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.
Tuesday, October 22, 2013
Friday, October 18, 2013
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)
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)
Saturday, October 12, 2013
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.
Thursday, October 10, 2013
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.
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.
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