Sunday, November 22, 2015
October 12, 2015 - 8:16 am at the mill

During my archi studies, at a class on colors, we have had an exercise about palletes, a classic. This was to compose a grayscale, a line of smalls squares of paint from black to white in gradually mixing two painting hazelnuts.
The teacher gave us each these two initial hazelnut white and black, we only had this material available, no rab, it was one of the goals of the exercise. Each nut was divided into two parts, we add white or black on one of the two samples leaving the other intact, then work again on this first mixture, darkening or lightening in stages. Brushing samples we were seeking  a maximum of shades between black and white, dosing, repeating the operation to obtain the most progressive gray palette.
The exercise extended with several colors, blue, green, yellow, magenta, purple. At the end of the session we had large sheets of samples of different colors.

During the next lesson, we had to setup our pallets with these grades, it was to cut the grays on our leaves and then stagger it. Small squares of paper of the first step were glued following each other to a gradient line. We began with the range of gray then each color to a composition line by line.
Everyone observed the same order in the choice of colors, we should all have the same color chart. At the end of the course, the calibrated boards of each were post up for comparison, each gradient was unique, no one had the same.

The process is particularly challenging, you must find the median shade. At the time of sampling - the painting step - you believe that the first mixture is decisive, and decide that it will represent the middle of the shade but there is often too much white, it is too bright. You multiply blends being careful to constantly keep some black and white untouched so you must not deplete too soon this reserve. Each dosing is precious for maximum shades, each test contains the missing gray.
After three mixtures which has produced around ten shades of gray each, if everything goes well, you have about thirty different tone of the same color, you can not see anything anymore, you no longer seek what is missing, you lost the thread of the gradient, you collect the most possible gray before the teacher asks to wash pallets. When everyone has put to dry her first gray sheet,  teacher deliver the next color hazelnuts by hazelnuts, table to table, and we go to the blue sheet, then green and so on.

During the next phase - the laddering - we resume with the gray palette. After cutting fifty gray squares, you have to classify, rank, select, and then arrange the selection on a line length of 80cm. The table is covered with a gray puzzle, everything ends up look alike.
At the end of the course, in front of the displayed results and shabby badly degraded board that you succeeded to output in the prescribed timing, mostly ofthe time you hate the colors or at least you don’t want to hear about it for weeks .
I can still hear the teacher checking our work, he had a strong accent, I don’t remember which country he was from : Di yo end up yo pelatta of grrrree?

For my work, I note on notebooks at any time of day, night sometimes, ideas, projects or thoughts. At one point I had organized themed boxes to group books, notebooks, loose leaf, but even the boxes themselves ended up to multiply: Suggestion Box (post-it notes and loose papers, theme notebooks to infuse not accomplished ideas, plans, sketches), Writings Box (an entire cardboard of narratives pieces, more or less abandoned fictions, titles books, written in course (I still have one), etc.) Box of Notes (notes on my reading, summaries, reading directory, thematic developments from these notes, etc.), Personal Box (autobiographical writings, attempted self-portraits, several years of diary, notebooks traveling notes (often pocket books for the car ...), Images Box (photos, pictures cut from newspapers, reproductions, postcards), Bulk Box (for the rest, there’s always some unclassifiable). And a Workbook to organize this organization .

An irresistible exponential rise increase the inputs like the foolish tumor cells which don't  have more space. Forgotten leaf at the end of a book that was not intended to receive sentences that are written in it, sub-rankings,  sub-box, boxes in boxes, ideas in the idea.
From what I read, what I think and what I write there is yet no amalgam.

Creativity is a good thing, you get used to these small explosions in the head, although you end up even loving these explosions but sometimes it's like a bomb. Creativity must explode outside the brain otherwise it does implode. This is the only solution, it has to come out, to stagger the dispersed samples that arise in my mind.
Anything that disrupts the functioning of what works, storms that destroy trees, malformations of the beings, diseases, exponential progressions and everything which is crooked is legitimate. Since one cannot eradicate, one must make room for it.

Association of ideas, chaffing, gaps and cracks, lock, shift, unfold the ideas, understanding what is not straight. I am looking for a coherence, harmony, a nice gradient, a progression. If you scatter yourself you become elusive to the point of losing yourself but one can make sense of everything even to absurdity. If we can not fix a mess we have to accept its purpose and what it involves.

How to use what is broken and mixed with what is not so that what we believed destroyed should not perish and that what is in good condition but no longer makes sense find one. What do we do of what can't be fix up but does not disappear?

Recently rereading the Little Match Girl, a tale of Andersen, I wondered what could evolve humanity now, what could repair in it  what no longer works. It seems that the mechanism has jammed, the same nightmare recurs, match girls don't disapear and instead multiply.

When you can not afford a future you remain trapped in the moment, with all the consequences that entails. The future never stops being an illusion, you only own a past made of up and downs, the moment paradoxically remains elusive and fundamental.
One day you end up burning the matches left in the box, you burn the box, not to destroy the last cartridges but to use the energy to the end, even exhausting it. The reason we wish that is both a gesture of despair, anger and oddly also a kind of detachment, a distance that allows to say: what good to keep these matches. If I was the Little Match Girl, indifference ends by being indifferent to me, I would do what I have to do and will burn my last matches .

