Saturday, October 31, 2015

Regarder l'automne: une feuille à la fois

Je regarde attentivement la pluie, les arbres, les feuilles qui tombent
Je regarde pour moi
Et pour lui
Il ne peut plus regarder
Je regarde donc pour deux.

Il me manque chaque seconde.
Les larmes me visitent souvent,
Les sourires aussi.

J'imaginais pas à quel point le perdre rendra ma vie moins vivable!

Regarde, l'automne est si beau!
As-tu vu les feuilles?

Friday, October 9, 2015

la diarrhée de Dieu

Cette nuit, Dieu a contracté la diarrhée. 
Le matin, il en souffrait encore, impossible donc de partir en vélo. Je lui ai proposé du riz et du thé à la menthe, mais, en dépit de tous les efforts, il a aspergé le monde une bonne partie de la journée. 

C’était plutôt chiant, vous ne trouvez pas?

Thursday, October 8, 2015

Une cité et nos pas

Nous avons frôle tous les quatre cette vieille cité grecque aux ruelles bordées de grandes et belles maisons. Nous avons mangé et ris ensemble comme des gamins. Je le voyais plus fatigué, mais j'imaginais que l’âge, les pierres des chemins étaient les coupables.

Belle cité où les hommes ne sont plus les mêmes que ceux qui l’avaient habité au long de son histoire. 

Non, lors d'un échange de population les grecs furent remplacés par la population d'origine turque venue de Lesbos, de Crète et de la Macédoine grecque. Aujourd’hui, la plupart des mosquées de la ville sont des églises orthodoxes reconverties.

Comme des humains qui en avaient vu des pareilles, ils n’ont pas émis de commentaires : la vie est semblable peu importe sous quel ciel se déroule. De plus en plus esseulé et détaché de toute cette grouillante humanité qui le fatiguait et qui m’épuise, il a parcouru la ville, mais s’est attardé au bord de la mer pour embrasser un arbre.

 Le soir, nous avons écouté la mer et pris en verre sur le balcon.
La vie a continué… un peu.

Tuesday, October 6, 2015

il était une fois

il n'y est plus.

je remplis toujours sa tasse d'eau
je lui montre le soleil
quand je vole sur mon vélo

j'ai le goût de prendre mon sac à dos
et de partir à sa recherche

Saturday, October 3, 2015

Craig list story - not mine, I just made copy/paste

"I met you in the rain on the last day of 1972, the same day I resolved to kill myself.

One week prior, at the behest of Richard Nixon and Henry Kissinger, I'd flown four B-52 sorties over Hanoi. I dropped forty-eight bombs. How many homes I destroyed, how many lives I ended, I'll never know. But in the eyes of my superiors, I had served my country honorably, and I was thusly discharged with such distinction.

And so on the morning of that New Year's Eve, I found myself in a barren studio apartment on Beacon and Hereford with a fifth of Tennessee rye and the pang of shame permeating the recesses of my soul. When the bottle was empty, I made for the door and vowed, upon returning, that I would retrieve the Smith & Wesson Model 15 from the closet and give myself the discharge I deserved.

I walked for hours. I looped around the Fenway before snaking back past Symphony Hall and up to Trinity Church. Then I roamed through the Common, scaled the hill with its golden dome, and meandered into that charming labyrinth divided by Hanover Street. By the time I reached the waterfront, a charcoal sky had opened and a drizzle became a shower. That shower soon gave way to a deluge. While the other pedestrians darted for awnings and lobbies, I trudged into the rain. I suppose I thought, or rather hoped, that it might wash away the patina of guilt that had coagulated around my heart. It didn't, of course, so I started back to the apartment.

And then I saw you.

You'd taken shelter under the balcony of the Old State House. You were wearing a teal ball gown, which appeared to me both regal and ridiculous. Your brown hair was matted to the right side of your face, and a galaxy of freckles dusted your shoulders. I'd never seen anything so beautiful.

When I joined you under the balcony, you looked at me with your big green eyes, and I could tell that you'd been crying. I asked if you were okay. You said you'd been better. I asked if you'd like to have a cup of coffee. You said only if I would join you. Before I could smile, you snatched my hand and led me on a dash through Downtown Crossing and into Neisner's.

