“What am I gonna do with you?”

Tonight is a good evening. I watched a terribly bad B-Movie (in France we call these “Film Z”, a Z-movie – makes sense?), called Beyond Skyline.

There are two types of low budget Sci-Fi movies. This one is bad. Dialogs like “Move Move Move!”, or “It’s OK! Ok? Okey…”.

But I liked this one, in a way, because there’s a really genuine will to do good. And it’s so bad! Poor guys!

The other type is the Monsters type ( http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1470827/ ) by Gareth Edwards, who directed since : Godzilla and Rogue One. Monsters was penniless but fantastic, great, inventive, gorgeous, magic!

 

In the beginning of Beyond Skyline I found this article idea :

A father (a cop) tries to talk to his son (a rebel) in the tube (before the ETs attack the Earth, OK?), and he says him :

“What am I gonna do with you?”

 

Oh I love that sentence!!!

And well, this is the subject of this article.

“What am I gonna do with you?” means a lot.

It says something about “a link, but”. About the complexity of life. About love. About something positive (I talk to you) but negative (you’re a mess, man!). This dance of love and bond and difficulties is one of the cores of life…

“What am I gonna do with you?”

What does it mean? What kind of smile dances around it? Why? What is it to be a mess (but I need you around)? Isn’t it the REASON why we like the person, though?

 

Thanks for reading! (it’s my 800th article!)

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André Breton : Union – a French poem

‘Free Union’, by André Breton.

My wife whose hair is a brush fire
Whose thoughts are summer lightning
Whose waist is an hourglass
Whose waist is the waist of an otter caught in the teeth of a tiger
Whose mouth is a bright cockade with the fragrance of a star of the first magnitude
Whose teeth leave prints like the tracks of white mice over snow
Whose tongue is made out of amber and polished glass
Whose tongue is a stabbed wafer
The tongue of a doll with eyes that open and shut
Whose tongue is an incredible stone
My wife whose eyelashes are strokes in the handwriting of a child
Whose eyebrows are nests of swallows
My wife whose temples are the slate of greenhouse roofs
With steam on the windows
My wife whose shoulders are champagne
Are fountains that curl from the heads of dolphins over the ice
My wife whose wrists are matches
Whose fingers are raffles holding the ace of hearts
Whose fingers are fresh cut hay
My wife with the armpits of martens and beech fruit
And Midsummer Night
That are hedges of privet and resting places for sea snails
Whose arms are of sea foam and a landlocked sea
And a fusion of wheat and a mill
Whose legs are spindles
In the delicate movements of watches and despair
My wife whose calves are sweet with the sap of elders
Whose feet are carved initials
Keyrings and the feet of steeplejacks
My wife whose neck is fine milled barley
Whose throat contains the Valley of God
And encounters in the bed of the maelstrom
My wife whose breasts are of night

And are undersea molehills
And crucibles of rubies
My wife whose breasts are haunted by the ghosts of dew-moistened roses
Whose belly is a fan unfolded in the sunlight
Is a giant talon
My wife with the back of a bird in vertical flight
With a back of quicksilver
And bright lights
My wife whose nape is of smooth worn stone and white chalk
And of a glass slipped through the fingers of someone who has just drunk
My wife with the thighs of a skiff
That are lustrous and feathered like arrows
Stemmed with the light tailbones of a white peacock
And imperceptible balance
My wife whose rump is sandstone and flax
Whose rump is the back of a swan and the spring
My wife with the sex of an iris
A mine and a platypus
With the sex of an alga and old-fashioned candles
My wife with the sex of a mirror
My wife with eyes full of tears
With eyes that are purple armour and a magnetized needle
With eyes of savannahs
With eyes full of water to drink in prisons
My wife with eyes that are forests forever under the axe
My wife with eyes that are the equal of water and air and earth and fire

