Wednesday, August 13, 2014
That must be it
Monday, July 21, 2014 - 5:03 p.m. - the mill

This text is a little strange, it surprised me too. By dint of reading it I tame in me what comes of it. It is in probably the reason for its existence, and the one inevitably irresistible to give it to read.

For several months a kitten is wrapped around my throat. It happens regularly to me. Generally without boasting me, I recognize symptoms. Abdominal pain, nausea, back pain, pain in the shoulder, in the knees, headache, we all have a stubborn symptom. Mine is in the throat, there must be something especially snug for small cats in there, I love cats and all living beings of creation. Maybe it is a family sensitivity, with us sometimes voice extinctions happens, nodoses on the vocal cords, perhaps thyroid disorders without knowing it.

Sparingly words, soft-spoken and quiet, especially not too high words, in spite of this regime the impression that you have when you come to scream, yelling at someone, or make a day of manif to speak loudly remains you across the throat. The sensation of a trace in the body, it also happens when you puked after a too long flu, on waking or leaving a burning shower, sometimes when we cried too much.

When did I screamed? Perhaps without realizing it as The Howling Miller of Paasilinna[1], since I lives at the mill maybe in my sleep screams leave of my throat. Maybe I scream in my head and my vocal cords are not fooled. Maybe a big shout is prisoner there and tried to get out by rasping the interior surface to escape.
The best is to pause, say nothing more, vocal cords at rest, nothing better to clear his throat, SHUT UP ! It says loud, it's exhausting! Words of throat are inevitable. Over time you learn to calm down, not to be overwhelmed by anger, swearwords at most, or a blue wrath, as a way to evacuate vulgarity.

Close or kill the loop, I ask nothing better. The circle is complete, You looped the loop, this expression contains a liquidation which I don’t want to be responsible. My mazes include a single line which ends up to close, possibly in this case, and only in this case, this expression I hate so much can be applied if and only if there is a master in the maze.

One will not make me upside down, failing to build for others, my plans are mine. This is a minimum. Five years of study - a little more with the year of graduation - paid in cash, I don’t do everything on credit.

After a few days of nurse touring the kitten falls asleep. This morning I understood why. I was with a patient afflicted with multiple sclerosis whose mobility is reduced, it needs our daily passages. Cared body, it oscillates between the need to distance himself from this nursing time, pretend it didn’t concern him, and still want to enjoy the only physical contact of the day. These two extremes comes back, side by side at the same times every day for 30 years, the nurse, the caregiver body, source of pleasure and misery.

Pain and enjoyment, good and evil, love and hate, those feelings would be more effective separated. But no, beauty and ugliness, joy and sorrow, peace and war in ourselves, at the same time, on the inside, the same minute, we hate ourselves and we love that, we cry and we laugh, one suffer and enjoy.

We are on one side or on the other, and on both at once, perhaps we can’t go out from mazes alone, the nakedness, filters, real and reality, we can accept everything as long as love is there. Even fetch what is the more hideous, the unclean hidden thing[2] in itself.

Asked by Thierry Delcourt, Mauro Corda[3] tells suffering accompanying the creation of the Butcher, a series of seven sculptures suspended tortured bodies, carried out in 1998: In this moment of realization I pictured how we do this to human beings. What is the hardest not to hurt yourself, but to do harm to others.

Victim and torturer's fantasies , fascination, the only limit the creative work is its danger, desired thunderstorms glow[4], looking for the source, cruelty, naked again, repetition, does the real may appear twice in the same place?

None a priori or moral prejudice, no repugnance or decency could not preside over beauty. The human fascinates me, it is everywhere, in the form God or Nature has given him, the gestation as the agony. How to express it ? [5]

When I make a very dense drawing it is not to fill the void or hide it, saturate the sheet, remove nothingness. On the contrary, when the density go out of my fingers is to empty the density and access the unreachable void. At the end of density the last stage is an immersion, so that no possibility of expression is no longer within range. Passed the critical threshold, catatonia invades everything surrounding me, a black hole absorbs matter. Look the same thing for hours, not to contemplate or understand, but to limit informations, contain the overflow, flooding, wait until the water level drops, sneaks into the groundwater, continue its water cycle. My only share of true nothingness if it exists is in this precise point where creation is impossible.

