Wednesday, October 22, 2014
The drops of the rainbow
Thursday, September 25, 2014 - 7:55 p.m. - at the mill

The kingfisher is a fairly small and very wild bird that stands out mainly by the color of its wings, a blue so keen that it must shine in the darkness. His appearances are fleeting and unexpected, it passes like lightning, leaving in its wake blue phosphorescences.
Shortly before seeing it for the first time, on the banks of the Loing, I had attended an opening exhibition, the artist painted colorful canvases full of visions, profiles, landscapes, butterflies, boats, birds. She explained to me that seeing a kingfisher is a good omen, and the story that linked to it through his father.
When I saw him, seeing it as a sign, in my usual, was completely normal.
Today it landed on a branch, he warmed himself in the sun, rummaging through his wings. Behind the window I watched its soaring, greedy to blue flashes. But no, he stood there, waiting. I thought Okay, if that's how I'll wait too.
At first I got a little upset, because of all the exciting things in abeyance, in the workshop or elsewhere, there was no time to waste - there is never time to lose. He moved a little, looks like as if to hold me, he will fly from one minute to the next, it's worth it to stay still.
He took advantage of the Loing, at his pace. Let it be, enjoy, while he is under your eyes. I spoke to him, inside of me, telling him a bunch of nonsense, thinking to the fox of St Exupéry in The Little Prince, tame each other, the same place, every day, the same hour, becoming unique, in charge one of the other.
Does he know that I exist and looks at ? Among my assumptions and beautiful stories, the possibility that our meeting is a chance, now and in the future, even if it didn’t really like this idea, I accepted.

He turned in the sun, by dangling his blue, it must charm the fish, like a mermaid from the air, twirling around the water to attract the most beautiful on the surface, those which look like his blue. My breath was short, my eyes wide open, my heart was beating.

Afterwards, stroll through the shops were necessary, want to take care of myself probably. A Picture of Paris reassured me, Eiffel Tower in the background, view of the Pont des Arts, cutting the roofs.
The memory of a floating on this bridge, fifteen years ago, a few minutes sitting next to my companion, without words we watched the Seine, waiting side by side than one of us react. I told him secretly everything which can't be  pronounced, yet thinking with a precision of not retained words, between the dream, prayer, speech, desire.
I would make a novel of our history on the bridge. It's long to write, we got away from each other, I started to draw with attendance, he sometimes comes to visit me, the days of wheat, most often it is oblivion that comes in his place.

The Pont des Arts is in danger of collapsing because of the love put in escrow by lovers crossing it, symbol of Parisian romantic walks, a kind of Bridge of Sighs where it is fashionable to seal his love, or padlock it, which amounts to the same. My talks with the kingfisher fly with him at the antipode of any lock, they don’t attach themselves more to the banks of the Loing benches as to the Pont des Arts, nobody catches them, neither him nor me. The time spent away from him has made him precious.

Waves in my soul, watching love movies is a major pastime for all basic female individual, it’s an essential classic. I know what it looks, but it’s anything else. Nothing better to stimulate the wheels as images, emotions, contagion, imitation, comfort. Bruce Lee said Use only what works, wherever you find it.

I start with Upside Down, a movie of Juan Solanas,  delight for an architect  and for lovers also. Maybe someone can cancel my gravity, or risk reversing his to meet me, maybe live in another world makes lightweight and flammable, but we can share even upside and against the laws of gravity.

I ended up with Wild at Heart, the famous David Lynch film. Set free of defined roles, follow only chosen traces, even take all the risks. Lula's words freely tells the rainbow, Sailor is smiling and hides his poetic soul, wild hearts, none words sully freedom and love.

Desire is shared freely only, no promises can’t alienate it. One moment, a gift, looks behind the window, talking even from a hiding place, in secret, on a bridge, a river, over water or road.

The kingfisher will return to the banks of the Loing,  what he is seeking in there belongs to him, perhaps that the wildest beings are the freest.
Bridges are collapsing when we overload with everything that should not clutter it, padlocks, too heavy thoughts, bounded hopes. By slowing his pace, if we are light enough, we crosses, between the shores, hanging over billows, two banks, two people, one path.

Long ago houses were built on bridges, which concerned only very few people anyway, living on the water is not suitable for everyone. The part of the mill about me - the old engine room - is on stilts, a river flows beneath my feet and defines the exact area of my dwelling. The idea to constantly flow sneaks into my thoughts, night after night, surrounded by water, the habit settles. It's not a bridge, perhaps a docked ship that loads provisions, inevitably impatient, preparing the next departure, waiting for the last passenger. One day I will cast off, probably, to pass under bridges, such as water.

Tuesday, October 14, exhibition La disparition des Lucioles (disappearance of fireflies) to prison St Anne in Avignon. A moment of grace and lightness in the isolated yard, a work by Miroslaw Balka called Heaven, plexiglass tubes rotate with the wind and diffract light. There are blue flashes , yellow, purple, green, my own reflection in the orange glow up and down, my eye gets lost. Sequences stand out on plastic decoys, the filaments are floating around me like a shoal of fish, in the background the inertia of cold and wet stones of the prison which cling to the wall of the rock in this part of the city.
The contrast is so strong between this beauty and context, tiny density bubbles burst in my face, small miniature black holes, howlings in a silence filled with echoes. Drops of rainbow are dancing and have a good time for having captured of me a fuzzy and distorted image. I promise to find a way to capture in my turn, me too, this time.

Despite the clarity of goals to achieve, embody his own desire sometimes seems like the crossing of an opaque cloud, without visibility, you prefer to keep the finish line in a corner of your imagination, it avoids crossing it, I don’t understand very well why.
I wanted to find the time with Kingfisher, the one of the Bridge of Arts, floating moments of desire, love and sharing times. Body roll is mild on the Loing, but even so, all that water.

Desire, love, freedom, between coercion and escape, balance is barely more abble to life than extreme, the frustration of not being just where we want to be, or at the moment that one wishes to, is sometimes unbearable . We blew the last locks, nothing can prevent soaring of the rainbows drops, blue and purple flashes, the reality dilutes itself the time to a  concentration .
You're long gone, but I still talk to you, in my head, the tiny funnel of an objective, words become distorted, diffract itself, boomerangs in an echoe, your words or mine whatever, cross the final cut is beyond imagination.
The drops of the rainbow dance freely in my pockets.

myriam eyann

Le petit Prince  , Antoine de St Exupéry

Upside Down , film de Juan Solanas, 2012

Sailor et Lula, de David Linch, 1990

Heaven de Miroslaw Balka
see video here on Daily motion

Posted at 5:46 - 0 comment

Leave your comment

Your comment will appear after approval.

The bold fields will be visible on my site

Name or Nickname (*)
Email (*) 
Website : http:// 
Message  (*) 
IP adress :
(*) Required fields

Older Post
The eleventh question  
Newer Post Home
Risen up for words  

Texts archives

   December (1)
   November (1)
   October (1)
   September (2)
   August (3)
   July (1)
   June (2)
   May (3)
   April (2)


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