Letter from nowhere

A long time has passed since my last post. Maybe because of things, maybe because of nothing,
Or maybe, there was no light. December is a weird month, with many lights.
Not from the sun.
Sometimes from lamps.
…People…
…Only people.

A long time has passed, and I feel better. February can be a sunny time. Basically, it is. Several trips in France, according to my mood, my hopes and also my work. I haven’t taken many photographs, that was not the time. There are some, chosen among those I took and those somebody had taken. All aren’t as beautiful as I hoped, but they seemed to signify something, I felt, therefore they took their place in the dance, they moved, and then
Everything was well.

Sometimes, things don’t want to be explained by themselves. They don’t want to be understood. However, proud as they are, they sing a sweet melody in our eyes, just to tell us they’re valuable, they have to be watched. No one is able to say why,
They are, and that’s all.
This is the way I chose them, without any other sight than my own feelings, never according to a specific meaning, rarely according to the aesthetics. I’m not sure you’ll agree with me, but anyway, I must begin again this “blog”.

I’m glad there is a sun again. Two month without any beautiful, natural light was too long. I want to take photos, I want to write again, I want to work.
Two months in hibernation… it may be too long.

I would like to apologise. I haven’t got internet anymore. That is why I have not sent any news to anybody. I use to check my e-mails once a day, and to answer once a week, so don’t worry, you’re in my mind. There is just a problem concerning logistics.

Well, I have to leave. I hope I will be able to write and take photographs again.
See you soon everybody.

Birmingham, the 9th of February 2008

Life is so quiet

This week was a busy week, probably as much as the next one. FDI (Foreign Direct Investment) and South Korea's economy are crowding my life. Nothing interesting to tell, not many photographs, but an experience which has revolutionized my food's perception.

Oh, I am forgetting the show by Air and Aurevoir Simone... amazing.

Marmite
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Marmite /ˈmɑːmaɪt/ is the name given to two similar food spreads, one produced in the United Kingdom and the other in New Zealand. Marmite is made from yeast extract, a by-product of beer brewing. Marmite is suitable for vegetarians and vegans.
The British version is a sticky, dark brown paste with a distinctive, powerful taste. This distinctive taste is reflected in the British company's marketing slogan: "Love it or hate it". It is similar to the Australian Vegemite, Swiss Cenovis. Bovril is a similar looking spread made from beef.
This distinctive product was originally British, but a version with a noticeably different taste has been manufactured in New Zealand since 1919, and this is the dominant version in New Zealand, Australia and the Pacific Islands.
The image on the front of the British jar shows a marmite (French, "large covered earthenware or metal cooking pot").[1] The British Marmite was originally supplied in earthenware pots, but has long been sold in glass jars that approximate the shape of such pots.[2] A thinner version in squeezable plastic jars was introduced in March 2006.

PS: temperature is higher in Birmingham than in Toulouse or Paris or Marseille... how wierd the world is...

Sous les pavés, la Seine

Revenir en France pour quelques jours, revoir, voir, sentir les odeurs de passage, et puis rentrer. L'oxygène a ses propres lois.
J'ai croisé des mains durant ces quelques jours. Dans la paresse d'une étreinte, dans la ferveur d'une embrassade, on saisit toujours la perenne temporalité des mains. Elles souffrent ou ont souffert, elles s'élancent et se deviennent célestes quand elles dansent au creux du temps. Les mains revêtent sans arrêt de la présence des gens, de leur implication dans la vie. Nous avons des mains pour saisir et aimer, nous avons des mains pour vivre, et pour ma part, je les vis plus que tout.
On a tendance à vivre dans la pudeur du toucher, ou dans sa peur. On se regarde, on s'envisage, on s'écoute, mais le toucher ne vient que plus tard. J'ai aimé Paris pour toutes ses mains que je connais, pour des gestes qui signifient rien aussi. Certaines ont manqué, une paire n'apparait pas. Mais les mains restent des poèmes de chaque instant.
Je réécrirai. Mieux, et plus volontairement, mais le temps se dissout alors que la librairie ferme. Je dois partir.

Je dois revenir.

The colour's death

Sometimes, life seems to appear in black and white. It is like my eyes, a dark globe hung above a land of snow, just an unbelievable phenomenon, something from a physical theory nobody can understand.

Sometimes, life is but reality which can’t be explained.

It is.

And nothing more.

There is mist all around me. I feel alone, but strangely glad. The lights which transpire from the branches call me “little child” and I would like to be handsome in front of Night. Places are empty; the crow which used to stand on the pavement has left far away, and leaves the squares

quiet…

still quiet.

Colours don’t exist anymore, there is no white, or yellow, or blue. There is just a virginal land and the air which smells cold.

The little pieces of water dance upon a wind that has never existed. They stand on my hands, and can’t fall to the grass because they’re not heavy enough. I want to believe in that few seconds…

life could be a religion.

Far away, fireworks are bursting. Their explosions are the single link with the life from outside. My songs have vanished in a deep shadow; my lips are kissed by the smoothest caress. The wind of November which follows my shape.

This night is a tale never told.

Some people have written it, some dreamers have read it although their thoughts are still laid on their bed of wisdom. Youth has never existed as much as in the colours’ death.
I have understood the lights, and while night will pass away, I will be a child holding stars,

hung in the night,

...but laid on that soft cold grass.

Birmingham, the 4th of November.

2007

The widow's laughter

Leaves are falling all over the land and the red dark walls of Birmingham cry autumn has come. The weak sun doesn’t appear but awakes from Dawn to death,

when clocks show it is six,

when nobody is laid to sleep.

I would confess my fears if there was a sudden noise, a breath of fury, but everything is quiet, everything seems to be a letter written by a sleeper. Therefore I think about the wind snuggled up against my hands.

Everything is but a night dream. Thoughts only night walkers could feel when they slip on the pavement,

and fly for one second.

I know there is no fear actually, there are no walls raised up in front of my forehead, there are just tortured ways which pass across the hills, and whistle that stars are going to vanish one more time.

Those ways I can’t feel because of the cold circling my neck

and pretending to be a scarf.

The canal’s streams remind me that the time is running away,
and that my shoulders can’t be swallowed by a strong deep chill of already cried memories.

The lights, reflected from the water, are dancing upon the bricks like a forgotten banquet upon a demand of absolution.

It reminds me the Ocean,

the waves’ voices mixed to laughter,

the parties I’ve never been to,

the old widow crying because of joy on the fair’s ground.

Now, I’m sure it is not an exile but a bracket.

Birmingham, 28th of October. 2007

When fog comes into the sheep barn

England whispers in my ear there is no rain.

There are just the sun’s tears, like spindrifts over the umbrellas.

The city is at my feet all day long, and I watch folk through the window.

It is just fast walkers when sky is falling down,

It is just dancers in the rain each time they want to forget that there is no lullaby by night,

When they come back home,

When they wear their worn dreams.

Sometimes, sunlight appears and it is like a party in their minds. There is nothing but their

arms circling life, circling the whole day, circling their youth as if it were their last present.

I guess I love this clear white crowded light.

There is a sound in that country, a whistle, which tells me that it’s not an island’s lyrics but that everything abroad is a kind of Island whose lies nobody here can understand.

I lay down on my bed, I’m surprised to think as they do.

Maybe I’ll have spindrifts over my umbrella.

Birmingham, 17/10/2007

Going back to the stars