I wondered if the lassie knew she was lighting only illusions. Why would she hesitate to do so as one jumped into the water or as someone climbs on board an overloaded-boat-that-will-sink-anyway-but-maybe-not, look at the shore far off, repeat again, something is going to happen, I'm almost there. You throw yourself into the sea because there is  nothing more to lose, one gives his life in pledge, the only thing we own if you think about it.

Maybe the Little Match Girl was not so innocent one might think, she knew exactly what she was doing. Innocence, unconsciousness, with a good deal of cynicism, one spread out the mixture  on the scale of responsibility, an hazelnut of culpability in reserve to darken or lighten the color chart, guilty on one side, victim on the other.

On the other side of the windows the existence of this shivering kid and the illusions which nourishes her are well known ,  the indifference goes on to look without seeing, saying it's not about me and what I can do there, well this girl all this may be a little of her fault . Finally the indifference pretends to see nothing and protects itself at the ends of stratagems she doesn’t even need to look away.
From the side matches, like the little girl, you brighten up what is left, the essential, the love we keep in ourselves is the ultimate energy.

Love is not an illusion and it is not just a feeling. It is also an act as there are acts of anger and despair. We love a child with gestures of tenderness, he is cuddled, you rocks him, we enfold friends in wide arms, we hug each others, in the arms of one another at every opportunity.
The act of love is real, it is a truism bestially real in the most noble sense of this word if you are able to hear the animal from where you come, the human beast in itself. We stick against another body and simply in this contact it is told that we love him, all human beings have this ability, or have had, or result from this act and from the desire that it should be a gesture of love, even if that act is missing, twisted, damaged, it is never indifferent.

Discuss the innate or acquired of the impulse of love in mammals is not under my authority, but nevertheless I have my own ideas, birds also raise and defend their young, one can see here only mechanical. Is it the human race who invented love and feelings?
I think love is a constituent of life, of all life. I am able to love a tree or an insect, it is not so absurd to imagine that the plant in my living room are responsive to my right care than talking to a God in the clouds, entrust him with our hopes and even our future, however it is much more real. As a nurse I know a lot about the real, is not that I am proud of.

It seems to me indecent to keep calm. Don’t be angry in this world seems impossible. But of all my feelings the one I prefer is love. I am seeking for the nuance.

To raise an illusion we must take power somewhere, a match or something, I use my own story, the energy available to me, even if it means burn my fingers and each time as if it were my last cartridges.
On blank pages you can draw words instead of those which are missing, lucky charms, words to no longer lose, words of love necessarily. On a blueprint you stretch lines, you build illusions and then one day they become cathedrals. In my head there are dreams, people, sharing and meetings, a new society, some are broken but they don't have give up the ghost and if I handle it well, if my technique and organization are good, and even if I can no longer see the little gray squares scattered on the table, even though I don’t understand the usefulness of this gradient scale, at the end there will be a line that belong to me. Besides all other attempts, the one that I will calibrate will exist. I keep on built it. I ain't got other matches.

myriam eyann


> The Little Match Girl
Posted at 8:55 - 0 comment

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


> links
Posted at 11:18 - 0 comment

Tuesday, August 4, 2015
Much to say it
Sunday, June 28, 2015 - 5:31, Brussels
It puzzles me that  the danger can be search for itself, adrenaline as a stimulant such as bungee jumpers. On the other hand the quest of tightrope walker on his wire is clear to me, the balance that allows him not to fall, knowing that the fall can mean death according to the height of the wire and in the absence of net. I prefer to be a tightrope walker as bungee jumping, although I’m not sure whether you choose to be in one category or the other, or even a third much more different, a fourth, fifth ...

There are a few years, an artist told me about my drawings Don’t hesitate to put yourself in danger. This sentence has never stopped trouble me because I've never understood exactly as if the capacity to do so were not available to me as the infinite is a limit to the modeling of the human brain, my mind can’t integrate this concept. It’s not a disability or handicap but a characteristic of my psychic construction.

I tried, not to put myself in danger - I am unable to consciously put myself in danger - but to decrypt this.
Drawing is my refuge, draw can’t put myself in danger even if I wanted to. To draw allows me to cross the limits, to go see behind the lines, this is what protects me.

The tightrope walker who meticulously prepares its crossings can’t penetrate the void if he feels in danger there. On the wire you have to be whole, on the wire you’re not allowed to be parceled out, it is probably for this reason that you can't  feel unsafe there.

Drawing, writing and reading are my tools to unstitch riddles and search for keys constantly, sometimes in my turn I send warrens on the fly, it’s true, even in a void we would like a company. Walking on my thread doesn’t put me in danger even if it makes me take risks. There is no other choice to dwell this wire continuously, when resolve this situation becomes insoluble the danger resurfaced.

Philippe Petit is a famous tightrope walker, known for his crossing between the tops of the towers of the World Trade Center in 1974. He says I'm not afraid to fall, because I can’t fall.

