– I believe in pushing that rock –


I believe in that rock
I believe in the pushing
And I believe it never stops

It’s not about feeling happy
While pushing that rock,
Like some form of accepted slavery

I’m not a slave,
And never wish to become one
I believe in pushing that rock
Because it defines me
Because I believe in this motion
Not because it keeps me from thinking outside of this condition
Not because the road somehow is straighter and clearer
As long as I’m willing to produce the effort.

I believe in that rock
Because I guess I know what it is
That’s not like being a courier
Never knowing the nature of the message carried

I guess I know what that rock is about
And it’s about faith, love, pursuance,
Fluency, transmission, humanity

Well I guess in the end, it’s about eternity.

When it comes to the subject of aging…

That’s the main wondering when it comes to the subject of aging :
What am I gonna lose,
What first ?
I don’t wanna lose this,
Whether it’s hair, vision, hearing, all sort of natural abilities,
Whether it’s beauty, grace, silhouette, muscles, good shape.
And in the meantime, while you’re so busy measuring your physical loss,
What you’re losing is soul, spirit, basic human qualities,
Your morals and values, your critical mind,
Your wits and humour, your gifts and guidance…

That is the most common trap in our focus on aging,
Hence how the process runs actually :
When you’re all about the flesh, all about the senses,
There is so much more missing that you don’t even realize is gone.
Then you lose your self and personality,
As the body fades inescapably.

À mi-chemin (tendre encore au sublime)

 

La couleur est trop vive, le jaune un peu criard.
Je la repeins dans mon esprit, en argentique ou noir et blanc,
Photo que je ne saurais prendre, instantané d’intemporel ;
À temps donné tout se révèle.

Un cran plus bas, je vois s’égayer la terrasse,
Animée du beau temps, de sa jeunesse active ;
Un cran plus haut j’avise une femme à son balcon,
Âgée, le regard triste, et qui perçoit le nouveau monde.

Oh, je dois le saisir, autant que j’en suis pétrifié,
Ce patent d’iconographie qui se réclame à son Doisneau,
Se cherche un cueilleur en images
Et non l’appui des mots.

La prise de vue est impossible,
Ou de l’immeuble en face, du toit peut-être.
J’ai cet élan irrépressible, en dévorant le cru spectacle
D’une vieille au bord des larmes, un peu trop penchée sur son vide.
Encore à demeure assez proche pour être en son époque exclue,
Mais déjà bien trop loin pour éluder, beaux souvenirs, années perdues.

Et j’attends qu’un Doisneau plus intrépide,
Ou juste un rien moins scrupuleux,
Capte sa beauté pathétique,
Sa dignité, voile à tous bleus.

Mais de la savoir invisible,
Au fond rend cette apparition, d’ici, d’autant plus magnétique.
On pourrait croire une illusion.
Il ne tient qu’au deuxième étage d’un bar assez tranquille,
Où je deviens ce regardeur à sa fenêtre ;
Il ne tient qu’au détachement social,
Celui qu’on peut encore choisir, sans disparaître ;
Il ne tient qu’à son visage éploré de surplomb,
Jamais ne tient seul au hasard à contrario,
Quand si frappante éclot, l’allégorie.
De celles actant le résumé d’une vie :

Entre agora promise à ciel ouvert
Et ce balcon de servitude,
Je prends l’étage intermédiaire,
Assoit mon règne en solitude.

Mais le regard s’élève et fuit l’abîme :
Je veux à mi-chemin, tendre encore au sublime.

Let the world know, let the heart show.

It blows against my principles
I’m used to act impassible
It would upset my own nature
Of never wanting exposure.

Yet I must find a decent way
To share the woes I can’t display
Yet I must clear another path,
On which I keep from grudge and wrath.

It might just seem hysterical
When I’m much rather cynical
It wouldn’t fit their impression
Of someone short on confession.

Yet I must pave a noble way
To shine a light on my dismay
Yet I must tread a different path
For a less daunting aftermath.

So let the world know
Let the heart show
And for once in a desperate time,
Wailing, wouldn’t be a crime.

Le tour de cette ville.

« J’ai fait le tour de cette ville », de ces gens, de tous mes nerfs,
Et pourtant reste quelque fil obstinément qui m’y réfère.
On ne s’étonne à ma figure, en d’autres temps parue si vierge.
Il n’est plus fissure en l’armure, où l’insouciance émerge.

Aussitôt la sentence ébruite un écho familier :
Quand périt l’accointance, à l’endroit qui nous tient relié.
Cent fois, n’ai-je entendu, cet air aux quatre vents,
« Jamais plus, jurais-tu, déjà le coup d’avant ».

Combien j’ai pris de cet hiver en trop, donné fatal ?
On en fraye de moins pires, ainsi prévaut l’élan vital.
Un nouveau cycle advient _ d’emploi, d’appartement,
Se raffermit le lien, s’ensuit l’attardement.

L’un se voyait partir, « exit » avant la fin d’année.
L’autre avoue s’en sortir, et n’en vit pas moins condamné.
Brève est souvent l’idylle ; au fond l’accoutumance urbaine
Où que l’on prenne exil, y tient à dépendance humaine.

« J’ai fait le tour de cette ville », ainsi j’entends sonner de pair
Un autre discours intranquille, et ne veux tendre à m’y complaire.
À cet égal en dissidence, un doux rappel est bénéfique ;
En ses mots frappe une évidence : il réitère à l’identique.

Et me voilà saisi d’un vœu soudain contraire,
Intuition m’est qu’ici demeure encore à faire.
En moi n’ai-je eu pourtant, cent fois, comme un serment,
Le présage éclatant qu’arrivait l’achèvement ?

