I just spoke to Laura. I feel bad. Maybe if I’d totally collapsed instead of having a little breakdown, people would excuse this indomitable wildness of mine. Some people only respect my needs when I’m dispirited. Otherwise, it’s just a matter of time before they tear me down.
You’re probably wondering why I’m telling you this in the Californian language. English is the easiest way to my mournful heart. It always been. French is for my goofy heart. It always been.
Freesurfing on whatever language is good for the moment. Freestyling on whatever tone is good for the mood.
Libre como el aire.
A free bird
I keep wondering why I’ve built such an enclosing territory for myself. I don’t really want to be alone. I just need time. Temporal length to close my eyes. A little eternity to wipe them. Long stretches of nothing for my body’s ticking clock to go forward by itself again.
Who’s body is it, anyway?
Two people longing for the same breast. And I’m learning to shift :
Feeding him, making love, feeding him, making love, feeding him…
(where am I?)
I hang around, but I can’t really fly anymore.
I wish I lived alone on the Pacific Ocean. A deserted island in the middle of 165.2 million square kilometers of salty water. Actually, a wrecked raft would be awesome right now. But I’m scared of waves. Mind waves. I’m scared that they’d take away from me what I genuinely dig in this world : love and music. Sometimes waves draw things into the ocean’s womb. Thereby, they sink in a curl, dovetailing with the shit that people throw away by overweening impulses.
Overweening impulses hidden behind an
Have you heard about the Great Pacific Garbage Patch?
A Plastic Ocean. A whirlpool made of garbage. A turmoil carrying all the crap tossed abroad by people. They do it without thinking of anything else then catapulting their own crap away from themselves. They don’t care where it goes. They believe in a “beyond” or something. CAN YOU IMAGINE? Tons and tons of garbage turning on themselves indefinitely. And the loop gets greater and greater every day. And it comes back. A trash vortex going back an forth :
The shore, the womb, the shore, the womb, the shore…
Hear me sing please :
People throw shit. Other people dig it up. World goes bankrupt. Fish die. Birds stop flying over. Some people wake up. They try to go back in the womb. Chanting for a new life to emerge.
They hang around. But they can’t really fly anymore.
(I’m done singing)
The shore, the womb, the shore, the womb. Feeding, making love, feeding, making love, feeding..
Wouldn’t you be scared of light in such a turmoil? I believe this is how eyesight becomes one’s phobia.