No matter the reasons why we decided to enter the void, brave danger or living on a wire when the important thing is what is there.

It is obvious that the risks Philippe Petit takes to cross the void are paltry face of what he will look for in there. He is the physical proof if any were needed that evolve in its own void is not a virtuality provided to find the void which we belong or the one we have, which comes to the same.

We can transmit such feeling only by imitation, from its way to the wire without talking to me I hear : Keep on walking to explore your wire

Much to say it,  I know perfectly where is my emptiness, I’m aware of its danger. Like Philippe Petit I don’t throw me on my cable without knowing what I do, without having worked my technique and setup to the ultimate points of clarification, without training or warming up. From time to time in order to progress you have to be a little beyond your own capacity however tickle the danger you might get hardly aware of it and takes the risk of failure.

In New York in 1974, handcuffed when he came down the cable, to the American officer who asked him why he had taken such a risk, Why? Philippe Petit has answered There is no why.

Marina Abramovitz, expert in vacuum, said other words. I noted his talks viewing a video : You have to be ready to fail, go to the unknown territories. If I’m really afraid of ideas this is exactelly the point I have to go. If you don’t taste your mind you’ll never change, always in the same sheet again and again. If you do things you don’t know, something different happen. This is about how you occupied physically the space and why.

There are a multitude of ways to enter the void, with sentences upside down in the same direction, artists, creatives and tightrope walkers help me to progress and find the pace. In vacuum there are several versions of the same thing, of the same word or even of one thought. To convince oneself of that, just replace the word with another,  you can call vacuum, void, empty and wire differently, love, it, myself, top[1], shit, in the end you see what I mean!

Much to say it, even if I decided to come back to earth the ability of some to put me back in orbit once they express themselves come near to the scandal and much to say it honestly, after a stunning phase, would tend to get me a little angry. Because much to say it, some words have the ability to make of me a jigsaw puzzle, and placed end to end, sentences into sentences, dislocate me as effectively as an explosion, scattering me soon as they find me as if they  exactly knew where I am as a whole full. I don’t know where I am every time these " zigzag letters" find me, especially when I start to think it's me they are seeking. Fragmentation can be incredibly painful, but what I mean never is.

Step by step, walk properly outside of wires has become more and more complicated. Out of the empty I lose my balance, my great torment is to leave it, my daily fears are about the dangers waiting for me on the way down.

Some days not like the others, however, I confess, I avoid any empty, unable to hold it. My mind would want, my body refuses, there is no solution, tracking down the answer doesn't changes anything. It is impossible for me to understand why, if I knew I would make sure that these moments don't exist anymore. It is not the solution but the problem which is interesting. With patience anyway, the solution finds me.
Fear and devils vacuum exist at the same time as the danger that nobody can make disappear, but I still remember the words of Philippe Petit. You are not afraid of what you love, though I'm afraid of a tarantula I'll get to know it better, we should not allow fear to feed our minds.

Much to say it, in my case it's hard not to walk in this kind of vacuum.

Despite the contradictory injunctions and prohibitions morbid, Don’t go, Go ahead, Protect yourself, Don’t put yourself in danger, You have to take risks, Think, Stop tortuting your brain, You're breaking it[2], Jump on the top of the world, Be serious, Don’t tell stories to yourself, a vital force pushes exploration.

One should not "say anything against the balance."

Philippe Petit said of his art it allows him to join two shores, to bring people together finally, for dialogue, to link, the image is full of poetry.

Daydreaming on that bridge between two shores, I thought of all the unlikely things that occur when you stop get around them. I remembered a nice story, things joining things, the wires, letters, love and emptiness.

During the First World War, young girls send letters to the soldiers on the front, they have been called Godmother of war, the aim was to support a soldier at the front without knowing him beforehand. My paternal grandparents met through this cross letters and decided to get engaged without ever having encountered. What could bring the heart of a Breton from that of a Burgundy[3] at the end of the Great War remain their mystery, the magic of their encounter is a legacy.

Since 1917 the communication progress has multiplied entrance doors, watch my letters box, emails, text messages or any kind is a daily activity to which I devote myself with an almost religious concentration. Build a dovecot is an interesting alternative to which I think with more and more details, multiply shelters and feeders for all types of birds an investment for the future probably unavoidable. Just in case, my little balcony on the Loing is full of them.

In the void I gleans the words that belong to me, those that leave the people of emptiness, I sows in it for they concern only a one person. In the empty I draw words which have lost their meaning, I invent letters and syllables that don’t express.

Much to say it, to keep a secret it has to become more and more secrecy, such way that even the angels who listen to the doors shouldn’t know the ropes, but the biggest drama when one plays hide and seek is that no one finds us.
Much to say it, I’m not anyone's official muse, that is to say that nobody has claimed me as  a muse and I don’t see why anyone would.

In the vacuum "We don’t know anything except that we don't want to stop" to be in.

