Monday, October 5, 2015
Blue Hours
Saturday, September 12, 2015 - 1:36 p.m., on tour in Sens

I feel so good this morning, radio broadcasts a French song "La Fête" of Michel Fugain, I am fitting, sense of victory and all powerfulness, life is an everlasting repetition. See life in pink should be fine but I have the idea that we don’t choose the color of the iris which stains our own eyes. Mine are blue, my existence is blue rather than pink.

Until recently like Lucky Luke has his Jolly Jumper a pretty little blue car accompanied me, we shared the same twilight after all, the same pink mornings, back and forth, motorway service areas. I drive a lot, nurse tour, ballads, escape, travel, there are only pretexts.

Freewheeling ideas, provided the road to be endless and unclear the destination. Driving is an aesthetic pleasure, elegant curves and precise trajectories, indoor and outdoor rhythms mingle, I turn up the sound, a single song can busy myself for a good week, with the best I hold a couple of week, with an album several months. Outside the images pass, inside the coil roll once and by turns unfolds, I let it go.
I learned very early, very small, to suspend me behind the windows. On the road there are only surprises. A good way to flee.

We take refuge in a car for shelter, rain, cold or any bad weather, full heater. Sometimes it's not about roads, without reason to start as much remain stopped. Regressions nestled in the front seat pulled down to the maximum, even lightning strikes can’t reach me. When you can’t keep up the movement, a good tactic is to focus on what moves all the time, on the undefined places always changing, all that has no shape. No man's land or any stretch of deserted asphalt, sometimes under trees, bridges, motorway service areas still.

The problem with the parcelling out is that it is generally against-productive, a defense mechanism that serves only to flee. But the puzzles already contain the image even if the parts are disjointed or if there are some missing, each is interesting only because it is part of a solution more greater than it is. You can do lots of absurd things with the jigsaw chunks , another creation that might make sense, or remain absurd, let bulk pieces and enjoy the parts one by one independently of each other, disperse them, keep some in a box that would mention small jigsaw puzzle ends that are useless, collecting scattered fragments that don’t go together, or many other things probably.

Sometimes I get out a pen, colored markers in the car door, I trace, rature, I look at the lines. At worst by taking the road again, there's always a way to engage the automatic flight control.
I can’t tell the whole journey. There has been blue hours, pink moments and rainbows shades, confidences between patients, heavy sentences, screams I confess, clenched fist above the clutch, I tap three or four times on it to celebrate my victories, I have my rituals.

The blue hour is the one that is spread out between the end of the day and the total darkness, it is not me who called so, this is really its name. This year, the return Sens-Nemours was broadcasted in the evening twilight series, just the right axis, wide-angle, long and short sequences, the frequency is good, flawless reception, I made almost full season. Straight lines allow to appreciate the finish, heat wave and drought color stratus slender on high, lightweight mottle cumulos on the horizon, candy pink and china blue are very far from reality, my words will always miss the nuance.

The blue hour is as elusive as fascinating, the dying day offers what it holds most beautiful and most touching. It makes you wishing being there the following day to see more, again. It says something in my head, a lot of stuff actually.
Give all you got, don’t surrender anything, whatever the moment even the last of the day there are no limits to what can be accomplished as long as you exceed these limits. The blue hour every night in the same place renews itself different.
In the morning it is the reverse as in a mirror, Sens-Nemours at the time when the sun rises. The picture is fleeting, it changes seconds after seconds.

