Night thoughts

Destructive doubt

Time bomb
Stuck
In the heart
Of the broken belly

Scattered pieces
Redeemed
By a Faith
To settle
Here
In loneliness

For we are alone
In this blinding
Bleeding
Knowledge
Of seeing
And understanding
The unbearable
Evidence

Margaret Atwood

“I would like to be the air that inhabits you for a moment only. I would like to be that unnoticed and that necessary.” ~ Margaret Atwood.

In the soul of of the night

Bleed bleed bleed
Bleeding pen
Spitting the pain
Spreading the strain
The outrageous
Sense of betrayal

My words
Are fucking all
The fucking lies

I never am
In resignation
In acceptance
To run away
To run forward 
To live
To love
As magnificently
As it will never be

Not to love him
As it must

To love him
As much as
I can't

To be the hand that lock
And the hand that unlock
And lick
The lack of him
Through my words

Fearing 
The bend of passion
The tumble of 
The feeling of love

Vascillant, calmed
closed,
simply,

Inadvertently,
Hammered by time

By the pains
By his new cravings

Going ahead
In order not to die
In order to power
Not to perish
Into a flaw
Of meaninglessness

To be erased

slowly
Like a whisper

Indistinguishable
The killer gum of time
Maybe

The vertiginous fear
This not frank non-end
Stretching out in doubts

The bleeding insomniac pain
Crushed pen against the desolate crumpled sheet
Bringing forth a thousand fragments of
Resurrection
 
Flickering days

Relentless insults 

Of jealousy

Not to be
Again
Never
And always 

Repeated
Copy and paste
Never the same yet

And if it was no more
It would be nil and pain

Doubts
And nothingness
Almost doubts
The almighty fantasy
Fitting into a frame
Where beautiful
Assassin love
Leaves no respite

 

Shadow

The majestic candelabra of the sleepy trees.

                                                                            DB (April 2013)

Infinity on a butterfly's wings

Breathing

The perfect stillness

The perfect passion

Stuck

In movement

Alive

Through its infinite

Momentum

Wings nailed

Fluttering

In and out

Flying over

A thousand quiet

And thunderous

Oceans

Swallowing miles

Of thoughtful changing

Skies

Whispering 

Your name

Caressing

The meaningful outlines

Of your

Blurred image

Embracing 

The curves

Of your neck

Among the multiple

echos

Where Love

Meets death

Meets Love

Meets Death

Meets Love

Meets Death

Meets Love

Meets Death

Meets Love

Meets Death...

Anaïs Nin: 'Don't expect me to be sane anymore'.

Anais:

Don't expect me to be sane anymore. Don't let's be sensible. It was a marriage at Louveciennes—you can't dispute it. I came away with pieces of you sticking to me; I am walking about, swimming, in an ocean of blood, your Andalusian blood, distilled and poisonous. Everything I do and say and think relates back to the marriage. I saw you as the mistress of your home, a Moor with a heavy face, a negress with a white body, eyes all over your skin, woman, woman, woman. I can't see how I can go on living away from you—these intermissions are death. How did it seem to you when Hugo came back? Was I still there? I can't picture you moving about with him as you did with me. Legs closed. Frailty. Sweet, treacherous acquiescence. Bird docility. You became a woman with me. I was almost terrified by it. You are not just thirty years old—you are a thousand years old.

Here I am back and still smouldering with passion, like wine smoking. Not a passion any longer for flesh, but a complete hunger for you, a devouring hunger. I read the paper about suicides and murders and I understand it all thoroughly. I feel murderous, suicidal. I feel somehow that it is a disgrace to do nothing, to just bide one's time, to take it philosophically, to be sensible. Where has gone the time when men fought, killed, died for a glove, a glance, etc? (A victrola is playing that terrible aria from Madama Butterfly—"Some day he'll come!")

I still hear you singing in the kitchen—a sort of inharmonic, monotonous Cuban wail. I know you're happy in the kitchen and the meal you're cooking is the best meal we ever ate together. I know you would scald yourself and not complain. I feel the greatest peace and joy sitting in the dining room listening to you rustling about, your dress like the goddess Indra studded with a thousand eyes.

Anais, I only thought I loved you before; it was nothing like this certainty that's in me now. Was all this so wonderful only because it was brief and stolen? Were we acting for each other, to each other? Was I less I, or more I, and you less or more you? Is it madness to believe that this could go on? When and where would the drab moments begin? I study you so much to discover the possible flaws, the weak points, the danger zones. I don't find them—not any. That means I am in love, blind, blind. To be blind forever! (Now they're singing "Heaven and Ocean" from La Gioconda.)

I picture you playing the records over and over—Hugo's records. "Parlez moi d amour." The double life, double taste, double joy and misery. How you must be furrowed and ploughed by it. I know all that, but I can't do anything to prevent it. I wish indeed it were me who had to endure it. I know now your eyes are wide open. Certain things you will never believe anymore, certain gestures you will never repeat, certain sorrows, misgivings, you will never again experience. A kind of white criminal fervor in your tenderness and cruelty. Neither remorse nor vengeance, neither sorrow nor guilt. A living it out, with nothing to save you from the abysm but a high hope, a faith, a joy that you tasted, that you can repeat when you will.

