Sunday, March 19, 2017
Second breath
February 21, 2017 - 6:07 at la Comelle
It is believed that the beginning is easier to reach than the end even if one checks every day at any startup that this is not really the case. White pages, blocked car, broken down computer or procrastination, cold muscles, first cry, do you remember at least how it all started? Origin escapes, it is the lines of arrival that memory keeps, the victorious podiums, the scathing failures, the true ends, the place where one stands depends on which one has left. No doubt this is the reason why one constantly tries to find out more, how did I get there? In the best or the worst, it is the origins that direct but when the end and the beginning coincide perhaps we become able to pass through the secret gates, those who take the mysteries without revealing them, in the midst of the wonderful, diving in chaos, that is not why we understand it.
The world turned around I don’t know why, you're there, you're gone, I keep mixing everything up. It was like a hurricane, a kind of tsunami unless it was more like an earthquake with a titanic tidal wave, by force to force of the wind in all directions I brought you back and at the same time, almost to the same moment it seems, the frame exploded, he left, you will never meet him. It seems to me that we have parted a little while ago and that an eternity has passed since our meeting but sometimes also, far from you it is the reverse, our meeting has just happened and it seems to me that an eternity space our finding. Over time[1], the unremitting sweetness of love mingles with the melancholy of the lost future. I listened to this song of Ferré in a loop, passage after passage nothing dulls what it contains. Far, one has the impression sometimes to love with a tenfold strength as if love became pure, with time on the contrary, one loves more and more.
I thought I was done with these texts, the zigzags and the back and forth, it made sense. But we are mistaken about true beginnings and false ends, we knead everything until we no longer know anything. I keep guessing you, to look for the rhythm, can one tell the miracles? Should we let it go or take the bull and how not quite grasp it? There must be a world above our world where the lost people wait for the passages to be found, then it would be us, the wanderers, who dare hardly hope to join them. Over there may be everybody’s here, but I would not want a paradise populated with scoundrels, maybe there are only people we already love that we find. In your footsteps, my three wobbly ingredients in the hand, keep floating, it's your music that I listen now, besides mine. Why so many likenesses between love and melancholy sometimes To the end, to the hole[2]? Between two songs a frosty fog on the road to Vermenton I fork at Cravant, sun on the banks of the Arroux, the tangled streets of La Machine, caves of Father Leuleu along the Cure, I pass by the sources of Yonne to Glux and I run along the river when it was small, summer moons, starry nights, grace to the wind turbines and the light of the Morvan[3], the rest of the warrior, at the end of my fingers your hands, your arms surround me finally. Perhaps that so do I, by force, to understand nothing one day I will succeed my artistic outlet. At the Circus of the End of the world[4], the paths which smell hazelnut, together no more need to send words in the wind, close to your pocket henceforth, within reach of your heart, at the end of your voice, beside me my angel. On the road the trucks are scrolling, I thought a gulf would open, fluorescent pink in the twilight, I will continue to whisper my secrets, by dint of dreams sharing, the puzzle is reconstructing. Poetry is real, it is not far away, it does not vanish when one found. The miracle, one would like to describe it, but tell dizziness is to destroy it. One loves as one has been loved, perhaps that in order to recognize each other we have been loved the same way, perhaps that to know each other we had to love this same exact way, it is probably my pretext to explain all the mystery, all that we have called coincidences, the marvelous, joy and happiness. Even when you will relate me, I will continue to rummage in all directions, there is no more absurdity.
It happens that one wins and loses at the same time and that happiness makes you sob with the same intensity as the greatest pains, I know now, some nights of drownings, love and wound coexist in the same moment. I fall asleep in your arms, my dreams don’t frighten you anymore, I invent that I join yours. I repeat Don't be afraid, but it seems at certain moments that nothing can prevent my mind from panic, everything that does not change, the next time. I can't renounce to my anger, but perhaps one day your calm will have completely absorbed it. Grace to you, grace to me, the chain is no longer missing. The silhouette of the old solitary chestnut trees is a little blurry through my tears, a bluish haze invades the hills, clumps of jagged vegetation draw perfect curves and black peaks stand out as far as the eye can see in the fields. This year the colors of autumn blew my heart, the sun of this icy winter still contains germ of spring[5], I will continue on his return to admire the flowers of my garden with my eyes of love , and summer will come back, inevitably. I'm going to resume my labyrinth drawings, my useless plans, maybe I'll dare take some awkward photos, it's not for remembrance or to reassure me, nor a homage, maybe it's this that I have learned, my way of seeing the world, the beauty transmitted to the bottom of my eyes. Between the excesses and the nuances, find the good angle, the color gradient, one believed that the old and tired heart will let go first and then no, it is the stomach that fails. One say it or not, even thinking it all day long, but words don’t fill everything, there are those that are delayed to formulate and those that will be pronounced otherwise, your place will never move, I carry our name now.

I am unable renouncing to understanding the world, even if it confuses me more and more, as if the paths now erased had become some views from the mind. I can only return to listening, it is the others who guide you and give you hope. In bookstores, in my opinion the last true place of freedom, voices come back. We always have the choice, it has never been simple, we can make of this complexity something exciting though. And if the worst atrocities persist, cynicism and dishonesty, the miraculous stand up from now on.

myriam eyann

[1] I am referring here to a French song, Avec le temps (With the Time), of Leo Ferré, french songer. Here is an awkward translation of a choosen passage With the time everything goes away..... With the time we don’t love anymore
[2] French song by Arno, Jusqu’au bout, jusqu’au trou
[3] I speek about some places of Burgundy, in France. Cravant and Vermenton, La Machine, Glux en Glenne are smalls towns, l’Arroux is a river, l’Yonne and la Cure eather, Caves of father Leuleu are Caves of Arcy, Morvan is where I live.
[4] Le cirque du bout du monde is an area of nature in Burgundy
[5] If winter said spring is in my heart who would believe it? Khalil Gibran

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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