Thursday, April 2, 2015
Saturday, March 14 - 3:30 am– at the mill
For some time, holes appeared in my drawings. These are not quite white or empty areas that balance the compositions - the equivalent of space in architecture - they are rather windows for inputs and outputs, to see through, let something indefinable pass through, a mix of light, wind and dust, may be water, a liquid, a kind of fluid, a positive or negative power, or the two at a time.

In my drawings the traces overlap, superimpose and blend, mask themselves. Pencil's strokes disappear progressively, there has hidden drawings under my drawings. The video is inappropriate to keep the memory of these graphics, or to revive the disappearances of lines, it need another ploy, bridges, galleries, a link between before and after, hollows, openings,  in other words holes.

For some time, holes appeared in my timing, flashbacks, transit areas. Methodically, unconsciously, I go over to all the places I have lived, in very similar contexts, such as second chances. Things I had imagined come true, something began to circulate. And yet it is as if time stopped sometimes.

When you don’t know where you're going, try to find out where you came from. A trace, in my opinion, this is what insists to exist, which doesn’t want disappear. In the ruins it is these traces, moribund but still alive, that interest me. Their insistence is touching. Note the time with precision, at certain times, is my way to pin marks, small flags that float with the wind above the fingerprints, against their disappearance, the gesture is certainly paltry, so much the worse.

For some time, holes appeared in my texts, breakaways are constructed from unlikely links, incongrous references appear, stories are living below, between the meshes. Finally, the sensations associate themselves, images are glued, reasoning intersect to find the path of a nerve impulse. Sometimes myelin that fat neurons in order to guide the information is damaged. For tinkering it, you should know where the holes are.

We can see our own look only into another look, or in a mirror. It seems that We perceive in others the miles facets of ourselves (Carl Gustav Jung). This is what is called the mirror effect. In the eyes of others it is our track we seek. It is said that what we love to another is what we love in ourselves. We pretend not to have to better find the buried portion and loved part of ourselves. Pleasant or not, we encounter the reflections that suit us.

