Les fantaisies de la Sirène

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mardi 24 mai 2016

SMS (before 2012)

160 characters to say a lot or so little. Farewell spaces and literary punctuation.

Illogical in a single logical one to add even a word. So goodbye “YOU” and long live to “U” and still, with a bit of imagination and complicity can we win a couple of letters by inventing abbreviations whose meaning has no meaning except for them. And, you might say, all this does it make sense?

All senses wide-awaked to identify the beep so similar to other tones, and yet! This one is much different. It has the sound of the pocket of the bag, the thickness of the sweater which covers it while it is hooked to the waistband of the pants. It was chosen from among a selection offered and attached to a particular number: his own.

All senses wide-awaked to capture the vibration of the object become as important as the keys of the house, because it is the key to a different continuity, new, almost essential. It is like a latent presence without being heavy because it is wanted, desired, accepted: his own.

Object of our century, champion of the communication in all directions, of the image without limit, without shame. Lovers find in it a hiding place for their " I love you ", "I miss you" without which they would not be able to feel the excitement of the secret, their secret, that of the depth of their feeling, from construction to day-to-day of their passion, the strength of the bond that unites them and that is called Love.

Small screen, small space to accommodate a little bit of their privacy, from this soft and silky cocoon in which they are just at home. Multi-coloured bubble that they create as soon as their eyes meet, their eyes speak, their fingers intertwined.

Limited storage capacity, the limit is reached, it is necessary to remove, but which re-read, choose, click, delete, sigh. The new one can then come to unveil its letters stitched into phonemes, abbreviations, shortcuts, distance diminished by a sudden acceleration of the heartbeat, with the breath retained, with an "I'm here" or "I arrive", which already feels so good the smell of his skin, the softness of his lips, the warmth of his hands in which your own slip after the delivery of this essential accessory, this link insubstantial that connects your thoughts while your bodies lust after the other.

lundi 9 mai 2016

Bulwark to the gulls

Seagulls, descended from an old lineage who had seen come back brailed sails of privateer ships announcing many rejoicings and feasts, you skim heads of curious people who extend their stride on the battlements.

With your cries let out loudly and clearly, you hide the plaints of theses dwellings’s far-off sea-rovers seeking incredible treasures, dazzling strangeness. For each miles travelled, each piece took a much more higher value compared to his market value. Were added to that sweat of sailors which ran rivers down on their skin tanned by the sun, the wrinkles of their faces craggy by trade winds, muscles tensed under the strain to brail sails or overhaul them under the assaults of the storm, the blood of their hands cracked by briny buoy ropes, the sewn bodies in the sailcloth and returned to the sea after the clashes for these coveted wealth and conquered after many dealings.

Of the small panes of each window adorning these smoothed facades relentlessly by the sea spray, some dormer windows cutting the slate roofs of multiple openings, The heavy doors of oaks irregularly hit by the hammers in brasses decorated in the arms of their inhabitants, The woodwork murmur crazy adventures hidden in the threads of the Tapestries covering the interior walls and emphasising the movable property in precious wood coming from wild shores.

From the gorges of these volatile with pure and white plumage escape the crying of these wives and mothers waiting for the return of their beloved, the little hands of their children huddled together in their own hands, male offspring which in its turn will stride along the bridge of a ship and will follow the maritime routes of their ancestors.

Do they know these students of the School of the Merchant Navy, pecking their French fries contained in an aluminium sack, drawing on their cigarette, slumped carefree on the stone steps under the warm sun of the end of this spring that they are the descendants of valiant and brave men who spoke to the sea of their mother and the one of their children when the moon high in the sky among the stars shone the top as a lighthouse in the middle of the ocean?

lundi 18 avril 2016

The formula 1 in a stave …

The show, the competition, each in their own way carries us in his rhythm.

A heat sun the racetrack, some chandeliers that adorns the room, single-seater cars line up in coloured pits, sheet music are open in front of musicians.

The throbbing of 4- stroke atmospheric engines push your eardrums to their limit, the adjustment of dissonances irritates our hearing.

When finally mechanicals have tuned engines, when finally the metronome imposes the harmony, aerodynamic racing cars stand on the starting line, eyes of artists on the key of sol.

The green flag is brandished, the conductor’s baton is raised.

Racing cars spring on the track, instruments begin a symphony.

Acceleration, allegro. Gear sequence, engines are roaring, quavers combination, sixteenth notes, trills, notes fly away. Slowdown before the turn, andante before the demi-pause. Transmission, gears, re-acceleration, minim, crotchet, crotchet, thirty-note, and here we go again!

The drivers are sweating focuses on the ribbon that rolls out endless, les spectators are quivering wrapped by the tempo. My eyes are moving alternatively from the first screen to the other, my ears are getting both the electronic sounds and the fluidness of oboes.

The prize of the competition excite my sense of the conquest, the final crescendo of the sheet music rushes out like a lava torrent in my veins.

I am carried away far, very far toward another universe. The notes escape the stave, come and gently touch down on my body, the driver leave his vehicle comes closer, with a light caress makes fly the intrusive.

Chequered flag, end of the attempts, sharp sign, alteration.

lundi 21 mars 2016

Driving Time

« When you drive take your wheel but when you kiss me, take your time ! »

An engine which starts, works and does not stop until arriving at destination, a heart which lives, begin to beat and stop at the end of the way.

A car goes forward quietly on the road, a living creature grows up and move forward on the way of life.

On this way,our paths crossed, in the same car we got in.

Put both hands on the steering wheel, put your hands on my shoulders.

Look straight ahead to not lose your way, look at me straight in my eyes to lose your mind.

