Beautiful day without you (ah) : Chronicle 25

 

Silent_Selfportrait_by_yuria.jpg

 

People buy books to prepare their travel.

There are books to prepare your travel into Arts. As a bookseller, I order and present piles of them. Not for the experts, who already have their own maps, for beginners.

I love this series of books. 1001 paintings you have to see in your life (“you must see before you die”, you say in America). You probably don’t “have to”, though! They do it for architecture, pop music, classical music or movies. Or beers, or whiskies.

They are mapbooks, they present windows and paths. What will you explore FROM there?

5186qGbmEuL._SX258_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg

There’s something to look at in the idea of laughing. Laughing is good, right? But when you think about it, there are many unpleasant ones. Coarse. Vulgar. Mean. Sarcastic. False. Crazy. Sniggers. And well, you die of laughing…

You have some laughs in you, who are sleeping.

 

I took this picture in 2004 in the park next to…

 

k030.jpg

Röyksopp’s lyrics :

Living on my guard (guarded)
Wind is on my neck (fateless)
Sun is on my face (have courage)
Beautiful day without you (ah)

I wonder about someone who have to say “Beautiful day without you”. Is it a lie? A way to be mean? A tearful saying, like “Ah, hell, of course not, how could it be?”. A Coué incantation (I say it I say it I say it, it’ll maybe become true)?

It’s a great song, though. This science of weaving!

 

I have a theory.

Have in your house something you dislike. If you hate whisky, have a bottle. Sauerkraut (c’est de la choucroute !) is too bitter tasting? Have a box in your closet. Chinese tea maybe?

My theory is that when you life is sad, boring and bitter, don’t fill you up with sugar. It makes you fat, and it does NOT work.

Have something bitter. Make a link. Quietly, discreetly create an harmony, a balance between your state and your stomach. It will create a match, your bitterness will sit on its ass, shupping off into a “OK Well, Fuck”.

Chinese tea is awful. Smoked. Gunpowder feeling. Terrible. Try it.

 

juliemmc.jpg

 

More and more people replace crosswords by sudoku (where are the sparkles?). Kids are now evaluated with numbers (but how do you say about instability or shyness, then?). Jünger says that when numbers come, Gods retreat. A beautiful metaphor?

 

jocr.jpg

 

Why are disappointed people interesting?

  • A disenchanted was enchanted, before, right? How come?
  • He wants to warn others. Or not. Why?
  • Failure leads to choices, lead to more failure (most of the time?).
  • How do you ride back on your horse?
  • What does he have to understand? To accept?
  • Did he expect too much?
  • Insisting. Waiting. Letting go.
  • Before disillusion, he’s a happy imbecile. What do you say to him?
  • “This time, it will work”.

 

 

What is this moment : “To become aware of” ?

 

Thanks for reading!

9hz

tzgc.jpg

Life is fucking short. Let’s dance.

 

tt0002proust.jpg

Advertisements

Soccer Games (in shorts) (in the mud) (good grief)

When you’re not really interesting in soccer, you just watch and see two dozens of guys in shorts running after a ball. After all, we all need to be kept busy and to manage our time. Therefore, why not? Let’s take oneself in hand, and run after a ball, in a team! (important : in shorts).

I always have a bunch of naive questions I ask to my soccer lovers friends.

  • Why don’t these guys play with women? Co-ed football?
  • Why the hell is the team of “your” city the best? Imagine we do the same with movies or writers… Why don’t you watch all styles all teams and choose the one you love the most? No, OK, it’s your city, they’re the best. OK OK. OK.
  • Why don’t you all handle two balls at the time? It’d be funnier!

 

Introverts and other guys with glasses will try to find a philosophy here. Camus said he liked to play the goal keeper, where he learned a good lesson :

“The ball never comes from where you expected her to come”.

Like problems and betrayals in life?

(pardon my French)

 

When I was a teenager, my spectacled friend Jean-Marc and I (there are always two guys with glasses in a classroom, right?) we had to play soccer, and we hated it. Œuf Corse.

It’s November, it’s cold, drizzling. I want quiet, an easy chair and a fire and a cat and a book. Not to run in the dirt with idiots!