L’Union libre

Ma femme à la chevelure de feu de bois
Aux pensées d’éclairs de chaleur
A la taille de sablier
Ma femme à la taille de loutre entre les dents du tigre
Ma femme à la bouche de cocarde et de bouquets d’étoiles de dernière grandeur
Aux dents d’empreinte de souris blanche sur la terre blanche
A la langue d’ambre  et de verre frottés
Ma femme à la langue d’hostie poignardée
A la langue de poupée qui ouvre et ferme les yeux
A la langue de pierre incroyable
Ma femme aux cils de bâton d’écriture d’enfant
Aux sourcils de bord de nid d’hirondelle
Ma femme aux tempes d’ardoise de toit de serre
Et de buée aux vitres
Ma femme aux épaules de champagne
Et de fontaine à têtes de dauphins sous la glace
M femme aux poignets d’allumette
Ma femme aux doigts de hasard et d’as de cœur
Aux doigts de foin coupé
Ma femme aux aisselles de martre et de fênes
De nuit de la Saint Jean
De troène et de nids de scalares
Aux bras d’écume de mer et d’écluse
Et de mélange du blé et du moulin
Ma femme aux jambes de fusée
Aux mouvements d’horlogerie et de désespoir
Ma femme aux mollets de moelle de sureau
Ma femme aux pieds d’initiales
Aux pieds de trousseaux de clefs aux pieds de calfats qui boivent
Ma femme au cou d’orge imperlé
Ma femme à la gorge de val d’or
De rendez-vous dans le lit même du torrent
Aux sens de nuit
Ma femme aux seins de taupinière marine
Ma femme aux seins de creuset du rubis
Aux seins de spectre de la rose sous la rosée
Ma femme au ventre de dépliement d’éventail des jours
Au ventre de griffe géante
Ma femme au dos d’oiseau qui fuit vertical
Au dos de vif argent
Au dos de lumière
A la nuque de pierre roulée et de craie mouillée
Et de chute d’un verre dans lequel on vient de boire
Ma femme aux hanches de nacelle
Aux hanches de lustre et de pennes de flèche
Et de tiges de plumes de paon blanc  De balance insensible
Ma femme aux fesses de grès et d’amiante
Ma femme aux fesses de dos de cygne
Ma femme aux fesses de printemps
Au sexe de glaïeul
Ma femme au sexe de placer et d’ornithorynque
Ma femme au sexe d’algue et de bonbons anciens
Ma femme au sexe de miroir
Ma femme aux yeux pleins de larmes
Aux yeux de panoplie violette et d’aiguille aimantée
Ma femme aux yeux de savane
Ma femme aux yeux d’eau pour boire en prison
Ma femme aux yeux de bois toujours sous la hache
Aux yeux de niveau d’eau de niveau d’air de terre et de feu

 

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Instagram : bodylanguage

Another translation :

Free Union

My wife with the hair of a wood fire
With the thoughts of heat lightning
With the waist of an hourglass
With the waist of an otter in the teeth of a tiger
My wife with the lips of a cockade and of a bunch of stars of the last magnitude
With the teeth of tracks of white mice on the white earth
With the tongue of rubbed amber and glass
My wife with the tongue of a stabbed host
With the tongue of a doll that opens and closes its eyes
With the tongue of an unbelievable stone
My wife with the eyelashes of strokes of a child’s writing
With brows of the edge of a swallow’s nest
My wife with the brow of slates of a hothouse roof
And of steam on the panes
My wife with shoulders of champagne
And of a fountain with dolphin-heads beneath the ice
My wife with wrists of matches
My wife with fingers of luck and ace of hearts
With fingers of mown hay
My wife with armpits of marten and of beechnut
And of Midsummer Night
Of privet and of an angelfish nest
With arms of seafoam and of riverlocks
And of a mingling of the wheat and the mill
My wife with legs of flares
With the movements of clockwork and despair
My wife with calves of eldertree pith
My wife with feet of initials
With feet of rings of keys and Java sparrows drinking
My wife with a neck of unpearled barley
My wife with a throat of the valley of gold
Of a tryst in the very bed of the torrent
With breasts of night
My wife with breasts of a marine molehill
My wife with breasts of the ruby’s crucible
With breasts of the rose’s spectre beneath the dew
My wife with the belly of an unfolding of the fan of days
With the belly of a gigantic claw
My wife with the back of a bird fleeing vertically
With a back of quicksilver
With a back of light
With a nape of rolled stone and wet chalk
And of the drop of a glass where one has just been drinking
My wife with hips of a skiff
With hips of a chandelier and of arrow-feathers
And of shafts of white peacock plumes
Of an insensible pendulum
My wife with buttocks of sandstone and asbestos
My wife with buttocks of swans’ backs
My wife with buttocks of spring
With the sex of an iris
My wife with the sex of a mining-placer and of a platypus
My wife with a sex of seaweed and ancient sweetmeat
My wife with a sex of mirror
My wife with eyes full of tears
With eyes of purple panoply and of a magnetic needle
My wife with savanna eyes
My wife with eyes of water to drink in prison
My wife with eyes of wood always under the axe
My wife with eyes of water-level of level of air earth and fire

