a destination, on a course, on a trip, to somewhere.
I'm sure there's a combination of words that can describe the chime before every announcement at this train station, but I can't find it.
Goodbyes mix with hellos.
There's that chime again, as the faces change, the chime continues. Instead of searching for that string of words I'll just watch from my observer's box:
someone looks lost,
a stroller with someone sleeping (lucky kid),
a grandmother on the phone,
someone looks rushed,
students,
families,
even pigeons,
the largest backpacks (a life upon shoulders),
*chime*,
a musician,
and eyebrows of all shapes and sizes.

I'm certain, of what?, I don't know, but my emotions have mellowed, my head clear, my breath deep. Soon, my waiting will end, and I'll be out there, with a direction, someone to be observed.

**chime**

Later that night

My only friend, the man in the moon, looks down at me.
He could be judging me, but there's a helpfulness in his bright eyes that feels like an old friend.
A sheep baaaahs in the still and quiet night air. And without a hesitation or doubt, I am in the countryside.
My matches are few and precious but my new friend tells me this night is an exception, this night isn't one for concern. If the old man could wink, he would have. I inhale and exhale and know I'm home somehow.

(Ps: I finally! killed the fly in .... goddamn it! there's another one.)

La même différence

I know it sounds silly, but Imma say it anyway.

My music sounds the same,
The dogs bark the same,
The sky, clouds, and trees the same,
It feels like home, yet I'm miles, or kilometres from it.
I even have the same lame dance moves.

C'est la même différence.

Silly Little Girl Dreaming

There are simply too many questions that I can't even process questions I've had from days back, let alone months back. I really didn't realize that wanting a life in France meant leaving this one. I know it sounds downright stupid, a silly little girl dreaming but never living. My dream is life but I feel I might live in my dream. I felt. Nah. I wanted to simply fast forward to a French morning. But I got caught up in the fast forwarding, the dreaming, that I forgot, until now, that I have to go. I blame television and Hollywood for making me think I could simply skip the boring. I'm afraid of the transitional moments, the weak and test-of-character moments. I tried tricking myself, packing weeks early, living out of luggage. Ha. Usually, writing it all out calms me, but I don't know... I do know I need this moment. I need this shattering wake up. This is real. I need this moment of weakness, I do. I need to wake up and get there, so I can fall asleep there. Then I know it isn't a dream.

Two days left in California.

Ten days left on the ground

I've packed my things.
And I've re-packed them.
I find it strange the peace it brings
Putting it all away. Crazy as it may seem,
It lets my soul sing and scream.

And now, I just have to learn how to fly.

I'm going to miss this bay

I am equal parts nervous and stoked to leave.
It is time to move my feet, to rattle my cage, to forget my English.
As the fog engulfs the bridge, I'm afraid my mind will fog my memory.
That's the nervous part talking.

The sun soon rises, higher and higher.
And the fog retreats, disappearing into thin air, like Mother Nature's ultimate magic trick.
A catamaran glides under the exposed bridge, and tourists flock for that perfect picture.
The hum of traffic doesn't pollute the blues coming from my headphones.

The ferry building chimes, telling me more than just the hour. Its telling me I can never forget this bay, even if I tried.
I'm going to leave this city.
And love, breath, and walk in another.
That's the stoked part talking.

The City will always be The City.
The bay is my home, my roots firmly rooted.
But its time to see how far they reach, how far my soul goes.

Its time to be mobile.

ps: thanks Tesssica Rabe, for the blog title. more perfect than that picture.