Bahhhh I loved that bunch of screaming guys : they were running like lemmings after the ball. It’s cute. Look at’em all! YAHHHHH.

Needless to say that the two poor shivering Jean-Marc and Jean-Pascal, in shorts and drizzled eyeglasses, were not in the group clucking like headless hens, because having found one or two functioning neurons in our bored head, we were, on the playground, waiting, a little bit outside of the circle of fools.

Re-needless to say that, oh fuque, inescapably, the ball ALWAYS suddenly spouted out of the group towards JM (or JP). Shit, shit and shit. What do I do now?? Mired for good.

With a good dose of audacity, I tried then to do the thing : running in cold November, in shorts, with a ball in the middle of my legs! Obviously, with a horde of yelling pimpled teenagers locked on to me…

When then reach me – if they don’t, I fall (because of the mess ball/legs) – in a panic gesture, I hit the ball. PAF. Anywhere. PAF! Go get it, you fools! Let the fetchers fetch.

Sigh… My hands on my knees, trying to catch back my breath, pfeeww, spitting my lungs, listening distractedly to the reproaches of Mr Sports Teacher, I’m thinking about next month’s soccer game. Oô December, “when mud on the ground is frozen in uncomfortable excrescences”.

I hear a crow. Croak! He mocks me. OK, let’s focus. Where’s the horde? I stand up and deep breathe. You go girl.

Happily, today I didn’t fell full length in the mud…

 

Thanks for reading! Have a great sunday!

 

Football-in-mud.jpg

Seeing to Finesse amid Chaos

There are many levels and kinds of chaos. You can be in the middle of a furious battle or a sales assistant in an overcrowded store near Christmas time, it’s chaotic.

There’s a dial to watch on every agent working in mayhem. From 100 (“I use my skills and I understand & master everything in my field”) to 0 (“I give up, I crash, I cry, now fuck this shit”).

It’s interesting to watch the cursors and levers (“I activate”) and dials’ needles (“I see what is happening here”), between efficient overactivity and sarcastic sloppiness.

In this blog I already studied three different states :

  1. “Staggering State” & Observation Amusée du Chaos
  2. The “Titanic Octet” state : stop panicking & arrange twinkles
  3. The Hummingbird Tale

 

Ernst Jünger (German) was in continuously bombed trenches during WWI, and he was reading Léon Bloy, an angry French author, and noticed how the birds were back to singing, slowly, after a night of explosions.

Seeing to Finesse amid Chaos is a state of mind. It’s a security inner mode. A way to keep safe and calm when a part of you wants to scream. It’s to restore a Middle Age painting in one besieged city. To order, in December, a single book about the letters between a musician and a philosopher in the middle of piles of cardboard boxes full of best sellers. To study the youth of Goethe in a city ravaged by plague. It’s a long conversation about Pondichery, India, next to an overexcited screaming foam party…

Stay safe!

Have a nice day!

a858542e6658462733748f8b47ba0d23.jpg

Photo : B. Plossu

 

From frowny eyes to hilarity : When you have to “find the fun” – Cioran & Bernhard

Emil Cioran was a Romanian writer and philosopher. He is famous for writing books such as The Trouble with Being Born. As you can guess, it’s very tormented and pessimistic.

William H. Gass called Cioran’s work “a philosophical romance on the modern themes of alienation, absurdity, boredom, futility, decay, the tyranny of history, the vulgarities of change, awareness as agony, reason as disease”.

Thomas Bernhard was a Austrian “novelist, playwright and poet”. His style is mainly about monologues reported to a listener (you?). It’s very intense, full of anger and a bit disturbing. His books’ titles are like Extinction or Concrete.

“Bernhard’s prose is lapidary and translucent in its vocabulary, but sinuous and formidably dense in its phrasing”.

 

Yes, you can take all this very seriously.

I’ve known a couple of young men who read Cioran as an obsession, like a Master of pessimism : “The fact that life has no meaning is a reason to live –moreover, the only one.”. And why not?

And I admit I read my first Thomas Bernhard with frowny eyes. “Very often we write down a sentence too early, then another too late; what we have to do is write it down at the proper time, otherwise it’s lost.”