"Explain it to me! Explain it to me! "

myriam eyann

[1] In the French text I was making a pun on roof (toit) and you (toi), which is impossible to translate.
Well,  I replaced this with another play on words ... after all it is me who writes
[2] Another pun here lost in translation, se la péter (about the head) mean be puffed-up and by extension can be hear as to break it. I choose to translate the pun rather than the expression which mean to be pretentious
[3] La Bretagne is close to the Atlantic Ocean, and Burgundy in the center. This is really a true story !


> About Philippe Petit and other tightropers
Posted at 22:17 - 0 comment

Friday, June 19, 2015
Sunday, June 7, 2015 - 10:49 am - Sens ... or close to

I don’t know what came over me. The urge to talk is necessary, not to justify myself or exculpate me but to prolong the sensation.

I'm not sure to have a guardian angel, perhaps I decided that I didn't want it anymore. Maybe I wanted to put my inner witness to the test, or fuck them at the door quite simply, find an easy way to get rid of them, or disappoint them.

Maybe it was question of break something beautiful or bring up a lousy thing or that both intentions converge to a same résult.

It wasn’t difficult, I don’t see why it should have been.

If we could do twice this stuff, I would like do it again.

In stores one finds little cherubs everywhere, more or less endearing cherubims who don’t even look at you, of infants who embody tenderness and love, gaze in the vague, resin ornaments in glass bubbles. I found some for my interior, most of the time they are asleep or pray eyes closed. Watching them calms me down, they who don’t see me.

There's one on the furniture which I use bedside, he’s curled up inside two resin hands clasped to form a hollow, it’s look like that gesture that is made for collecting water in palm, the angel is protected without being locked up, it makes him a shelter, a nest, he’s there sleeping totally disarmed.
You can light a small blue light that made a halo behind his wings. I like him, this little trinket calm me down, I turn off the light on some nights and look before falling asleep myself. I have been fond of him at once, it looks like nothing can happen to him, it’s reassuring of knowing him there or to notice that nothing scares him. Indeed he’s sleeping but I dare to think that in his dreams he's watching over me. Sometimes I take these hands in mine, they are exactly my size, it's sweet. The feeling of peace becomes physical.

So what came over me ?

I was listening loop to a song by Massiv Attack , Angel, making my drawings I often spend several weeks that way with the same song to the point of obsession. After sometimes, I watch the clips on YouTube.
In this one, a man is in a deserted parking, walking worried, turn around. Then another came up behind him, quickly two, three. The man hasten his steps, the others too. It comes from everywhere now, he started running in the parking and more and more follow him, they comes out from every corner. He began to flee with long strides, a chase begins, a horde at his heels, they seem angry, determined, some are screaming. The man is frightened, desperately he run, a whole bunch of clichés arise in my mind at the sight of this clip, will they lynch him, this man looks fragile, alone, it might be me. They went out of the parking now.
I will not reveal the end of the story, one should not do that and it would reduce the impact.
When all hope is lost, there remain some still.

We look at what we need at the right time and miss the rest without paying attention. I think the chance is like winning the lottery, you can’t deny that it happens but it’s rather uncommon. I thought what can prevent you from rebelling yourself exept what you believe or don’t believe.

Maybe the little angels of stores began to annoy me. I like my angel and the feelings it gives birth in me or those that it make me remember. Holding hands which protect it, I thought that the only thing to cherish whatever happens is that loving feeling and no matter the image it takes, an angel, another being or an idea of humanity, an object or action that we like and which itself is a way to protection.
I thought there is plenty of other things that could take the place of the angel in the palm of these hands, images came into my mind, a house, pencils, a land, a tree, a bird, a cat even if it disappeared. I thought about people who are no longer there, of course, to my heroes too, one could put a book or two there or an entire library, monuments, Artworks, cathedrals.
Suddenly I realized that this is what is the darker in me, what is the more ugly and unconfessed which is the most vulnerable, that would most need the protection of these hands. There has been other images, not necessarily the ones we want to see, I thought of my job as a nurse, the care, to what I do and see every day, to what I protect because I don’t talk about.
I thought of my children and their future, of our society and what other people would choose to protect in the hollow of these resin hands , what they lay at their bedside. And this innocent angel became an insult to everything that must remain hidden in the name of survival.

I don‘t want to destroy the love or this feeling in me. What I wanted to smash was the way how it manipulates me every day. It's like Gollum and Smeagol in Tolkien's Lord of the Rings. One believes a while that one can live without the other, we think we know who deserves to live and who must be annihilated, what is good and what is evil, who has to  heal from the other, just kill unhealthy part to find happiness and health. But in the history of Tolkien, Golum and Smeagol are the same creature, inseparable they live together and die together, a history of schizophrenia it will be said, just to be sure that all this doesn’t concern us.

I’m full of water like a vase overfilled ready to overturn, a liquid inside is about to jump in a jet, why does any single drop no pearl however, where does such accumulation come from? In general there is a leak somewhere for example a tap not closed, just a few millionths of a cubic meter of any liquid, after several hours, months or even more and that is flooding. It must be several years, we don’t realize, one say it will evaporate or the earth will absorb, it will dry, it will be sponge, and then no, a big puddle shaped underground, a pool, an indoor sea and when you feel the weight of water is that the cavity is turned about to give in, beyond its elastic limit. I don’t know from where comes the leak, even less since how long I take on the water, perhaps forever.
This is not entirely honest ok, but it’s my own business, and then what does it changes to know the origin of a malformation, it’s not why you became exempt to live with.