This world spins from the same unseen forces that twist our hearts, nobble adequate sentences at the right time is a custom, there is always one good sentence, a good tune, a beautiful picture to accompany the various moments of existence. Here it is still a film, Cloud Atlas, a big naivety brings my discoveries and at the same time prolongs them, but I let it go, with the trust nice things are happening. My collections accumulate, morning or evening, soon or later, just wait for the right time, according to the seasons, the paths, enjoy  sunset or dawn.
It's good to get a good music to go with an obsession, to find a song when we can no longer speak, a slightly complicated words, a white loop that necessarily has a meaning. I listen to know each modulation sound, intonation, rhythm changes, Boundaries between noise and sound are conventions, all boundaries are conventions waiting to be trancended. One may transcend any convention if only one can first conceive of doing so. (Cloud Atlas again)
This is a song by Julien Doré, it fits perfectly with  twilights, departures, victories and memories. Her name is Corbeau Blanc and gives me back the legend. I enjoy interpreting the words as if they were addressed to me, they become clear if my reference frame decrypts them. My inner world is a key to open the outer worlds, a different key exists inside each person, you can understand anything  if you have the key even if to find it you must believe for a while that you are omniscient.

I read an essay by Brian Greene, The Hidden Reality, exposing research physicists, mathematicians, astronomers and other scientists on the parallel worlds. It is written by an astrophysicist of the most serious, I let myself go, so to trust. He explains string theory, brane theory, some of Einstein intuitions, multi inflationary universe and the universe bubbles, cyclical universe, he speaks of repetition, of gravity, particles, of the eleven dimensions of space-time, on the order of the cosmos. The images that this reading arouses me and the information it gives me give birth to these world in my mind, I focus on their appearances. Every minute contains an infinite and a whole universe of possibilities, everything is both relative and interconnected. The dimensions are all around us but simply too small for any of us to see.

Running in circles is certainly not a bad thing. Life repeats itself, the days come and go, we spend time doing the same mistakes. Repetition is necessary for a beautiful loop. Brian Greene, detailing the brane theory explains that as loops don’t end, the branes can’t trap them.
The branes are worlds, universes or tiny entities. Following the path of the loops, my thoughts float, my dreams turn, images play back one above the  other, overlap, hide or blend, swirl. Only a pretty loop allows to escape, musical loop, line loops, semantic loops, time loops and blue hours.
Love is probably a holy loop, a meaning loop .

We don’t all have the same loops, we definitely don’t live in the same worlds, sure, but the important thing is to find at least one to join, even if it is smaller, fleeting than we fisrt hoped. Perhaps in these stories of another world, we always want too many.

My blue car had a name like all my cars, it is from my Noddy side . It may witness of a multitude of words as blue as his car body, dreams into spiral and idea on orbit, some natural satellites gravitating only around it, it kept the traces of distant galaxies such a small world, a universe, an unspoiled membrane, a bubble.

I dare confess that I fell asleep in the car better than in my bed and that my sleeping there was sweeter than anywhere, no matter the place where it was, open country or supermarket car park, Marne edges , Burgundy, Provence or Paris alley, dog days or freezing morning, highways and seashores, and Alpine winding road. Forty five months, a hundred and thirty two thousand kilometers, when I think about, a piece of bush.
Work Tool, office, traveling cave, my best hiding place.

Leaving his own island is like canceling the attraction of what magnetized you there, you must invent an opposite magnet, far away, failing his true existence you have to  believe in it. Reversing his own gravity is like an act of faith. We want the pain to go away while at the same we want it to remain.
There is a night between the beauty of a twilight and those of an aurora borealis

The nudity one gives is certainly not a gift, it is also not an answer. But it happens from time to time as in the song of Julien Doré, for "be let off."

In my head there is a blue sky space, in my hand a memory of the exact same color. Maybe we can’t keep the memories in full and in order to survive we have to cut them into small pieces that fit in the pocket, agree to keep only a part, a brightness of the puzzle, a piece of blue and believe that each piece of the whole is in the right place now.

myriam eyann

Blue Hour

Michel Fugain, french singer
C'est la fête
Chante la vie

Lucky Luke et Jolly Jumper... do you know what I mean
Luchy Luke by belgian designer Morris

Cloud Atlas, german american film, 2012

Julien Doré, Corbeau Blanc, french singer

Brian Greene, the Hidden Reality
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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