 

Then… you grow up, you study the way they write (one in archipelagos, the other one in words rivers), you begin to notice their ways, their exaggerations, their… wizardry, their understanding, their contradictions.

Then you smile.

Then you LAUGH…

I agree, it’s a strange laugh. It would be a bit short to say it’s sarcastic, because it’s not. Sometimes humor sticks out with a whole harp of powers. You laugh but you think, you laugh but you sob, you laugh but you have empathy, you laugh but you’re deeply moved, you laugh and you want to get out of your house to run like hell out in the streets, full of seeds, anger, and new ideas…

You just needed to make progress until you have the capacity to “get it”.

 

Where does it happen, when you have to “find the fun”? How would you make it? When do things have like this, many doors? Why should humor move with this stick : “This is humor”?? Can (and do you need to) you invent and trace humor on something which is “obviously” not funny?

Isn’t it a lesson? Like… maybe we have to find a possible way to laugh after our months of deep despair?
Thanks for reading!

Have a nice day. Pardon my Frenchenglish, oui ?

 

Hey, it’s my article N600!

 

 

 

 

Broken Cam #Photography – Cabourg 1

Cabourg is a little city near the sea, in Normandy, France.

I was there in 2009, for a whole week, with a cheap Canon camera, which was at the end of its life. It was cold and rainy, and I spent days alone, wandering around, listening to Hindemith on my iPod (I’ll explain it in another post)…

From time to time, the whatchamacallit before the shutter stayed stuck in this oblique funny way. I often took one photo “like this”, before finger-opening it. There’s some Amor Fati in the photographer’s mind, right?

I chose a couple of pictures from this day, to build a tool for thinkers & inventors, which is :

Tool (let’s call it “Use it before you fix it”) :

When something “doesn’t work”, stop. Think about it. What doesn’t work? What could you do “with” it before fixing it?

Where will you apply this tool : Painting? Powerpoint? Poetry? Blogging? Would you go until you think it’s a sign? For what?

 

You’re a photographer. You lost or forgot something? What do you do? Do you have examples? Is improvisation good? Why?

So, well, my broken Canon picts are a little creepy like subjective views in a cheap horror movie? Of course, but I hope I got somethings else :

  • a little eyebrow movement from you (“Hey, what is happening here?”)
  • voyeurismness (mask behindness)
  • questions (“what is the last picture about?” – it’s a dirty corrugated roof)
  • maybe a mood (the remote house in the mist with the fence on photo 5) – feel the cold wind?
  • an illusion game (droplet as an eye, seaweed’s cuteness)

 

Thanks for reading! Have a nice day.

 

IMG_6395

IMG_6402

IMG_6421

IMG_6581

IMG_6587

IMG_6643

IMG_6664

IMG_6667

IMG_6725

IMG_6756

The Giving up & Parking Life Temptation

When you hear break-up stories and broken hearts from teens and young people, you smile, right? We’ve all been there, and we all know it’s time for grief, and then one day the sun rises again, and a marvelous man/woman enters the room, and here we go again!

Smile. Moving forward. Find your silver lining. Plenty of fishes in the sea, right?

Comes an age when you begin to smile less. You got a cancer, or your husband died stupidly in a car accident, or the woman you wanted to marry chose an Egyptian flea circus trainer – not you!

You’ve been through shit-hits-the-fan tempests before, you know that another dawn will come. Well, you hope it will. Or you don’t know any more…

Giving up is a possibility, and I see so many sixty years old (mainly women, OK) who decided to park their love life that I’m questioning myself. Why not, after all?

Many people will say you’re complaisant – they think of you like you were a teenager, happy clap-your-hands two days after a boyfriend text-break-up. You consider to not even answer : when this happens to you at mid-life, it hurts much, much more. Your capacity of comprehension is much bigger, and this is exactly why you lost your smile : Big Shit happened, your vessel has stopped, all sails tornripped. Your game is on the ground like a dirty puzzle. You’re fucking wounded!

Parking your life is a way to heal, you’re right. Just this : you have to know that you will maybeventually stay there. Healed, but full of ugly scars. Haunted by a hand in your hair…

Have a nice day!