I bought two copies of the same angel to not hurt the one who sleeps with me. I took a small hammer and taped, in the heads, in the wings, in the hollow of the hands. It wasn’t difficult as I said, on the contrary rather interesting, except that the resin is hard as a rock and I had to put all my strength in it, find the weak points to break these angels and snatch their wings while at preserving the hands and the blue light.
It was about destroy the angels but not the gesture that protects them, this gesture can continue to exist even if the angel disappeared, so long as the blue light is still there you can invent a lot of things to be protected, it was necessary to protect the gesture.

I'm not a victim, my wounded angel keep on dreaming and curls up in the palm of my hands. One can’t spend time to flee in order to protect what is loved from destruction, his own life, his shelter, a person or several persons, ideas or a project, the pain we want to keep untouched, suffering which is cherished. Comes a time when you stop to recoil.

In the workshop I put both injured hands, one holds the remains of a mutilated angel and the other a void to fill. I did some tests with small objects, pretty things, some frightful, symbols, what scares or what reassures, what for which I’m concerned and I couldn’t maybe protect, what is making my strength and my secret shadows.

I found this phrase from Ralph Waldo Emerson :The way of life is wonderful,  it is by abandonment. I really wanted to lay down weapons in these open hands. But the intuition that this is not the place to do it is holding me back. Is this about what we are protecting or what protects us ?
I wanted to do the exact opposite, welcome what puts me in danger, what scared and can hurt, certainly not for tame it but to make room for all these terrifying things, all that is not enough to forget to make it disappear, which exists independently of the welcome that I do to it in my conscience or my indifference.

A day will come when totally disarmed indeed, necessarily, other hands will protect me, I will be like the little angel who doesn't worry  about anything and I should trust them. Perhaps am I unable to destroy the hope, is to live with that kills me.

myriam eyann 


> Here Massiv Attacks video clip and shooting serie Angel
Posted at 13:25 - 1 comment

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


> Track list
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Saturday, February 28, 2015
The wrath of Galatea

Sunday 1st February 2015 - 24:37, at the mill

It happened to me to dream for several days that the world was emptied, leaving me alone in the streets, in the cities, left to myself but free from all, literally everything, as in 28 days later the Danny Boyle’s film, I am Legend from Francis Lawrence, or other end of the world experiences in solitary. I dreamed of it before seeing these movies, long before, is to say how the knowledge of their achievement came as a relief, a deliverance, one feels less alone by sharing his own fantasies, and discover that those of the end of the world is not my privilege has been a soft shudder.

As a teenager, living dead movies terrorized me. Driven into a movie by a fan girl, the only one seen caused me nightmares for years. As if by chance, my oldest son, since his teens, is passionate about living death filmography, and as with any passion we want to share, over the years, he explained everything to me. Romero necessarily, the aesthetic gore, the distance, nothing in these films is real that what makes them terribly interesting.
Watching him laugh of the special effects, horror became light and outlet. After several films, when we begin to understand what is at stake here, we go back. Horror movies usually stress me too much, but the Undead class this is great.

During my zombie discoveries, identify myself to the survivors has evolved my imaginary capacity on possible apocalyptic skills. The Walking Dead, American TV series that features a survivivors epic's into zombie mid, for all fans of living dead, it is like an exceptional vintage for wine lovers, a giant laboratory, a mental workshop unlimited in size, what would I do if I was with this group, if I had to fight with machete or knife, surrounded, what I decide to survive, what would I want?
Why survive if it is only to continue to survive? When one have saved his skin 6424 times, watching the zombie number 10931 eating the small bowel of the 5847 victim, do we live by automatism or for better days?  No one can only know, so have a good imagination.

For a month, with the recovery of my nurses tours, comings and goings in the heart of the forest of Fontainebleau, between each patient, between two homes, provide an opportunity to daydreams never ending. The Walking Dead has boosted my adrenaline and give to my crossing a magical dimension - in this series the characters are wandering continuously around trees, bushes, always a forest in the legs. At night, on my way, trees silhouettes no longer sleep.

Appear, disappear, end of the world or creation, I thought I was a magician trying to get out the rabbit hat. And then the idea that being the hat rabbit was also within my reach began to settle. After all, the reason for living of a rabbit in a hat is that a wizard makes it appear.
I now believe, truly, it is about concentration, organization, technical and training, of many training. One can become the rabbit in the hat too, provided a solid prerequisites prestidigitation. Throughout the day, this hat history accompanied me. From rabbit point of view, why decide to appear ? Any reward, love, trust, hope of an existence or a recognition, the glory or other dream? The question seemed impossible to solve.
The magic is capricious, when it is found, but the magic ingredient is magic. Disappear is nothing but appear, you must have had this feeling at least once, being born of a desire.
The end of the world, one imagines a long time, we think to cross it from time to time but in the end we never encounter. On the contratry, by dint of making the world disappear, you end up re-create, such as Pygmalion carving Galatea. Originally, the purpose of Pygmalion is to flee women and their desires, he locks himself in his workshop and does what he knows. Beneath his fingers, in his own way, he found what he wanted to make disappear. Pygmalion has so much fantasized the existence of Galatea that he has invented her. It happens sometimes, hat, rabbit, and the wizard. By losing its path, magic is tested.