Follow the arrows, they will direct you to the destination, follow the beat of your heart, they will direct you toward the warmth of mine.

With calm and serenity drive your car, with tenderness and passion let me take you to new horizons.

« Take your time to kiss me but take your wheel to drive! »

lundi 7 mars 2016

And if they could speak.

I am in a dream,but there, border on my consciousness, my ear has perceived the characteristic noise of the key which is pushed into the lock.

My heart jumps for joy, my body has difficulty in following, then I strech it. Firstly my back and also my paws, finally I shake my head and run in the hallway.

I skip about like a yound goat, she calls me scallywag and tell me to scoot outside and relieve my bladder.

It's pouring rain, I dash straight in the small copse to not be too much rain-soaked while I lift the leg. Note that I have my old habits.

As quickly as my four paws permit, I come back under the porch. She waits me with the bath towel, a bit holed and frayed, but I love when she rubs my fur.

I wiggle and I lift my head trying to lick her face bended over me. She ducks me with a laugh. Still the same game, the same joy.

I follow her, then precede her to enter the kitchen. I am seated just in front the refrigerator, I am quivering with impatience, in the expectation of my "crunchy bread".

I catch it almost on the fly and obeying to his "go to your mat" I am going to iie down on the square of carpet in front of my basket.

I crunch, I savour (um, fast, really fast) and finally I lick the breadcrumb as much because it tastes so good as well to clean my small territory.

Meanwhile, she has put a cup in the box which is now humming and then beep 3 times.

She opens the door with the left hand, take the cup with the right hand and closes the eyes while the first sip flows in his throat.

It's funny, because afer that she always says " Ah, it does me good". Therefore, this made me conclude that it must be the name of the drink.

However, it smell the same that the liquid which comes out the other one machine which sputters and does'nt beep,what she call "coffee" when she serves it to her friends.

These humans are so strange.

To be continued

mercredi 2 mars 2016

Noon, they are hungry !

Memoirs of a gallinacean, dead on the field of savours (US savors)

I am feeling well, in the middle of fellow creatures like me, installed in a showcase. At least here I am seeing many people's faces going around. Hey, a lady with nice white hairs, she is walking around with a poodle who is also all-white,unless I am mistaken and the dog is waling his mistress,it has never been clear to me.

A pusschair (US stroller), strident vocalizations come out, a human baby twist and turn frantically.

The sky is grey, why it it is getting hotter and hotter ?

Hey ! Stop the wheel !

Oh! My heart, that makes me retch !

But I have no more heart, everything inside me has been removed !

So, why I am feeling dizzy ?

I have my skin which is cooked, cracks open, my flab is flowing through rivulet. I am going to get a silhouette like hollywood stars !

the door is opening, my neighboor is going out attached at the bottom of a kind of pike.

My skin is grilling, turns golden brown, it becomes crispy with a delicious little noise.

Take me out of here ! I burn !

The church tower is striking the 12 strokes of noon !

Hey, here is a lovely young lady, she is looking at me with hungry eyes. "A chicken for a nice chick". Let's hope I will be this one.

To be at her mercy, nude, quartered between her nimble fingers, savoured with her sensual mouth, I couldn't dream of a better end.

lundi 8 février 2016

The house which travels

In french : La maison qui roule

The humans invent nearly nothing that animals had not created before.

One, two, three, four, they come in indian file

The first ones let a bright trail after passing. The Others rubbery traces.

One snail comes out of his shell, points his antennae, observes and go forward looking for his sustenance. Two cars are following the motorhome, its satellite dish out, it captures the news and drives toward the gas station.

Three snails have joined on the dandelion plant and they enjoy it nibbling little by little Three motocycles zigzag between motorhomes, to overtake other people into the queue;

Four slugs slide toward the feast to take away a part from snails. Four motorhomes enter the motorway to reach their holiday destination.

One, two, three, four, they come in indian file

Four motorhomes enter in the campground to find a parking spot for the night. Four snails head toward a place to seek shelter.

Three motorhomes unfold their awning adjust their antenna. Three snails guide themselves collectedly by means their antennae.

Two caravans comes and take place beside their bigger brothers. Two slugs bypass their cousin to get to sleep.

The last one motorhome still drive towards its garage.vacation are over.

One snail hides himself in the bottom of a tin (US:can), one child picked him up, end of freedom.

One, two, three, four

dimanche 31 janvier 2016

Nouveauté pour cette année

Afin de faciliter la lecture d'autres personnes de part le monde, une partie de mes textes sera publiée au fil des semaines en anglais.

Nous commençons par celui que vous avez pu lire ici : Midi j'ai faim !

It's Noon ! I'm Hungry

My metabolism is controlled in the same time by my genetic heritage and the good habits given by my parents from my birth is incompatible with my working hours ! It is hot.

The office windows are wide open, I work 2 storeys above a rotisserie. And, on good weather days, it is the same ordeal between 11:30 and 12:30: the smell of fried chicken ! For you I don't know but personaly that really drive me nuts !

My stomach is grumbling because it's already 5 hours I have swallowed the last mouthful of my breakfast. My salivary glands are now running in accelerated production mode.

Regarding my brain, my thought become centered on the spectacle of the bird skewered, turning over and over behind the window, letting the fatty part discharge to get a golden skin which crack with a very specific sound.

My eyes are looking to the clock. Still twenty minutes ! No matter I try to reason myself, I know I am still going to become unable to resist, the stall holder will tell me again: "a beutiful chicken for a nice chick !"

I will still get annoyed, but not sufficiently to break my pleasure: to enjoy my chicken with fingers ! Humm, I am going to make a feast of it !

Well ! It is a half past noon. I cannot write you any longer, there is a chicken who is waiting me.