In 2007, I was in second year at the nursing school at Digne les Bains. For a pediatric internship performed in Nice, the encounter of a little autistic girl has been this reflection. Why everyone was afraid to approach this kid, why everybody was talking loudly at his side as if his problem was of not having ears, why everyone was quickly executing the care to enjoy the beautiful babies present in the service?
She didn’t speak, looked at no one, seemed insensible to any action concerning her, unbelievably far away, inaccessible, the vacuum had built himself around her as if it was constitutive of her person, scary caregivers, students, who were guarding a protective distance, probably believing that it is the girl who kept them away. I saw her look through me, she looked at me and then nothing would stop in his line of sight, they continued to scan a skyline which existed only for her, beyond mine.
I was told You can take time, it is good that you take care of her, I was simply unable to set foot in the service without passing an hour or two with her. She was about six years old, already great, but like a rag doll without frame, all limp, very tiny in a bed with bars that kept falling and getting hurt, kind of permanent cage from which she go out only for the toilet in the morning, supported in the service because she refused any food, induced vomiting constantly until having the corners of the lips burned by gastric juices which spent constantly. She had almost permanent reflex to put his hand in the mouth, push it up to the throat, we bandaged her hands to protect her, she couldn’t use it anymore, so couldn’t play. In bed no stuffed toy, no object, caregivers told me She doesn’t care, she’s autistic, you know she doesn’t pay attention to objects, she’s in his world. To feed her a permanent gastric tube, a hole in the stomach - gastrostomy is the correct term - allowed to pass liquid food packaged in pre pocket twice daily. The nurse showed me how to hold firmly to prevent her from snatch the probe when we remade the wound dressing around the stoma. I don’t remember the care but the unfound look of this kid when we operated above her.
Why nobody played with her, why had she not visit, why does she never went out of bed ? Over time I have had the right to be alone with her to her toilet. After soaped and rinsed and then wrapped in a large bath towel, I sat her on the ledge of the window formed like a big bench, instinctively backs against me so that I could surround her with my arms, make a protective gesture and tender without requiring her to look at me, she was not facing me but against me. This is how I dressed my boys when they were little, the gesture seemed natural to me, practical, conducive to hugs. Gradually, do her hair, take care of her as a little girl, make  pretty, give her this feeling, a little longer, I delayed to get her back into bed, install her with a toy, spoke to her, postponed the moment when I would have to replace bandages around his hands. Over days feel like a different welcome, it's silly, doesn’t persuaded yourself of what doesn’t exist, she knows other people here, she stood better, less soft, seemed to wait for me, you are just projecting your expectations on this kid, nothing real.
She loved running in the room, I was watching that nothing can hurt her. I asked to bring her into the playroom, she ran through the corridors like a wild animal, it was hard to follow her and sporty, she sent everything down and frightened the other children, I was content to damage control.
And then it happened. His look, his little black pupils were like two round balls that come from lighting. It will be said that it is an invention to look pretty, I don’t care, that look, with me in my paradise. Now I was doing alone his bandage. It was painful, gently very gently, without  physically held her, watch her all the time, talking to her, I almost whispered, Aya look at me kiddo, Aya sweetie look at me, look at me Aya, she turned the eyes at me and then she calmed down, I was able to finish the care.
Well, I left Aya necessarily. I was told myself a story, she would grow up and become a beautiful young woman, one day she hit my door, You see I'm cured. It was not very lucid and I moved on, it's not smart to light a candle and leave it there, paediatrics you have nothing to do there, you will make the old ones like everyone else, you're not there to fix you on the back of any kid, none  who deserves to bail out for your ugly story. A cross on pediatrics, maybe it suited me, perhaps I started to accept that there are limits to everything, Aya would not heal, as by now I could always believe that she is somewhere to the shelter, his bubble so thin and opaque, maybe after all she will find a way, but it will never be a normal girl, even less a great and majestic metis with curly hair visiting me in the twilight of my life.

When you doesn’t want to see it doesn’t exist, it is a precept that I often applies, according to circumstances, but don’t exist is not an existence. When my first son was born, after the first cry the midwife put him on my heart, he stopped crying instantly, our eyes meet, my emptiness is delimited from that moment, no crying or outbursts, the density of this specific point has emptied the vacuum without make them disappear. Maybe my look before crossing the one of my son was like the one of the small Aya, unlimited, nothing could stop it except the eyes of a newborn, or rather it was imperative facing the first look of my son to build a background in mine, because it was unthinkable to send a void in his eyes when they opened for the first time.

This is not because we don’t see a look that it doesn’t exist. Leave reflect appear, reaching the bottom of the eyes encountered and watch the light shining in, that's the only way to access your own spark, provided to drop your share of nothingness, and feel something behind his back, a different background, a different being to lean on will allow the limit to exist. We don’t turn on the lights in the eyes of another, we seek the traces to illuminate our darkness and check the intensity of our own lights.
It is said that the fireflies were not really extinct, perhaps they fly in the bottom of a retina. No need to learn more and to illuminate that area with excess, a little darkness is needed to approach it and preserve fragile little flame which it protects and on which we should not blow too hard. But for me, it is impossible that the look of the one for who I don’t exist, does not exist. I did not create the look of Aya, I haven’t found out, but I perceive it. It is to love the look of my sons that I tamed nothingness in my eyes. The life of the one for whom I exist, exist, whatever the opportunity of our meeting.

myriam eyann

 The Troublemakers - Get misunderstood - 2001
Here 2 music clips, the same but I put it for the comments

Philip Catherine - Toscane

Posted at 23:48 - 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 wrath of Galatea  

Texts archives

   November (1)
   October (1)
   August (1)
   June (1)
   April (1)
   February (1)
   January (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