Petit détour par mon musée imaginaire


Satan in his Original Glory: `Thou wast Perfect till Iniquity was Found in Thee'  c. 1805, Tate Gallery


For I dance
And drink & sing;
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing.


(Cette année, on fêtera le 250ème anniversaire de la naissance du poète et peintre anglais William Blake (1757-1827). Franchement, vous avez entendu parler d'un quelconque événement à ce propos ? Moi pas... Grumpf !)

11:58 Écrit par Fr dans Général | Lien permanent | Commentaires (0) |  Facebook |


Hommage à Rostropovitch (1927-2007)


Un des princes de mon enfance nous a quitté en ce beau jour.

Rostropovitch était un fervent défenseur de la liberté d'expression et des droits de l'Homme.

Dès 1969, le couple Rostropovich-Vishnevskaya soutient le romancier Alexandre Soljenitsyne, en lui permettant de vivre dans leur datcha en dehors de Moscou mais aussi en écrivant en 1970 une lettre ouverte à Leonid Brejnev protestant contre des restrictions soviétiques sur la liberté culturelle.

Cet acte vaudra à Rostropovitch l'annulation de ses concerts et de ses voyages à l'étranger.

Il quitte l'Union Soviétique en 1974 et sera par la suite déchu de sa citoyenneté. Il mènera un combat acharné pour faire libérer de son exil un autre grand dissident, Andreï Sakharov.

Merci pour l'émotion, pour la beauté et respect.

12:03 Écrit par Fr dans Général | Lien permanent | Commentaires (1) |  Facebook |



Ploum, ploum...

Jeudi que tout va bien dans le monde qui est le mien.

Jeudi j'attends vendredi et la venue de mon zamoureux.

Jeudi que j'aimerais être Mary Poppins, claquer des doigts et zou !, tout est rangé.

Jeudi que j'ai envie de lézarder au soleil.

Jeudi des patates... aussi.


I am just a Thursday's child...

14:02 Écrit par Fr dans Général | Lien permanent | Commentaires (0) |  Facebook |


The Velvet underground - The Gift


Waldo Jeffers had reached his limit.
It was now mid-August which meant that he had been separated from Marsha for more than two months.
Two months, and all he had to show were three dog-eared letters and two very expensive long-distance phone calls.
True, when school had ended and she'd returned to Wisconsin and he to Locust, Pennsylvania she had sworn to maintain a certain fidelity.
She would date occasionally, but merely as amusement.
She would remain faithful. But lately Waldo had begun to worry.
He had trouble sleeping at night and when he did, he had horrible dreams.
He lay awake at night, tossing and turning underneath his printed quilt protector, tears welling in his eyes,
As he pictured Marsha, her sworn vows overcome by liquor and the smooth soothings of some Neanderthal,
Finally submitting to the final caresses of sexual oblivion. It was more than the human mind could bear.

Visions of Marsha's faithlessness haunted him.
Daytime fantasies of sexual abandon permeated his thoughts.
And the thing was, they wouldn't understand who she really was.
He, Waldo, alone, understood this.
He had intuitively grasped every nook and cranny of her psyche.
He had made her smile, and she needed him, and he wasn't there. (Awww.)
The idea came to him on the Thursday before the Mummers Parade was scheduled to appear.
He had just finished mowing and edging the Edelsons lawn for a dollar-fifty
And had checked the mailbox to see if there was at least a word from Marsha.
There was nothing more than a circular form the Amalgamated Aluminum Company of America inquiring into his awning needs.
At least they cared enough to write.

It was a New York company. You could go anywhere in
the mails. Then it struck him: he didn't have enough money to go to Wisconsin in the accepted fashion,
true, but why not mail himself? It was absurdly
simple. He would ship himself parcel post special
delivery. The next day Waldo went to the supermarket
to purchase the necessary equipment. He bought
masking tape, a staple gun and a medium sized
cardboard box, just right for a person of his build.
He judged that with a minimum of jostling he could
ride quite comfortably. A few airholes, some water, a
selection of midnight snacks, and it would probably be
as good as going tourist.