We sat at the counter of that five and dime and talked like old friends. We laughed as easily as we lamented, and you confessed over pecan pie that you were engaged to a man you didn't love, a banker from some line of Boston nobility. A Cabot, or maybe a Chaffee. Either way, his parents were hosting a soirée to ring in the New Year, hence the dress.

For my part, I shared more of myself than I could have imagined possible at that time. I didn't mention Vietnam, but I got the sense that you could see there was a war waging inside me. Still, your eyes offered no pity, and I loved you for it.

After an hour or so, I excused myself to use the restroom. I remember consulting my reflection in the mirror. Wondering if I should kiss you, if I should tell you what I'd done from the cockpit of that bomber a week before, if I should return to the Smith & Wesson that waited for me. I decided, ultimately, that I was unworthy of the resuscitation this stranger in the teal ball gown had given me, and to turn my back on such sweet serendipity would be the real disgrace.

On the way back to the counter, my heart thumped in my chest like an angry judge's gavel, and a future -- our future -- flickered in my mind. But when I reached the stools, you were gone. No phone number. No note. Nothing.

As strangely as our union had begun, so too had it ended. I was devastated. I went back to Neisner's every day for a year, but I never saw you again. Ironically, the torture of your abandonment seemed to swallow my self-loathing, and the prospect of suicide was suddenly less appealing than the prospect of discovering what had happened in that restaurant. The truth is I never really stopped wondering.

I'm an old man now, and only recently did I recount this story to someone for the first time, a friend from the VFW. He suggested I look for you on Facebook. I told him I didn't know anything about Facebook, and all I knew about you was your first name and that you had lived in Boston once. And even if by some miracle I happened upon your profile, I'm not sure I would recognize you. Time is cruel that way.

This same friend has a particularly sentimental daughter. She's the one who led me here to Craigslist and these Missed Connections. But as I cast this virtual coin into the wishing well of the cosmos, it occurs to me, after a million what-ifs and a lifetime of lost sleep, that our connection wasn't missed at all.

You see, in these intervening forty-two years I've lived a good life. I've loved a good woman. I've raised a good man. I've seen the world. And I've forgiven myself. And you were the source of all of it. You breathed your spirit into my lungs one rainy afternoon, and you can't possibly imagine my gratitude.

I have hard days, too. My wife passed four years ago. My son, the year after. I cry a lot. Sometimes from the loneliness, sometimes I don't know why. Sometimes I can still smell the smoke over Hanoi. And then, a few dozen times a year, I'll receive a gift. The sky will glower, and the clouds will hide the sun, and the rain will begin to fall. And I'll remember.

So wherever you've been, wherever you are, and wherever you're going, know this: you're with me still."

Pourquoi - question réthorique

Pourquoi quand j'entend Nat je m'imagine danser avec lui?

 Pourtant, une vie s'est écoulée entre ce moment et la dernière fois que nous avons dansé ensemble.

Il me manque, tu sais?
Il me semble que nous avions encore tant d'histoires à se raconter!

Friday, October 2, 2015

Un certain regard, une lumière

Deux jours maussades, pluie
Sur mon vélo, j'affronte la vie sans Lui
En me faisant la guerre chaque matin
Pour me reveiller
Aller au travail
Comme si...
Faire comme si

Parfois, ça marche
Mais ô, que je me questionne

Lumière de grisaille
Sans vie
Comme, tout comme

Ensuite, un soir, sur le pont 
En me bataillant avec le vent
Je vois une autre lumière 
Plongée sur la ville
Lumière drappée dans l'or du miel.

Le soleil regarde par dessus l'épaule. Il fera beau demain, il m'aurait dit.
Je pleure tout en avançant sur ce pont 
Long... Presque trop

Combien il y a des larmes
Dans un humain?

Autant que nécessaire, il m'aurait répondu.

Le lendemain, je me suis reveillée avant le soleil, mais la journée brille entière avec un soleil de miel.

Le fiel ne gît que dans mon âme.

Thursday, October 1, 2015


Ce soir, dans la voiture, j'ai entendu cette Polonaise. Je n'ai pas porté trop d'attention à l'interpretation. de retour à la maison, j'ai trouvé ce bijou. Une merveille pour clore cette journée froide, mais ensoleillée