So you trashed everything your ex offered you?

Books & Scarves, hop in the trash!

Some people, after a break up, trash everything – “It comes from my ex”.

Good!

But I’m a constructivist, thus I know things are… “things”, the value is not “into” things.

The value of things is conferred.

By me.

And by the way, this great shirt is just a great shirt.

Err I won’t trash it.

I keep things I like. A good scarf looks good on me, and it’s warm. Period.

If I have to trash my scarf, it seems to mean : “I’m haunted by the past”, right?

“I loved this scarf, but today I’m terrified by it. Kill kill kill!”

I’m not haunted by “the past into a scarf”. The past is always interesting!

And it’s not into a thing.

If someone offered me a book, I will keep it as a good sign. And read it.

Good things stay good things : I just CAN decide it’s this way.

So I keep good things, in some states of mind :

  1. This comes from a good moment, that built me.
  2. I’m not “haunted” by imaginary feelings included in the thing.
  3. It’s useful and I like it.
  4. Dramaqueening is for teens.

 

“My now bf/gf is bothered by my ex’s things”. What about your body, then?

“What if my ex is now my enemy?”. What? Really? OK then. Trash your shirt. This book too. Voilà. Done. And now? Hmm? Feeling better? Any change? Anywhere?

 

I have some paintings on my wall which were given to me more than 25 years ago (by an ex). I have so many books. Yes : scarves, pens, a lamp, whatever. My mind-house is built on old stories. I love it!

And it’s a windy winter, brrrr…

You can also read :

 

Thanks for reading!

 

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An empty letter from Madagascar (Silence Treatments Types)

I keep letters (and mails). All of them. It’s like a diary. It’s like traveling in time, being in two persons’ brains, “dialog archeology”, you feel the water under the bridge, too. And if the person died, you can talk with him/her endlessly.

 

I found an old letter in which a friend told me that she dated a guy and lived a few weeks of love before breaking up, because he was too intense, toxic, and jealous. Drama! He said he would left the country to live in Madagascar, and that he will never talk to her again! Then he disappeared…

One day, years later, she got an envelope. From Madagascar. She didn’t open it : it was empty.

She wrote me about her boiling brain since : Was it a mistake? Cruelty? A symbol? A paradox (“I think of you but I won’t talk”)? A “Hello”? In fact, she was so moved that it’s been good to her. It made her think about herself, about life, about him, about moving forward, etc…

 

This kind of cruelty made me think about the concept of “Silence Treatment“.

Silence Treatment always had many faces. And even in the Eighties and before, you already could play with it :

  1. To sulk in a couple (for days, why not)
  2. To disappear without an address
  3. To commit suicide
  4. Abandoned child
  5. Quitting your best friend for ever because he/she went too far

Who does that and why? To manipulate? To forget? Protection? Cruelty? Stupidity?

 

Now we have smartphones and the Internet, tools outnumber old possibilities. You can just BLOCK someone one Facebook, Whatsapp, Skype, Email, etc… – and all pertaining games :

  • you can block the blocker, so there!
  • you can unblock someone, say something and reblock him/her (just to imagine the boiling process – which, beware could steam back… where it can).
  • you can use real mail (paper) to bypass (I love when reality hits the virtual fan!).

 

I know a friend who has been almost destroyed by a lunatic pervert (living on the other side of an ocean) who constantly contacted her, flooded her with love and promises then disappeared for months for no reason, in a loop, keeping her disarmed in a boiling despair for years.