By Friday afternoon, Waldo was set. He was thoroughly
packed and the post office had agreed to pick him up
at three o'clock. He'd marked the package "FRAGILE"
and as he sat curled up inside, resting in the foam
rubber cushioning he'd thoughtfully included, he tried
to picture the look of awe and happiness on Marsha's
face as she opened the door, saw the package, tipped
the deliverer, and then opened it to see her Waldo
finally there in person. She would kiss him, and then
maybe they could see a movie. If he'd only thought of
this before. Suddenly rough hands gripped his package
and he felt himself borne up. He landed with a thud
in a truck and then he was off.

Marsha Bronson had just finished setting her hair. It
had been a very rough weekend. She had to remember
not to drink like that. Bill had been nice about it
though. After it was over he'd said that he still
respected her and, after all, it was certainly the way
of nature and even though no, he didn't love her, he
did feel an affection for her. And after all, they
were grown adults. Oh, what Bill could teach Waldo --
but that seemed many years ago. Sheila Klein, her
very, very best friend walked in through the porch
screen door into the kitchen. "Oh God, it's
absolutely maudlin outside."
"Ugh, I know what you mean, I feel all icky." Marsha
tightened the belt on her cotton robe with the silk
outer edge. Sheila ran her finger over some salt
grains on the kitchen table, licked her finger and
made a face.
"I'm supposed to be taking these salt pills, but," she
wrinkled her nose, "they make me feel like throwing
Marsha started to pat herself under the chin, an
exercise she'd seen on television. "God, don't even
talk about that." She got up from the table and went
to the sink where she picked up a bottle of pink and
blue vitamins. "Want one? Supposed to be better than
steak." And attempted to touch her knees. "I don't
think I'll ever touch a daiquiri again." She gave up
and sat down, this time nearer the small table that
supported the telephone. "Maybe Bill'll call," she
said to Sheila's glance.
Sheila nibbled on a cuticle. "After last night, I
thought maybe you'd be through with him."
"I know what you mean. My God, he was like an
octopus. Hands all over the place." She gestured,
raising her arms upward in defense. "The thing is
after a while, you get tired of fighting with him, you
know, and after all he didn't really do anything
Friday and Saturday so I kind of owed it to him, you
know what I mean." She started to scratch. Sheila
was giggling with her hand over her mouth. "I'll tell
you, I felt the same way, and even after a while," she
bent forward in a whisper, "I wanted to," and now she
was laughing very loudly.

It was at this point that Mr. Jameson of the Clarence
Darrow Post Office rang the door bell of the large
stucco colored frame house. When Marsha Bronson
opened the door, he helped her carry the package in.
He had his yellow and his green slips of paper signed
and left with a fifteen-cent tip that Marsha had
gotten out of her mothers small beige pocket book in
the den. "What do you think it is?" Sheila asked.
Marsha stood with her arms folded behind her back. She stared at the brown cardboard carton that sat in
the middle of the living room. "I don't know."

Inside the package Waldo quivered with excitement as
he listened to the muffled voices. Sheila ran her
fingernail over the masking tape that ran down the
center of the carton. "Why don't you look at the
return address and see who it is from?" Waldo felt
his heart beating. He could feel the vibrating
footsteps. It would be soon.

Marsha walked around the carton and read the
ink-scratched label. "Ugh, God, it's from Waldo!"
"That schmuck," said Sheila. Waldo trembled with
expectation. "Well, you might as well open it," said
Sheila. Both of them tried to lift the stapled flap.

