Sublimité

Si tu me demandes un mot pour décrire ces montagnes couvertes de blanc, je te dirais des mots cons, du style: sublime, immaculé, des mots remplis de silence. C'est beau, c'est tout. Pour en profiter, je marche, des heures peut être, la neige croustillant sous mes pieds, je marche sur du cristal scintillant. Sur les chemins, je laisse le silence m'envelopper, j'absorbe, ou plutôt je me laisse absorber par les montagnes. Nettoyage intérieur, moment de pure beauté, je déconnecte pour mieux me connecter au vrai.
Un jour, assise sur un rocher, alors que j'écrivais dans mon journal, que "la haut il n'y a rien", je tombe nez à nez avec un bouquetin couronné de 2 superbes cornes. On se fixe, moment magique; puis il continue sa route. 2 mondes se croisent l'espace d'une seconde. Je suis chez lui, une visiteuse, je dis merci à la haut, remplie de créatures étranges et sauvages pour ceux qui ont la patience d'oser grimper le vide. Je sais que je dois redescendre, je rebrousse chemin.
Des traineaux de chiens passent, tirant des touristes pour une ballade sur les pistes. Le génépi réchauffe les soirées après un bon repas. Que dire de la sublimité? C'est beau, c'est tout... alors un grand merci, parfois ça suffit...

Résolutions

Allez pour un tour, c'est le jeux des résolutions. Je me dis, pourquoi ne pas jouer aussi.  Vu que je ne fais jamais de résolutions, les trouvant simplement ridicules et aimant bien innover, voilà, pour une fois moi aussi je me prête au jeux. Pour cela voici mes 7 résolutions de l'année.

 

Flies and nuts

Desfois, j'écris, et souvent les feuilles se perdent dans le vent, les boites sous le lit, ou l'hyperspace. Je me dis qu'un jour, je devrais organiser tout ca, mais bon... C'est comme de penser qu'un jour viendra, et je suis bien assez occupée à ne rien faire. En attendant ce jour magique, je continue d'écrire ici et là. Voici une petite histoire de mouches et de bargeots en réponse à une note concernant la question de CG Jung sur les philosophies orientales.

Papillon jaune

Papillon jaune.

Tant de beauté était presque gênante. J'avais envie de la saisir, de l'immortaliser, de l'écrire, de la peindre, juste pour pouvoir la garder à jamais. Pourtant je savais que la garder serait impossible; la seule façon de l'aimer était juste de la laisser passer, tel un papillon jaune.
Chaque nuage amenait ses pinceaux de lumière, chaque minute un spectacle à lui même. Il fallait juste être le moment, car le sublime ne s'attrape pas, il se savoure, tout simplement. Et puis dans le fond, je savais bien que ce serait moi qui la quitterait un jour. Elle resterait là, en constante mutation, égale à elle même, sans un changement. Une brise s'approcha de mon oreille murmurant:
"C'est toi le papillon jaune."

Transparence

Transparence de Marc Dugain.

Attention spoilers, et pour ceux qui sont pas contents, ils auront étaient prévenus!

Au menu:
Les transhumanistes, l'immortalité, les déviances de la pseudo-science, débat éthiques et religieux. Voilà les quelques ingrédients bien juteux pour faire un roman d'anticipation à la française.
Ajouter un soupçon d'intrigue policière et une héroïne mystérieuse.
Ficeler et bien mélanger le tout, avec une écriture dense, technique et concentrée.
Pour finir ce roman, une petite surprise qui sera à vous de découvrir en mangeant cette recette.

Process

Process.

Well, that time of the year again. They call it "the end of the year", on some random calendar. If I lived in a jungle or a cave somewhere, I would not know of such a time. There would be no xmess, no winter solstice or other priest and priestress dubious marketing schemes. Yet, I don't live in a cave, so I watch and observe the circus. When it doesn't just seem like a very sad and ignorant joke, the lights decoration can be almost pretty to the eye. Yet, the absurdity of it all, keeps a strange juice somewhere, deep in the guts.