Sometimes you have to shift the gaze to see something else. That's what I thought one evening of full moon coming back from tour, scanning the perfectly round moon that lit the campaign. If we look at as it shines, if this is that glint that we feels, we can even imagine the sun which transforms it. I thought A full moon set, in fact, for real, it's a flash of sun we look at. Immediately, the world becomes different.

Norman Reedus, the actor who plays Daryl in the Walking Dead series says : I've always said it's interesting to watch devil's cry when angels wants to stab you in the back.
An image of double face came back to my memory, a cartoon monster who terrorized me small. On one side a beautiful head, a young gorgeous woman, gentle and loved. On the other an atrophied face, the symbol of horror, particularly difficult to watch, and quite unhealthy with that, nasty, embittered.
I did not understand  well, the right person seemed trapped in the wrong, or the reverse. It was twins, the first sister was the only one to love and support the second, she spoke to her and consoled, hid her, protected her since the premature death of the mother. The father had been sidelined from a mystery that concerned them both.
In the end, he murders the wicked. Ignoring the secret, destroy the thing he brought forth was the only solution in his eyes, he wanted to release him and his good girl of this fury poisoning their existence, he did not realized he would kill them both Siamese twins once. It was unsolvable anyway, no doubt.

If I were the rabbit and that the magician is not decided to make me appear, or if his arguments to get me out of the hat failed to convince me, tired of war, sitting on the brim of the hat, I will intone the lyrics of this Tom Waits song  to show him that my existence, ultimately, does not depend on his will, You haven’t looked at me that way in years. If I were Galatea I address myself to God of love, the God creator, or to any entity that could have created me, You dreamed me up and left me here. If I was Love in person I would pronounce the same sentences for the chosen of my heart, my soul mate who hides away from me as ugly, as beautiful he is, How long was I dreaming for. If I was any Illusion What was if you wanted me for, an unfinished Dream You haven’t looked at me that way in years, a disappointed and irascible Hope Your watch has stopped and the pound is clear, or the Trust disembodied to be  invest only on proof of his solvency, Someone turned the light back on, and if I became dead alive I will sing this song to Life before going devour the fresh impulse of my unaffected fellows, I love you till all time is gone, the voice hoarse from screaming jailed, or years, excesses, tiredness, shoulders limp,  vanity swallowed, You haven’t looked at me that way in years, I would end up telling him, But I’m still here.

Good feelings, well thinking, honesty, kindness, from cloud to cloud against the God or corpse's guzzlers we don’t easily beats, by dint of believe them disarmed one forgets their double face, unseen anyway, no doubt. God specialist in love and corpse's guzzlers who like the compassion, invest into the flesh of the victim, their feast is perverse by definition. After what I have said of Hell, having been created by the Devil seems likely, at worst he will be himself, perhaps an angel is hidden into, if he betrays me I would too. In the end, anyway, all the dead will be dead.
Appear, disappear, hat outflows, finally, away from the God and his ambitions, I went to dance at Gloria Gaynor, Oh as long as I know how to love I know I'll stay alive, on the shoulders of Galatea angry, D'you think I'd break down and die? Oh no not I, I will survive, Love and Life in the pocket, I've got all my life to live, I've got all my love to give, surrounded by Trust, Hope and Dreams, now I hold my head up high, and all my Illusions, aged sure, but undamaged, And you'll see me, somebody new.

And I'll survive, I will survive, I will survive

myriam eyann


> Illustrations and links
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Tuesday, January 13, 2015
Strip to skin
Strip to the skin[1]

Friday, January 9, 2015 - 8:46 p.m. - At the mill

We almost ashamed to talk, one would prefer to be silent, and then we want to react. Go too far, I want it me too.
Last two days I cling to my pencils, it's the only thing that gives me trust back, hope for the future. You want to drop, say No, that world doesn’t interest me.
Last two days, the only thing that makes sense is a pencil to the tip of my fingers, not for a symbol or a fight, not even to pay tribute, to say anything or to express pain, but to get my resource, my protection, reach my shelter.
Last two days, despite the daily obligations, frantically I drew.

There are six days now, what made mask to me no longer mask. There are only my skin and my pencils, naked, my body unadorned, I stripped myself. It is not about possessions which might have been spoliated to me, it's not altogether humiliation, and it would be dishonest to speak of lost illusions, at age 46 even I would not believe it. It seems that the blast from the explosion had snatched my clothes.

One can alienate my body, but nothing veil my mind. In shambles, in freedom, my curly hair. A man you deprived of all is no longer within your power, he is once again entirely free[2]. This sentence of Soljenitsyne haunts me like a treasure.