When one has in itself this part of nothingness, one seek relentlessly to find it, and at the same time to discover the outcome to escape alive, not necessarily at the time when we stayed there anyway, instead in the moments where we are not in, forecasts probably, all risk insurance for the trip perhaps.

At the mill the place of my paralysis has found a space, maybe it was by chance, maybe it was time, perhaps these spots exist anywhere and that we meet if we are ready to.

I do not spend all my time in the mezzanine, knowing that it is there is enough sometimes.

*The mezzanine has become my peaceful haven, the cave of the mill, my paradise in paradise. In Marrakech during the visit of a Riad, the guide talks about the two paradises that exist on earth, a Riad being the second. I ask without thinking What's the first? The guide, a mature man close to retirement looks at me with a frown, that look one has for children when they say something stupid. He puts his finger on his mouth and eyed me scornfully Hush! He designates the inner courtyard accompanying his whisper of a gesture inviting me to contemplate what I see.

Something focuses and all at once emptied at that specific location of the mill as if it was the perfect place for the little ajar door, the passage area, the input, Yes ! That must be it. Remain forever on this perch like a bird that no longer take off, the only thing left to do is not moving, test the paralysis at last, on the threshold, neither inside nor outside.

The party lost in the maze, welcome home my own prison, make of it the sanctuary of my shelter, my prayer room, my transmission center, my Eiffel Tower, monument originally useless for anything other than the contemplation and celebration, and which ultimately becomes antenna protecting it from destruction. The coating is crumbly, slightly dirty, small and confined space does not leave room only for a narrow mattress, I draw graffiti without preparation, awkward writing, a little crooked, askew and essential, a cell. The sentences on those walls will be my windows, my links, my shares, my connections. If I have to live without meeting those who pronounced them I'll have at least a trace. No one will never snatch this place from me, it will remain engraved in my brain, indelible such as a resurrection.*[6]

The master of the labyrinth is the one who knows it  the better, not necessarily the one who draws it. The labyrinth's master wishes to remain there while still having the freedom to extract when he wants, he is the only one who can enter and the only one who can get out. It does not belong to him and he has not built, but the maze is his playground, the castle of pleasure, the palace of the first heaven. It's like a house which he would have paid the price and yet architect would retain property rights. An architect who would protect the space he created, so that a person unable of enjoying it would be expelled.

My vocal cords are strangling, there are words that one refuses to swallow. Throat pain or traces of body, yet everything is not spoken.

I repeat some sentences in a loop, by dint to overly listen to them the meaning turns away, the  wind reverse syllables it seems. We give the keys as to believe that will be freed from it,  as to hope that this is the best way to protect the tortured chamber.

The one who will have the complete bunch of keys in hands, will be the one to discover the small room without light, sentences on the walls, delights and grillings, multiply the codes, confuse the issues, riddles, stratagems, repel, put the distance, the risk if you take flight is that no one pursues you. The day he will open the door maybe he will flee running, will look for brother and sister to the rescue, perhaps it's better eventually. You turn back whispering Don't leave me alone, you believed to have muttered it, but maybe you have forgotten.

myriam eyann

[1]  The howling Miller, novel by Aarto Paasilinna, 1991, story of a miller who could not stop yelling at regular intervals and has to arrange his existence according to these screams.
[2] Free translation quoting Thierry Delcourt, french author, who has rite the essay  Créer pour vivre, vivre pour créer – éditions l’âge de l’homme, 2013, p 43, initial expression  la chose immonde cachée en soi
[3] Mauro Corda is an artist, quoting in Thierry Delcourt’s book, p44
[4] Title of a book by Michel Onfray (La lueur des orages désirés), free translation
[5] Mauro Corda, introducing text on his website
[6] Passage between * I extract of the narrative What does that tell

Mauro Corda french italian sculptor

Thierry Delcourt is french psychiatrist and psychoanalyst doctor, author of books on creativity
About Mauro Coda see this text published on his blog, which I link the reference here with his kind authorization
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There are authors who write with light, others with blood, with lava, with fire, with soil, with mud, with diamond powder, and finally those who write with ink, the unfortunate, with ink simply.

Pierre Reverdy, Le Livre de mon bord