"Ahh, shit," said Marsha groaning. "He must have
nailed it shut." They tugged at the flap again. "My
God, you need a power drill to get this thing opened."
They pulled again. "You can't get a grip!" They
both stood still, breathing heavily.
"Why don't you get the scissors," said Sheila. Marsha
ran into the kitchen, but all she could find was a
little sewing scissor. Then she remembered that her
father kept a collection of tools in the basement.
She ran downstairs and when she came back, she had a
large sheet-metal cutter in her hand.
"This is the best I could find." She was very out of
breath. "Here, you do it. I'm gonna die." She sank
into a large fluffy couch and exhaled noisily.
Sheila tried to make a slit between the masking tape
and the end of the cardboard, but the blade was too
big and there wasn't enough room. "Godamn this
thing!" she said feeling very exasperated. Then,
smiling, "I got an idea."
"What?" said Marsha.
"Just watch," said Sheila touching her finger to her

Inside the package, Waldo was so transfixed with
excitement that he could barely breathe. His skin
felt prickly from the heat and he could feel his heart
beating in his throat. It would be soon. Sheila
stood quite upright and walked around to the other
side of the package. Then she sank down to her knees,
grasped the cutter by both handles, took a deep breath
and plunged the long blade through the middle of the
package, through the middle of the masking tape,
through the cardboard, through the cushioning and
(thud) right through the center of Waldo Jeffers head,
which split slightly and caused little rhythmic arcs
of red to pulsate gently in the morning sun

12:04 Écrit par Fr dans Général | Lien permanent | Commentaires (2) |  Facebook |



Quel bonheur de dormir 9h quand la moyenne de sommeil des deux dernières semaines s’élève à 4h… Cela provoque un tas de sensations douillettes et moelleuses, le lit devient un refuge, un ventre dans lequel se perdre avant de renaître tournesol.


9h à s’amnésier pour y voir plus clair. 9h à se laver tranquillement les nerfs.

Se coucher et sentir toutes les tensions dorsales sauter les unes après les autres comme les boutons de mes chemisiers depuis que mes seins ont décidé de ressembler à des seins.

Se sentir devenir tendre et fondante comme un loukoum.

Savoir qu’enfin on va retrouver un peu de souffle, un peu de sérénité, un peu de réserve pour tous les imprévus qui pleuvent en ces jours de soleil.

Se réveiller heureuse de constater qu’enfin je suis arrivée à passer une bonne nuit.

Quelle joie indescriptible !


Ce soir, c’est décidé, je recommence.

11:48 Écrit par Fr dans Général | Lien permanent | Commentaires (1) |  Facebook |



Je pense parfois que dans une autre vie, j’ai du être un chien dont on s’est séparé sur le bord d’une route. Un cabot qui a regardé la voiture s’éloigner sans trop comprendre ce qui arrivait, voulant se persuader qu’il s’agissait d’un jeu afin de ne pas affronter la réalité.

Oui, j’ai parfois cette sensation, cette peur du vide qui me tenaille.

J’aimerais m’extraire le cœur de la poitrine, le prendre au creux des mains, le serrer, doucement, et ensuite le tordre, le tordre, le tordre de façon à écrabouiller les émotions parasites qui l’habitent.

J’aimerais tellement que le passé cesse de polluer le présent. J’aimerais parfois avoir une autre mémoire. J’aimerais être moins fragile. J’aimerais que mon compagnon ne paie pas les frais de ce que plusieurs connards m’ont fait vivre et subir. J’aimerais être plus sereine et avoir plus de confiance en moi. J’aimerais être plus avancée dans mon cheminement intérieur.

Je veux une nuit des étoiles filantes pour faire plein de vœux.

J’aimerais ne plus avoir peur d’être abandonnée.

15:25 Écrit par Fr dans Général | Lien permanent | Commentaires (5) |  Facebook |


Confession du jour d'une plaie mobile



Le saule est en fleurs, tes cheveux sentent blond et moi, j'ai l'esprit qui bat la champagne.

Ra la la... Vraiment n'importe quoi !

10:23 Écrit par Fr dans Général | Lien permanent | Commentaires (3) |  Facebook |