Angels giggle, wan skin, extra pounds, and if I dropped, if one doesn’t understand, if one did scoff ? Yeah, that's not the ridicule which will kill me.
I imagine the band gathered in laughing. The first shots are grotesque, hideous, but the idea doesn’t leave. Wolinski's gaze don’t express any malignancy, he loved women, Cabu[3] has grabbed his sketch book and enjoy consecutive laying, I heard that he was going every week to practice on living model in a Parisian workshop, the others took their pencils and caricature, the laughter coming from down there are neither stupid nor wicked.
Hiding my belly button, my black book sketch is the only grant to my decency.

The self-portrait is a French-speaking tradition since Montaigne, Rousseau, Chateaubriand, Simone de Beauvoir. It’s not more easy to handle its own material as the one of others, access my own nakedness is my remedy. No one but me can take this picture of me.

The principle is simple, freedom of expression is my right, say what I think, take a position, I don’t even know why I have to do, the idea doesn’t leave.

I have undressed myself, the rest this is what insists. Pencils in my fist. Liberty, fraternity, my inner witnesses have brandished it well before me, No Pasaran ! Vous ne passerez pas ! You Shall not Pass ! Vous ne passerez pas ! VOUS NE PA-SSE-RREZ PAS ! NO PASARAN ! NO PASARAN[4] !

Charlie Hebdo's goal and their cartoonists 's purpose has never been to arm a bomb.
We can brainwash young people who have nothing to put instead of what malice can there to lay eggs when they let someone take control of their destiny[5]. Why couldn’t we do the opposite, condition people to humor. We would teach humor to school since any young, jokes lessons, we would scoff of each other, we would learn under the eye of adults without hate to received criticism or understand what hurts, we would learn the defusing of the bombs that we can all become, we would do daily exercises of self-mockery.

What are you doing during the kidding's class?
I have Mimics & Caricatures this year, damn, it's hard !!

I know my naivety.

Killing for a cartoon. How can one miss humor to this point?
Humor can be learned, like everything else, laughter is a contagion, a conditioning of spirit, the state of mind that leads to it is a training. The glance forms itself by dint of seeing, when we want to learn architecture we look architecture, for painting watching paint, the same for photography, literature, film, or anything that starts with a pencil, imagination, and a thought. For that matter, in a society dominated by images, a picture class, since any young, that would be good too, art, photography, architecture, comics, graphic design, advertising.
When we want to understand a picture, it needs to look long and the memory of all those we have seen before imbues the retina.

Here there are only words, images, photo. Everyone knows they don’t have the power of guns.

This is not a provocation[6].

myriam eyann

[1] The original French title is Mise à nue.
Strip to the skin reflects my thoughts but the pun remains untranslatable . Mise à nue also refers the term Mise à mort, ie Been killed by an execution squad
[2] Alexandre Soljenistyne, In the first Circle
[3] Wolinski et Cabu were two famous cartonnist of the revue Charlie Hebdo, 5 designers have been killed that day
[4] Madrilenian's slogan
[5] reference to French song of Téléphone La bombe humaine
[6] reference to René Magritte's paint La trahison des images (the Treachery of images)


> In reference
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Friday, January 2, 2015
Around the clock
Friday, December 5, 2014 - 9:08 p.m. - the mill

It seems that people who have lived only in the war, who don't know the calm of peace, can't get used to it, and seek throughout their lives the turmoil of the Real, it seems that the body becomes dependent upon the adrenaline that it secrets to protect from danger or pain, and that like Obelix [1], when you fell into a cauldron of magic potion very young, the effects are permanent, for life.
Round the clock, urgency, as if the neurons didn't know soak itselves on another acid. When you  only have the urgent in mind, you only make the fast stuff, which takes time is always postponed, when the urgent something will stop to be urgent. Join the calm and the people who are inside is a wish always adjourned.

It seems that with stubbornness, a good determination, strength, energy, you can do anything, when you want. In Kill Bill, Uma Turman moves his paralyzed feet  by sheer willpower, maybe that a guy who has a finger in less, concentrating hard, can regrow it. Maybe we can create what we have not and open the impossible.

If I was a prisoner, what might prevent my escape? For some recalcitrant detainees, the outcome will always exist. At worst, run away inside his own brain, creating a world in all its details, let the life drive to clear a path.

Does Paradise has been coined by an inhabitant of Hell?

Watching romantic movies, read pretty phrases, the maxims in anthologies of important sentences that everyone must know for what to do in difficult moments of life, Sometimes all you need is twenty seconds of insane courage twenty seconds of just embarassing bravery, and I promised something great will Come of it [2], I did as they said, my life was going to change, crossing the line is still a promise. The hard part is to find a thought to think about it all the time, a good idea of thinking that lasts.

The Hell Returns are badly accepted, as if they were monstrous in fact, as people who undergo metamorphosis. This is not Kafka 's cockroach which will say otherwise. The unthinkable is the escape.

