Does it really make a difference if we give out a hand without asking anything in return.?
It does not help, in fact is useless.
Poverty will always exist, misery will always be part of us and *we* not changing anything.
We do it anyway knowingly we are not changing anything at all.
Nothing.
Perhaps the reason we help those under the wrath of misfortune is because we do look for something in return.
We look to learn something about them and also about us.
We are helping to learn about us: to learn about pain and desperately control it.
Control it on us... control it on others.
By "helping" them, we hope to help us.
It is them who are helping us.
It is them who are lending a hand.
At least this is what i think when I extend my arm.
samedi 30 avril 2011
lundi 25 avril 2011
To Bleed
There is nothing to painting [writing],
All you do is sit down at a canvas [typewriter] and bleed.
All you do is sit down at a canvas [typewriter] and bleed.
dimanche 17 avril 2011
Incurable disease.
C'est une de maladie incurable que je porte, qui s'appelle lucidité.
Parce que je ne vois aucune raison pour être optimiste dans le monde ou nous sommes.
Aucune raison.
Parce que je ne vois aucune raison pour être optimiste dans le monde ou nous sommes.
Aucune raison.
dimanche 10 avril 2011
Dying in Paris
Being in a large city filled with people which seem to bubble from the ground like ants makes it easier to get lost.
Easier to die within.
Easier to kill the soul while the body still moves and breaths.
So is the case of a friend of mine.
He left this world a long time ago, and everytime I see him, I know he is no longer here.
His body is still here. He tries from time to time to acknowledge I am in front of him, but the effort to acknowledge others existence causes him extreme pain.
I know, but he likes me so he tries and usually falls to a chaotic and repetitive conversation loop.
You have to know him to realize he is repeating over and over and getting lost in his thoughts and tears.
Sometimes he can look at me with his lost eyes and just start crying.
I do not think he looks at me, I just happened to be in the direction of his memories.
I am probably blocking them for an instant then they come rushing in inundating his eyes.
When I first met him, his body was still responding, he walked and even insisted in cooking for me from time to time...
but as of lately even his body is giving signals of abandon.
Every time I look at him I wonder when his suffering will end.
I too suffer seeing him in so much pain.
It is to me a clear example of a body separated from its soul to never come back.
Just like ORLY from J. Brel.
The body stays alone after the soul has long left causing anguish and pain...
Yesterday he was found in the streets unable to move and talk and taken to some hospital.
It is april 10, 2011. I am today in my 30's while he is in his 70's.
I can hear the bells from the church at Saint-Germain-des-Prés singing, reminding me to stop writing, get up and look for him.
I will now call hospitals to find out where has him been taken. I hope to find him...
Perhaps his pain will soon will end. I care about him very much. I would like him to find peace. This peace will not be found here, not in this earth, not in Paris, not in his frail body and certainly not in my company, although I have held his hand a few times in my attempt to give him comfort.
At the end my presence is useless as there is nothing I can do except be filled with melancholy.
....•°°•.¸.•°°•.¸.•°°•.¸....
Easier to die within.
Easier to kill the soul while the body still moves and breaths.
So is the case of a friend of mine.
He left this world a long time ago, and everytime I see him, I know he is no longer here.
His body is still here. He tries from time to time to acknowledge I am in front of him, but the effort to acknowledge others existence causes him extreme pain.
I know, but he likes me so he tries and usually falls to a chaotic and repetitive conversation loop.
You have to know him to realize he is repeating over and over and getting lost in his thoughts and tears.
Sometimes he can look at me with his lost eyes and just start crying.
I do not think he looks at me, I just happened to be in the direction of his memories.
I am probably blocking them for an instant then they come rushing in inundating his eyes.
When I first met him, his body was still responding, he walked and even insisted in cooking for me from time to time...
but as of lately even his body is giving signals of abandon.
Every time I look at him I wonder when his suffering will end.
I too suffer seeing him in so much pain.
It is to me a clear example of a body separated from its soul to never come back.
Just like ORLY from J. Brel.
The body stays alone after the soul has long left causing anguish and pain...
Yesterday he was found in the streets unable to move and talk and taken to some hospital.
It is april 10, 2011. I am today in my 30's while he is in his 70's.
I can hear the bells from the church at Saint-Germain-des-Prés singing, reminding me to stop writing, get up and look for him.
I will now call hospitals to find out where has him been taken. I hope to find him...
Perhaps his pain will soon will end. I care about him very much. I would like him to find peace. This peace will not be found here, not in this earth, not in Paris, not in his frail body and certainly not in my company, although I have held his hand a few times in my attempt to give him comfort.
At the end my presence is useless as there is nothing I can do except be filled with melancholy.
....•°°•.¸.•°°•.¸.•°°•.¸....
Et maintenant ils pleurent Je veux dire tous les deux Tout à l`heure c`était lui Lorsque je disais il Tout encastrés qu`ils sont Ils n`entendent plus rien Que les sanglots de l`autre Et puis infiniment Comme deux corps qui prient Infiniment lentement ces deux corps Se séparent et en se séparant Ces deux corps se déchirent Et je vous jure qu`ils crient Et puis ils se reprennent Redeviennent un seul Redeviennent le feu Et puis se redéchirent Se tiennent par les yeux Et puis en reculant Comme la mer se retire Ils consomment l`adieu Ils bavent quelques mots Agitent une vague main Et brusquement ils fuient Fuient sans se retourner Et puis il disparaît Bouffé par l`escalier
samedi 9 avril 2011
la peste
C'est au moment du malheur qu'on s'habitue à la vérité, c'est-à-dire au silence.
...and....as brittle as silence...truth slowly falls apart.
...and....as brittle as silence...truth slowly falls apart.
vendredi 1 avril 2011
Camille
"Ce n'est pas ma place au milieu de tout cela, il faut me retirer de ce milieu, après quatorze ans, aujourd'hui d'une vie pareille, je réclame la liberté à grands cris."
There are multiple ways of being "institutionnalisée" some people don't even realized it has happened (to them.)
Peut être que la liberté n'existe pas...nos cris sont assourdis par notre cécité.
There are multiple ways of being "institutionnalisée" some people don't even realized it has happened (to them.)
Peut être que la liberté n'existe pas...nos cris sont assourdis par notre cécité.