 

 

1164793843616376887332598029170522413527854414

Proust & les Hirondelles : Chronicle 4

Absolutely no cunning could prevent a man
from being smashed against his dreams

 

I’m French, I’m sorry : my english is clumsy these days…

Have you ever visited the school you were in as a very little child, now you’re an adult? Among all the memories and the heartbeats you feel, you also find that… everything around is very little, right? You’re taller, now… you’re different. Perspective.

Today is the “braderie” in the city of La Madeleine. We love braderies in the North of France. It’s like your US garage sales, all along some streets : today was about 1.200 exhibitors (or displayers, how to say that?). I took a cool picture of motorbikes toys, you like it?

C360_2017-05-21-10-59-59-388

I’ve been asked one day about my “goals in life“. I have been very disturbed by this question, which is so… all about efficiency. I couldn’t think of a goal, even one. I feel like Cioran, in shock and in anger, after being asked about what he was “preparing”. If a French says he has “goals” in life, he sounds ridiculously Action Man, that’s it. The idea itself is a nightmare – at least when you’re more than 22 years old. I don’t want to be efficient, I just try to live, right? Dreams, maybe… Dreams, OK.

Absolutely no cunning could… etc…

I’m too lazy to find it, but the stupidest quote ever is something like “Give yourself a very high goal, then maybe you’ll reach a lower but good stage”. Of course there’s a more accurate one, saying that while you try to do that, you fail choosing the right path to achievement, you stay blind to feedbacks, etc. Typical Wrong Way Up. Well yes, these are words only, I know.

I have no goal, not one. It could be “to be happy” or “to be creative” or “to be a better human” or “to help others”, but I already failed in all these fields, obviously! And who will feed my cat, while I John Wayne?

If you want some fun, though, Google Image “Goals Quotes”. Plenty of orders in capitals. Like : <<DON’T LET ANYTHING STOP YOU FROM REACHING YOUR GOAL>>. Ohlalalaa, my French eyes are hurt! I need a beer, I think.

So I found a goal : stay zen in front of bullsh*t 🙂

1136120907501758332_40270600.jpg

It’s when the weather change (warmer air, higher sun, sudden showers) than you can have a rush of childhood memories. Or teenhood, say. Suddenly it’s HERE, you feel the same feeling you had in your mother’s arms, or at school when you were loving some shy redhead in silence, or when you were gathering interesting rocks under open sky. The idea of memories in Madeleines de Proust come from the food, but also from a smell (freshly cut grass, chocolate cake baking, little pot of white glue in kindergarten) or a sound (of swallows flying hunting between streets, or the familiar engine’s roar of you’re father’s car), but also from the light in the air, the clouds, a coming thunderstorm…

Marguerite Duras says somewhere that she can NOT write if the bed is not made. Strange thing is : I never forgot that, because… that’s true.

I bought a Raymond Carver book, “The American Chekhov”, as they say. I know Carver’s work pretty well, but I never read him in English. Good exercise. I can’t resist to a blurb on a book saying “The (Italian, Canadian, whatever country you choose) Chekhov”…

They have something in common, that’s right : they watch meticulously our little renunciations, our microscopic failures, our rushes never said, our words, spoken and immediately regretted, our love silliness, our boredom. But it’s not “laments”. It’s more like : “This is it, brother human, and it not even THAT dramatic”.

I found a rose, there. Is a rose, is a rose, Mrs Stein. Look where she is (“une rose”) :

C360_2017-05-21-11-12-52-441

In the shades of break-up moods, you have the yellow poison of jealousy, the dark corners of loneliness, the twinge of uncertainty and many more. The invisible bitterness of “having being loved and then not” is sometimes like swimming against the cold current of a long deep river.

In the shades of illness… Oh, another time, OK?

You can read books (or see a therapist, it depends on how you’re made), self help or philosophy : you’ll read everywhere that you have to find your happiness inside you, right? Again? I “have to”? The capitalized ORDER quote is <<BE HAPPY AND SMILE>>. Yes, each time, you want to punch the author in the face! Bim! Paf! Pouf!

Give birth to a dancing star from the chaos you have within

Strange star, but that could be my Nietzsche goal, maybe… Well, see?

Thanks for reading! Merci!

1424187076777436523_40270600.jpg