There should be a reverse disappearance, remove the eyes of people who don't look, a kind of magic, get into the mirror. It would invert there the shocks, for canceling them. The heaviness would be lightweith,  the density empty,  disappear an appearance, the desires realities, the dream an obligation.
If I disappear, I will wipe out the traumatism. Before, to refine the gesture, I would have sent randomly of the wind one or two objects to see, kinds of spies, ahead as scouts. If they come back in part, even in small fragmented pieces hardly recognizable, it would be a proof by contradiction, an almost scientific proof. Disappear would no longer be an illusion. Appear upside down, the reflection of the mirror would start to exist. Does he have the right to change reality, with his identity as a reflection?

Everyone knows that illusions are the secret of wins,  such the invincibility - which is called all-powerfulness, in psychiatric words. Who is embarrassed to live with an illusion?

The reverse disappear would be the opposition to morbid downflooding which such as black holes absorb light and matter. Knowing that mirrors exists changes everything, you  never be alone again when you have a good reflection. Maybe reflections are like soul mates who help themselves to be exactly what they should be. The best shelter is a second heart in addition to the one we already have.

Maybe in the mirror, by observing it good, the inverted reflection would show me how to do the exact contrary opposite of my actions and gestures, I will not force  fate again, I will not be every day warrior or fighter, all things which scare in the body of a woman, even if fighting is not the privilege of a man, I would wait that the desire come  to pick me up, I will  let him do. Impatience would be my promise, I would do princess stuffs, dream of the knight lips, goddess's ruses  , mermaid' tricks, pheromones showers to trace the path,  cunnings of an amorous, secrets, murmurings, I would whisper . If you wake up inside a reflection, like the Jake of Avatar you can start running even though you don't have anymore legs, dwell another life, meet there those who tell you I see you. Cancel the impossible or deny it is similar, inside the fairy tale. Soon or later, you always have to wake up [3].  After a while it's reality that would become the dream, I will choose a nice thought to live with. And perhaps this thought also choose me.
Music, movies, phrases, images, paintings, drawings, dawns and sunsets, through emotions look like what happens when we lean over a void, a mixture of fascination, the disappearance of the impossible, a breakthrough, a link, between atmospheres. If you can reach it, the vacuum provides the abandonments's refuge , if you are indulging by the confidence, if you allowed  dizziness and suction, go to craving, contemplate what seek you, don't be afraid when he takes you by the hand, think of the first dive of your life, the first time you met the water, all the first time, the first real time, those of the discoveries, the beating heart, sweaty palms, ideas turn by themselves in the head, you realize that the shore, that's it, you just let it go.

Going into the vacuum you found what fills. The partition is already in the bodies it seems, you have to imagine an orchestra that vibrates, the sound goes up, the airwaves reverberate, the Real loves echoes. Sometimes, luck or not, it happens that you penetrate the vacuum with someone, or with the help of someone, more rarely with many people, but it also happens. The important to stay together in a vacuum is to move in the same way, to slough off of what weapon, remember that come closer protects the estrangement. The slightest variations in rate are propagated like a boomerang in a circular motion, when the route is clear gestures forget what they do, they no longer belong to anyone or anything, not even vacuum where they are born, and mix without melting. Refine the trajectories, like a fish in the water or a bird in the wind, don't resist to current. Don't catch anything, don't withhold,  reach, wait, don't carry away any verb with you.

Sometimes your whole life boils down to one insane move [4].

Nothing is unlivable, only the dead stop living, even if they continue to be transmitted. You can't understand, you can't know it if you haven't lived it,  if you knew, if you knew, if you knew. These sentences may concern people who can't raise the words of Primo Levi, nor those of anyone, who can't see the Invisible Links from Selma Lagerlöf, and encloses what can't be treat in their own unconsciousness.
Psychic death, the place of the unthinkable, they say. When you go through a cell you know that you exist, you don't have to prove it. Without existence you don't pass upon this. The unliveable is lived, the unthinkable is thinked, and the memory round the clock. The annihilation is if and only if you fail to communicate.

In my opinion, the only way to get rid of the Real is the dilution, file one little here, a little there, even at making his own entourage slightly sticky, and the rest of the world as a tacky jam trace on the finger. The failure of mentalizing is a theory, like the idea that there are jails which one never escape, or inviolable fortress. There is no limit to the psychic representation, despite the dened that gangrene narcissistic flaws to necrosis.

In my opinion, the only way to manage the Real is the sharing, dare excursions, rob him scraps of jouissance, more and more larger, bring back supplies, whole pieces, organize refueling shipments. Dilute the ecstasies around itself, spreading love, make of it a collection no limited by the storage, spreadable worldwide, overwrite if it is necessary.

If I was prisoner what could prevent my reflection to deliver me?

I have a collection of movies, music, books lining my walls since always,  countless drawings full of empty exists, and I can see some, beautiful stories are stored in my brain. The "without" periods doesn't exist. The Heaven is in my head forever.
 myriam eyann

[1] Obelix is a famous character of french coomics books Asterix (see the link)
[2] In We bought a zoo, directed by Cameron Crowe, 2011
[3] In Avatar directed by James Cameron, 2009
[4] In We bought a zoo


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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