All morning I was at my notes, ferreting through my life records, wondering where to begin, how to make a start, seeing not just another book before me but a life of books. But I don't begin. The walls are completely bare—I had taken everything down before going to meet you. It is as though I had made ready to leave for good. The spots on the walls stand out—where our heads rested. While it thunders and lightnings I lie on the bed and go through wild dreams. We're in Seville and then in Fez and then in Capri and then in Havana. We're journeying constantly, but there is always a machine and books, and your body is always close to me and the look in your eyes never changes. People are saying we will be miserable, we will regret, but we are happy, we are laughing always, we are singing. We are talking Spanish and French and Arabic and Turkish. We are admitted everywhere and they strew our path with flowers.

I say this is a wild dream—but it is this dream I want to realize. Life and literature combined, love the dynamo, you with your chameleon's soul giving me a thousand loves, being anchored always in no matter what storm, home wherever we are. In the mornings, continuing where we left off. Resurrection after resurrection. You asserting yourself, getting the rich varied life you desire; and the more you assert yourself the more you want me, need me. Your voice getting hoarser, deeper, your eyes blacker, your blood thicker, your body fuller. A voluptuous servility and tyrannical necessity. More cruel now than before—consciously, wilfully cruel. The insatiable delight of experience.

Would you...

"Would you trust me with your life?" Thomas Feiner

The Black Thorn

Breathing
The dizziness
Of a killing
Bliss
Jaws
Paralyzed
By words
Not intending
To hurt
And yet
Tearing off
The darkest
Pains and Doubts
From  the deep
Abysses
Of the womb


We never know
And know
We do
Cherishing
The greyish outline
Of our soul
Loving Chimeras
Running fast
Laughing loud
Remaining silent
Playing magnificently
Our part
Dreaming our dream
Holding our breath
Among the unnamable
Incandescent lava

Of the spitting fire 

(Oxford, 24/03/2013)

Amor Fati

'I want to learn more and more to see as beautiful what is necessary in things; then I shall be one of those who make things beautiful. Amor fati: let that be my love henceforth!'
In section 276 of The Gay Science (Friedrich Nietszche)

'

'Ich habe ein Kind gesehen das unter ein baum geschlafen war'

The words have remained faithful through years. Constant in my memory. As clear and beautiful as the day I first heard them. As far as I remember, they have been my companions for years. I regularly thought about them, wondering why it had been so, and why they still have such an emotional impact on me. Time has allowed me to see clearer and I think I know now why I can consider them as a 'treasure'.

I was around 5 years old and was living in the countryside with my grandmother, my back grandmother and my aunt who was a teenager. She was going to high school during the week and was coming back home every week-end. I was so much eager to 'learn' about reading and writing and what she did at school that she often told me what she had learnt during the week. And one day, she told me THE Magical sentence. The German sentence that struck me and hypnotized me with its charms :

'Ich habe ein Kind gesehen das unter ein baum geschlafen war'

For the child that I was, I realize today that so much was contained into this 'simple' phrase. It could have been received just as a description. My aunt translated it to me in French : 'J'ai vu un enfant qui dormait sous un arbre' / 'I saw a child who was sleeping under a tree'. But I understand now that it contained much more. She told me these words were from a poem she had learnt at school. I do not remember the rest of the poem. I can't even remember if she told it to me. Only this sentence remained. Deeply anchored in me. Words both detached from any context, but at the same time opened onto infinite worlds. 

The words were resonating. They had grace and ampleness.They revealed a hitherto unknown music, unsuspected. I was feeling a great pleasure in repeating the phrase over and over. To whisper it to myself, repetitively, for the sake of words, and of their music. At different times of the day and sometimes at night in bed before falling asleep. Trying each time to perfect my speech, my intonation, the rhythm and the emotion. trying to achieve the impossible perfection. Trying to reproduce as faithfully as I could the 'music' I had heard. I remain convinced that the greatest gift we can give to someone who is dear to us are such words. Words wrapped of sensuality, sincerity and power. Say them, write them, read them, deliver them like a present ...

Words, gliding, singing, resounding. 

To melt with Language. To become Language. 

Language inhabiting you like a familiar music.

Realizing, or rather 'sensing' (for my child's mind) the Power of the words. Their danger too.. A revelation, an explosion. Revealing The Power, the Magic too. Language was Magic and mysterious but at the same time it brought me back to some essential familiar things.

Words could 'tell the world'. Words could 'create worlds'. And I think it must also have been the very first time I 'met' poetry. The words were in German. Not read, just 'heard', felt and 'recognized'.

Their richness and their beauty moved me to a point I would remember them all my life.

This 'experience' was all the more important to me because added to the conscience of language, of words and their poetic meaning, I was also considerably impressed by the fact that 'foreign languages' could tell such beautiful things. The shock to 'discover' new 'intonations' and new sounds. An opening on a New World. I realized that many other worlds like this one existed..and that Language was Multiple, could take different accents and yet still say the same things, convey the same ideas, vehiculate the same emotions. And it was both stunning and pleasurable to think about it. I think my interest for foreign languages was born then too. The Trans-lation, the Trans-formation of words from one language to another. The constancy of the thought yet. The coherence of the ideas kept intact.

All was there. And I instinctively understood the transcendant power of language. The idea had settled inside me, in the child that I was, without me being really conscious of it, that I would have to create my own words, my own language, to tell the world (or the vision I had of it).

But I also learnt that I would have to keep silence sometimes. Often. The Power of silence. As precious and necessary as words themselves. To standback. For reflexion. To create a weaving of words but also to build and find oneself there.

'Ich habe ein Kind gesehen das unter ein baum geschlafen war'....