Silence treatment is dreadful (see, I learned a new word!), and we should only use it for protection.

 

Thus I’m back thinking about the empty letter from Madagascar. As an optimist, I choose this (because I choose to think people can’t be “that” mean) : It was a way for the guy to say “I promised I won’t talk to you anymore, but here’s something to show you I think of you, though”.

Awweeeeee!…

 

Thanks for reading!

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The “Let’s make it a dance” tool

Hefez : La Danse du Couple (really need a translation?) is a book written by a couples therapist. He says that a couple is an impossible thing to build and to live – the other one never “fits”.

Therefore, we all have to think, watch the other and our alliance, and realize that there are stairs to climb, paths to invent, that we have to think and “find a way”. All this gestures-mess is a DANCE.

“Let’s make it a dance” is a tool which says :

“When it’s difficult somewhere but you have to insist and you have to stay in the system, just accept and absorb the difficulties – and invent a dance. Your dance. It’s a mess, but you can dance it, smile, and climb the stairs”. And ignore the others. Nobody can understand your own dance. It’s a secret.

Thanks for reading!

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Instagram : tammygucci

John Giannatos, Greek Street Photographer #streetphotography

I follow more than 2400 persons on Instagram – I love this tool. This is Earth, humanity! For only a few ladies & guys, I activated the “tell me when she/he publishes” option. John Giannatos is one of them.

No genius here. He is just GOOD. He’s a street photographer. And you can see kindness, empathy, a sense of the things which make a good photography : light, moment, frame. He loves people, that’s obvious. John Giannatos. I don’t know him. You’ll find it, right?

Bravo, and thank you, stranger.

 

Thanks for reading!

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Corks of reason pop out when the Real Thing appears & other unpinnings : Chronicle 28

“A man who is weak is a man who simply has a lack of love”. Is it true?

mu9

Decades ago a friend of mine bought a puppet in a store, in Europa. Once she chose it, someone said “You bought death”.

mu9

Corks of reason pop out when the Real Thing appears.

mu9

“Put on a happy face”, “Keep smiling”. I think it’s very strange to say that; if you’re not happy, you just don’t “put on a happy face”, and I don’t find any French idiom about that. What madness is that? Smile “on order”, naturally, for the picture, and you look like a fool…

Smile when you smile inside…

mu9

“Dans la solitude, on sent très bien le danger de la folie” : in solitude, one feels very well the danger of lunacy.

mu9

A certain silence arises from the other’s absence.

mu9

What do you do, when you see someone you like… rushing into a new project which you sense and foresee will be dangerous or a disaster? You shut up. One does not ask for your opinion : just shut your mouth.

mu9

They should invent a “people weather forecast”. “Today, people are obnoxious idiots. Go outside only if necessary”. “Tomorrow, people will be slow and dumb. Stay calm if you have to go outside”. “Don’t go around Quivira today, there are drunk bored couples everywhere”.

mu9

Write the storiy of Three Cursed Syisters. Eaych one has her own way of beying cursed. By what? Sex & Love, of couyrse!

How to decurse a curse?

mu9

When you hear the river, but you don’t see it.

mu9

A Folleti is a kind of Italian impish imp with a large red hat. He comes to comfort a little girl who is crying in the shade, on a porch behind a house. He invents magic tricks and a beautiful waltz. Then, she laughs. A chaffinch is singing somewhere.

mu9

Creation as association of ideas. Of course. Which ideas? How do you connect? What could be a adjuvant?

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These days I read dozens of letters from the nineties. Forgetting the past is maybe the hugest mistake of humanity. Thanks to these letters, I’m see ideas and scintillations growing from the soil. Forgetting the past, the child we were, our siblings, our paths, hesitations, lovers, dialogs, mistakes and joys. Come on!

mu9

Ideas and feelings are alive in your head and are not frozenprinted : they blossom, de-blossom and re-blossom. Constantly evolving… If they don’t, they are called Pinned Mindsets. How to unpin?

mu9

We create our reality, our brain is a living forest breathing informations, dealing with reality in a complex layered dance. What kind of dance is it?

Thanks for reading!

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Instagram : kikivancheese