Letter from a kid

Dear Santa,

Well, here comes that time of the year again. I see in the shops that you are all over the place again, so, I know, it's that time again. I don't know how you can be in so many places at the same time, everywhere I go, you are there. Maybe you have many twin brothers, or maybe you travel really really fast? I don't know, and every time I tried speaking to you, I get no replies, except your "ho ho ho". So, this year, for the first time, I will write a letter to you. I hope you are doing good, and that you are not too tired from packing all the gifts for the kids.

Data recycling

 Data recycling.

"They say we are a material society, but we have no respect for the material world". Alan Watts.

Sometimes, I empty houses. Strangers, grandmother, family houses get even more personal of course, yet, objects remain objects. It's always a strange meditation on life, death, and what we live behind us when we go. The boxes of clothes, the kitchen wares, all will get eaten by mold and other fungus. All will go back to nature, back to dust we go. Objects fall apart, rotten by years of humidity, eaten by insects and time from which matter has no escape.
What are we, poor little mortals.

Une bouteille à la mer

A bottle to the ocean

I prefered to live with your memory than to live with You. I was too afraid to loose you, so I kept you close to me, for never, always and again. If sometimes I missed your body, all I had to do was to breathe and let you slowly penetrate me like a breath of lukewarm air envelopping me with softness.
I prefered your memory to the idea of loosing you. So, I splashed you, everywhere like drops of water on the ocean. I covered you in blue, green and gold. I gave you all the forms imaginable and unimaginable just to better meet you again, to better tame you.
Next time my friend, next time will be the right one, and never again we will forget that we were made to love each other, under one form or another, this has no importance.

Gratitude

Gratitude

So... My fingers got out of the rust. I put some oil on them, and they started running again. I had been stuck on poetry mode for the last 2 years (in french here). This was the time I came back to my natal country after a long 30 years journey accross the oceans and continents. Since back, all I wrote was poetry. Mind you, poetry is great, fast, efficient. In poetry I learned to erase any extra words. In poetry, I cut to the essentials. Poetry, as a form of hacking: the shortest, most efficient code. Yet, my romantic mind longued to align a few words in order to form a sentence. As the waves passed, the ship started to sail smooth, and sentences started coming back. Often, I was told: "you think too much". Of course I rebelled against this thought, and defended my position best I could. Yet, it was a corect diagnosis. "You have too much wind" said an old Tibetan doctor I went to see a few years in a row. "You think too much" he repeated. The 3rd year, I finally got an explanation to his diagnosis. "It's ok to think. But it's better to think of butterflies" the old doctor said. Now, if this seems like a simple truth, simple things are sometimes the hardest to implement in our daily life. 

For better and for...

A week, maybe more, I don't know. The days pass and I sit in  a room. My sprained ankle slowly recovers and every day I walk a little further. Outside it's hot, sticky hot, impossible to move anyhows under this type of heat. 40 degrees, it beats the last 3 years heat records. So I sit, I watch a few science fiction movies, read a bit, mystify some, listen to some tunes with a joint. I relax and watch the fan ceiling turn around and around. The room is filled with a few nothing, a couple pair of pants t-shirts, a bunch of art supplies, paper, pencils, a set of water colors, a tattoo equipment box. Lying around, incapable of walking for a few days,  I thought I would get some writing done, but instead of this, I sit, I study, and I digest the new changes happening in myself. I sit and I enjoy my quiet space, my silence, only going out for coffee and some food socializing. In the afternoon, I listen and watch the rain drops falling on the lake.

I am in Pokhara, Nepal, I sit on top of the world... and I watch it crumble...turning into... well only the future will tell...

Shanti Stupa

 A Buddha looks
on top of it's hill in Pokhara
a World Peace Stupa...

This was then...this is now



 

"Life is getting back to normal", " we will rebuild stronger and better", this is the words we tell each other, this is the words we say to keep going. But life will never be the same again, everything is changed, and we need to face and accept the fact. Normal? What was normal life in Nepal? If some new comers to Nepal come and discover the country on top of the world, those aware of the local situation know that the problems here are nothing new. If many people are still in need of urgent help, the actual re-building will take many years. So for those that feel that time is running out, stop worrying, worry does not help anything. There is plenty of time, same same but diferent as they say here. The shelter and the food situation is just the visible part, the questions are much much deeper than mere food and shelter, even if food and shelter is always the basic start, it is just a start. The people that are in most dificult situation now are the same that had the hardest life yesterday. "Aphno manche" the nepale moto of working only with one's own group is put on trial by the current events...