« J’ai fait le tour de cette ville », de mes chances, on tire au clair ;
Et je m’accroche indéfectible, en due conscience, au dernier verre.
Il n’est de piège ou bon augure à suivre où son esprit converge.
On est sortant que d’être sûr enfin qu’ailleurs émerge.

Do it right the first time.

Let us do it right the first time,
And less room for redemption, amendments,
For « I’ll make it better tomorrow ».
Less chance for revival, resilience,
For « let’s have another go ».
It makes you wonder sometimes if our wrongs and failings
Are not just drawn by a natural impulse
To clean forget the previous night,
Or what we did last week,
Or what happened last year…

You can screw it up all the more
When you know it never matters for long,
Not in this urban community
Where you make ten new friends a night,
Keep in touch by attending the same bars,
And where whom you offended weeks ago
Rarely seems to hold any grudge,
As they probably acted worse, said worse, behind your back.
Or whom you rely on their discretion
Already spread the news and betrayed your secret.
But they’ll make it up to you, so you don’t need to get upset.
There’s so much heart to be received
From someone who did it all wrong
In the tacit expectation of having still another shot.
What if there was no second shot ?
At least in an adult world
Where you’re supposed to bear the consequences
Of your deeds and opinions.

Let us do it right the first time.
And less room in heaven
For the one sinner who repents,
Than for the ninety-nine righteous.
How seriously flawed can it be
That you should give more credit and consideration
To a single hell-raiser in penitence,
Than to hundreds of decent people
Just doing their best every day
Without any special want for publicity… ?

If you think life deserves a more novelistic approach,
As a good story-telling prefers harm to justice,
Failure to achievement ;
There are so many further chapters left to be written
On the basis of human duality,
For an epic that started too well,
For true romance and cloudless skies.
You don’t need to blow your first shot,
You don’t need to take a piss in the fountain of youth,
You don’t need to spoil beauty,
You don’t need to fuck it up just to make it more real.

Let’s do it right.
Let us take the first shot.
Let us go clear at first sight.
And only then, if you should claim for one more chance,
Would it be fair, as it felt right in the first place.

To love yourself (is such a painful job).


To love yourself is such a painful job
How would anyone sane apply for this duty ?
When it takes little effort to self-loathe, self-destroy,
To ruin every best piece of your personality.

In a more realistic common sense,
It is a hard enough task to give yourself respect.
And I mean, it’s a full-time job as well,
Just to keep your dignity, your balance and values,
A true sense of who you are, and who you’re not.
But you don’t have to love yourself at least…
What a high commitment to impress on your daily behaviour,
On your conscious and unconscious way of living.

To love yourself, it’s someone else’s job.
And who’s that brave for such intense giving ?
Except your parents really, who would this burden self-impose ?
You might be lovable, sure, yet even so,
You’re only one in the many.

There’s a less hypothetical chance
That you’d be taken care by someone else
And this could mean a lifetime job as well.
So if you’re blest enough to find protection and concern,
Avoid resentment against whom that keeps you from self-pity,
From all your « nobody cares for me ».
Surely someone does, whoever they might be.
Then it’s your painful job not to resist, not to break free.

I want dedication (more than ever)


Any subject is worth considering
Any question deserves your addressing
And if I had a hundred lives to spend
On each and every small facet of the being,
I’d go after any precious detail,
Make sure I deepen the searching.

But I’m running out of lives to spend on politics, economics,
On science, infrastructures, or coexistence…
I may even run out of potential lives to spend on music and culture,
Taste and colours.

Still, every problem is worth being treated
Every topic implies you debate it

But I’m running out of lives.
And I want the hardcore of my spirit,
Of my ideals and beliefs,
Of my reasons to live through the next day.

I want the obsession,
I want the focus,
The greatest of all attention,
The longest of all passions.

I want dedication
More than ever
I want dedication
All the way stronger.

I need you all.

It’s a shiny July afternoon,
And I finally settle at my usual spot,
In the « Jardin de l’Abbaye »,
On that big stone ledge,
Over a generous row of flowers…

At a short distance, I witness that very simple scene
Of what I presume to be a grand-mother and her grand-son,
Gently savouring a pack of biscuits.
Surely what a tender view…
I might be mistaken though,
Could be a different type of relation ;
And the boy’s not so young,
More like a twelve-year-old.

I don’t give’em much of attention
Until I realize that I could play, or precisely couldn’t,
Both parts of their situation.
It’s not a question of gender, nor chocolate biscuits ;
This is about sharing a special link,
More than just a bloodline.

And now I’m musing on the uniqueness of their relationship,
And how important it must be, assuredly to this woman,
Even more to this boy,
That sweet looking clumsy boy…
Then I reflect on the subject of otherness, and how long,
How old for a child,
Does it take to conceive how many more humans live on earth
Than his relatives and friends.

I mean, not just on paper,
But fully realizing for the first shocking time
The multitudes of complete strangers out there,
When you only get to know so few of them.
That scaring fascinating sensation that anything is possible ;
Life is so vast,
But then you feel quite reassured
To be on summer holidays
Eating biscuits with your grandma.
_ well, perhaps his god-mother in fact.

It’s a shiny July afternoon,
Now the sunlight strikes a bit harder ;
And I am no schoolboy anyway,
Nor his grandma either,
And I’m hungry for love and otherness
Like I never was maybe…
But you don’t feed me on chocolate biscuits anymore.
I need the flesh,
I need the spirit
I need you

I need you all.