Sevrage

Se ronge le dedans,

Comme la lèpre la peau,

Distillée par les yeux

La douleur s'écoule

Cheminant gauchement vers l'abime,

D'entre les genoux

Des lèvres s'échappent,

Des vapeurs de moisi,

Colorant les pales murs

Des mortes et vieilles fantaisies

Parfumant de nouveau

Le regard misérable, brumeux,

Des cadavres noircis

Maintenant bien trop silencieux

Une boue peu rougeâtre

Titube dans les artères

S'arrêtant trop souvent,

Faisant les longs cils

Autrefois vifs,

Se taire

Ne reste plus que le manque,

Le désir,

L'absence

L'abstinence...

Le silence

De ma triste addiction

Comment puis-je m'absoudre,

Quand le problème

Est que tu es ma solution?

Sweet, dear, loving time

I would love to be able to start this little post by declaring my undying love and affection to this trustworthy friend and dreadful enemy. However, I keep wondering if it is time that changes me or if I am to discover it doesn't actually do much to the metamorphosis taking hold of me as of late.

Oh yes, my tender flesh and young blood are changing their chemical compound at a speed I have never witnessed before. It is as if I could hear under my skin the molecules clashing and reforming and be forced to watch the very fibre that covers me expand and stretch and refold in a hurtful origami dance that seems to be going nowhere…

It may not be the first time that these changes occur. With time and age and mistakes I guess they must unfold upon anyone. Nevertheless, I have never felt them as strong and as completely out of control as these past few months.

What is there to be understood of this? Passing pages will eventually come back? Will the old be entirely replaced or be modified and kept? Will the dust gathered upon so many corners be swept away or just lay down again on other shapes?

Is the finding to be proved true... that people are merely walking equations, understood by few but mysterious to others, that love and friendship are but variables and that the melting of bodies just a coma between units and subunits… Is selfishness and doubting others to be the newly crowned queen of the reign over my future?

I don't even know where these words are taking me. It's still so blurry and dark…

"Camina la punta de mis dedos sobre tus hombros,

Sobre la piel dura, como la que cubre los libros,

Se me rompen las unas al tratar de abrirte,

Y se me queman los ojos al tratar de leerte…"

[to M., to Y., to S., to DD.]

Where are you hiding my child?

Why aren't you hiding where you are supposed to?

. . .

I'll rip off my skin to cover your shoulders

And leave me as naked as before I was born

And make the world that surounds you

Leave your four walls alone...

I'll give you my hands to sew to your elbows

To cover the cracks and rebuild the windows

And be a statue of warmth and of silence

Left for your pleasure of constance...

. . .

And I'll hear all of the noise

And I'll drink all of the words

That may someday kill your joys

Or be knocking on your door...

No thighs will give you such a welcome

No legs will hide you just as well

No other arms will ever hold you

With the power of an eggshell...

And I'll be like a little shadow

You may sometimes touch or kiss

And then dissapear forever

And be back if I am missed...

[to Y.]

Come sway with me my long lost lover,

Hope and dreams are gone for thee

Drown your anger to the other

In my sheets and sheets to be.

Bend my skin as you may please

Bend my mind and breaths and knees

Tare apart the walls and laces

Leave me sinking in embraces.

Take my thoughts and thoughts to be

Break them from reality

Make me lie and cheat and hate

Be your slave from dusk to wake...

Teach my heart how to care less

So that my mind won't die of loss...

[to Espñ.]

Unsculptured

[to A.N. and Dj.]

Non-Couleurs

[to Dj.]

Leftovers

[Montréal; Canada; October 2010]

Ilness

[Deauville; August 2010]

Nowhere

[Deauville; August 2010]

Someone asked me a few days ago what the purpose of this blog was. Pretty basic yet tricky question when you would expect artistic criticism or praise, or comments on style, or rhythm or ideas…

I therefore find myself in a pretty weird situation trying to explain this not to others but to myself. Maybe I’ve changed a little in time and am now more open to the world than I was before, but I had to admit that when it was created, this blog was merely an intimate journal. A little girl’s diary, with everything she could not dream to say or express in any other way than encrypted bits and pieces behind a series of symbols, and colour palettes and letter and pencil lines.

However, in time some posts became less personal and more “for the sake” of art and sharing with others while some have turned into a pretty dirty story for those capable of peeking behind the curtains.

I would therefore conclude that my blog’s purpose, just like many others (even all), is what it is, changes with the point of view or perception you have of each piece or the big picture…it’s nothing actually…unless me or you give it a purpose of being…

[As an answer to Dj.]

Stampede

[Deauville; August 2010]

Small death...

[So much for the innocence... August 2010]

Paintings

[View over the Baltic Sea; february 2010]

Crack

[View over the outskirts of Charleroi; Belgium; february 2010]

[Madrid; Spain; 2007; No comments on this picture. Statue of a malnourished african child in the middle of the sidewalk on a street in Madrid...]

Tropa de elite

[Cordoba; Spain; 2007]

Humming

I simply love it when you’re sad
Sad eyes, sad eyes, my darling darling’s eyes

I simply love it when you cry
Sad eyes, forgiving eyes, that don’t care about my lies

I simply love it when you smile
Sad smile, sweet smile, my darling darling’s smile

...

If all you need is found in me
If I am here right next to you
If all we did or what we’ll do
Does not count…then why?

I can see those big eyes sad?
I can feel your heart stopped beating?
I can barely hear you breathing?
When I hold you in my arms….

Where’s the warmth that was in you?
Where, the things we used to do?
Why your lips are cold and dry?
Why you’re smiling when you cry?

[cheap, all nighter poetry again...sorry for the lack of deepness...but it just sounds good...feels good...; to all]

How dare the nightingale sing
Filling my ears with music's poison
When all I need or want to hear
Is merely thy voice from lips of crimson

How dare the sunlight glow at dawn
Waking me up from dreams divine
Torn asunder with a frown
For not thou arms I'd surely die...

[Midnight romance just hits me sometimes...I'm not Shakespeare but I hope you enjoy; to E.P.]

" What light is light, if Silvia be not seen?
What joy is joy, if Silvia be not by?
Unless it be to think that she is by
And feed upon the shadow of perfection
Except I be by Silvia in the night,
There is no music in the nightingale;
Unless I look on Silvia in the day,
There is no day for me to look upon; "


[Shakespeare's "The Two Gentlemen of Verona" (III.i.170-187), speech given by Valentine]