A month after...

 

3 weeks later, and it's almost a month since the shake. Every day we say "slowly life is getting back to normal"... normal, whatever that used to mean. But nothing is the same, everything is changed. Here, nothing will ever be the same again. No one knows what tomorrow will be, because today is simply enough to deal with. Keep the mind cool, outside it's hot, sticky hot. moonssoon is coming soon, the skin is sticky...

What next?

"For how long can people give kilos of foods? I gave what I could, now I need to work and money to keep going" says my nepale friend as we talk about the current situation. They all know it will be a rough year for everyone here, the futur looks uncertain, even more than usual. This is the real question, how long will volunteers show full support, how long can people donate? For now, the kilos of supplies keep packing up direction the mountains. For now the kilos of food, tents, blankets, medical supplies keep on coming, but for how long is a question to ask. For now, it's wonderful to see all get together and help as best they can. But once the tons of supplies are distributed and once the donations slow down, the work will keep going on for a long time after. For those that know Nepal, we know the difficulties of the country, and they are deeply rooted in the political and religious system of the country. If the maoiste revolution threw out the last Hindu King (from muslam family, but shhhtttt, it's a secret;), since the revolution which was 10 years of civil war, the new governement did absolutely nothing of what it promessed during the revolution. Does this story sound familiar? Seems history has a tendency to repeat itself...same same...but diferent this time...

Jiddu

 

"A mind that is unafraid is always alone, not isolated, but alone. It is only the mind that is frightened, anxious, guilty, greedy, envious, that is always seeking company, afraid to be alone."

 

I remember the first time I laid my eyes on Jiddu Krishnamurti. I was in my early 20's, living in San Fransisco. At the time, I was enrolled at the Community College, where I ended up getting a Bachelor of Fine Arts, now called a Bachelor of Science. For the arts classes, I mostly registered in the courses offered at the Fort Mason campus, by Fisherman's Warf area. The small campus was by the ocean and that alone was enough to make me happy...

Submission

 

"Women don't have to be intelligent, in the sense that we give to this word: she must be an expert in the pleasures of the flesh and in good caring. Here stops her role, even if she lives with men, and that is why the liberation ideas of which we get our ears full at the moment seem to me absurd."
Joris-Karl Huysmans

This sentence by Huysmans, the inspiration for the book, could resume the scandale of the moment in the french literary world. Welcome to Submission from the loved and hated writer Michel Houellebecq. If some scream to the current politically incorrect anti- islam, this book appears to me as a question between man and woman relations, which are seen as the base of human resources economy. Islam in this book, is nothing but a timely escuse to discuss religious notions in general, and of the totalitarian systems that religions can create. The real subject at the center of the debate is the dificult relationship between men and women. Decadence of the modern world, politics, the limits of individualism with it's multitude of identity crisis, a little sex and a little god, some good wine and a good meal, Houellebecq is at his top.

Winter sea

Alone
I breath
Open space
The sound of the waves fill me up
All one
I walk

Speaking with walls

"What is it?"
"It's a wall"
"But what does it mean?"
"It's art."
"But what is the meaning?"
"It's for nepale blind dwarfs."
"Ah ok. Ramro cha."
So, we took a wall, a long and grey wall. The wall smells like piss, the ground covered in garbage, it's a favorite spot of the many glue kids of Thamel. Here they gather, squat next to the street dogs, hide under their caps and sniff the glue hidden in plastic bags. Glazed eyes watch life pass, the days are glued together by the sticky goo that takes them to oblivion. The kids look at us bring paints, spray cans and notebooks. We're not here to beat them, we even speak with them. Instead of rocks in our hands, we have paint brushes. So we chose a wall, a long and grey wall. Gonna put colors on this wall, gonna bring some art into the streets, gonna share a dream, gonna make some art. Gonna be like the dogs that piss on the wall to mark their territory. We're crazy artists, no body will stop us, we are ghosts, we pass through and only leave colored shapes behind us. For no reason at all, we play with kaos and give it forms we like...

When the earth sleeps

All is quiet
Covered in white, crystals reflect
Flip flop
Melting water drops under the sun
Flop flip