Ecoutez… j’ai eu une journée d’enfer et la dernière chose dont j’ai envie de parler c’est de la façon d’affronter l’existence

31/08/2005

28/08/2005

27/08/2005

 

Je suis habité ce soir par des sentiments pour lesquels il n’y a pas de mots, et des faits qu’il faudrait expliquer en termes de poussières plutôt qu’en paroles.
J’ai examiné des petits bouts de mon enfance. Ce sont des morceaux d’une vie lointaine qui n’ont ni forme, ni sens. Des choses qui se sont produites comme des poussières.

Richard Brautigan, "La Vengeance de la pelouse"
 

Sometimes life is merely a matter of coffee and whatever intimacy a cup of coffee affords. I once read something about coffee. The thing said that coffee is good for you; it stimulates all the organs.
I thought at first this was a strange way to put it, and not altogether pleasant, but as time goes by I have found out that it makes sense in its own limited way. I'll tell you what I mean.

Yesterday morning I went over to see a girl. I like her. Whatever we had going for us is gone now. She does not care for me. I blew it and wish I hadn't.

I rang the door bell and waited on the stairs. I could hear her moving around upstairs. The way she moved I could tell that she was getting up. I had awakened her.

Then she came down the stairs. I could feel her approach in my stomach. Every step she took stirred my feelings and lead indirectly to her opening the door. She saw me and it did not please her.

Once upon a time it pleased her very much, last week. I wonder where it went, pretending to be naive.

"I feel strange now," she said. "I don't want to talk."

"I want a cup of coffee," I said, because it was the last thing in the world that I wanted. I said it in such a way that it sounded as if I were reading her a telegram from somebody else, a person who really wanted a cup of coffee, who cared about nothing else.

"All right," she said.

I followed her up the stairs. It was ridiculous. She had just put some clothes on. They had not quite adjusted themselves to her body. I could tell you about her ass. We went into the kitchen.

She took a jar of instant coffee off the shelf and put it on the table. She placed a cup next to it, and a spoon. I looked at them. She put a pan full of water on the stove and turned the gas on under it.

All this time she did not say a word. Her clothes adjusted themselves to her body. I won't. She left the kitchen.

Then she went down the stairs and outside to see if she had any mail. I didn't remember seeing any. She came back up the stairs and went into another room. She closed the door after her. I looked at the pan full of water on the stove.

I knew that it would take a year before the water started to boil. It was now October and there was too much water in the pan. That was the problem. I threw half of the water into the sink.

The water would boil faster now. It would take only six months. The house was quiet.

I looked out the back porch. There were sacks of garbage there. I stared at the garbage and tried to figure out what she had been eating lately by studying the containers and peelings and stuff. I couldn't tell a thing.

It was now March. The water started to boil. I was pleased by this.

I looked at the table. There was the jar of instant coffee, the empty cup and the spoon all laid out like a funeral service. These are the things that you need to make a cup of coffee.

When I left the house ten minutes later, the cup of coffee safely inside me like a grave, I said, "Thank you for the cup of coffee."

"You're welcome," she said. Her voice came from behind a closed door. Her voice sounded like another telegram. It was really time for me to leave.

I spent the rest of the day not making coffee. It was a comfort. And evening came, I had dinner in a restaurant and went to a bar. I had some drinks and talked to some people.

We were bar people and said bar things. None of them remembered, and the bar closed. It was two o'clock in the morning. I had to go outside. It was foggy and cold in San Francisco. I wondered about the fog and felt very human and exposed.

I decided to go visit another girl. We had not been friends for over a year. Once we were very close. I wondered what she was thinking about now.

I went to her house. She didn't have a door bell. That was a small victory. One must keep track of all the small victories. I do, anyway.

She answered the door. She was holding a robe in front of her. She didn't believe that she was seeing me. "What do you want?" she said, believing now that she was seeing me. I walked right into the house.

She turned and closed the door in such a way that I could see her profile. She had not bothered to wrap the robe completely around herself. She was just holding the robe in front of herself.

I could see an unbroken line of body running from her head to her feet. It looked kind of strange. Perhaps because it was so late at night.

"What do you want?" she said.

"I want a cup of coffee," I said. What a funny thing to say, to say again for a cup of coffee was not what I really wanted.

She looked at me and wheeled slightly on the profile. She was not pleased to see me. Let the AMA tell us that time heals. I looked at the unbroken line of her body.

"Why don't you have a cup of coffee with me?" I said. "I feel like talking to you. We haven't talked for a long time."

She looked at me and wheeled slightly on the profile. I stared at the unbroken line of her body. This was not good.

"It's too late," she said. "I have to get up in the morning. If you want a cup of coffee, there's instant in the kitchen. I have to go to bed."

The kitchen light was on. I looked down the hall into the kitchen. I didn't feel like going into the kitchen and having another cup of coffee by myself. I didn't feel like going to anybody else's house and asking them for a cup of coffee.

I realized that the day had been committed to a very strange pilgrimage, and I had not planned it that way. At least the jar of instant coffee was not on the table, beside an empty white cup and a spoon.

They say in the spring a young man's fancy turns to thoughts of love. Perhaps if he has enough time left over, his fancy can even make room for a cup of coffee.

Richard Brautigan, "
Revenge of the Lawn"

26/08/2005

25/08/2005

 

Il y a une heure de ça, dans le jardin de derrière chez moi, s’est produite la plus petite tempête de neige jamais recensée. Elle a dû faire dans les deux flocons. Moi, j’ai attendu qu’il en tombe d’autres mais ça n’a pas été plus loin. Deux flocons : voilà tout ce qu’a été ma tempête.
Ils sont tombés du ciel avec tout le poignant dérisoire d’un film de Laurel et Hardy : même qu’à y songer, ils leur ressemblaient bien. Que tout s’est passé comme si nos deux compères s’étaient transformés en flocons de neige pour jouer à la plus petite tempête de neige jamais recensée dans l’histoire du monde.
Avec leur tarte à la crème sur la gueule, mes deux flocons ont paru mettre un temps fou à tomber du ciel. Ils ont fait des efforts désespérément comiques pour tenter de garder leur dignité dans un monde qui voulait la leur enlever parce que lui, ce monde, il avait l’habitude de tempête beaucoup plus vastes – genre soixante centimètres par terre et plus -, et que deux flocons, y a de quoi froncer le sourcil.
Et puis ils ont fait un joli atterrissage : sur des restes de tempête précédentes – cet hiver, nous en avons déjà eu une douzaine. Et après ça, il y a eu un moment d’attente – dont j’ai profité pour lever les yeux au ciel, histoire de voir si ça allait continuer. Avant d’enfin comprendre que mes deux flocons, c’était côté tempête aussi complet qu’un Laurel et Hardy.
Alors je suis sorti et j’ai essayé de les retrouver : le courage qu’ils avaient mis à rester eux-mêmes en dépit de tout, j’admirais. Et tout en les cherchant, je m’inventai des manières de les installer dans le congélateur : afin qu’ils se sentent bien ; qu’on puisse leur accorder toute l’attention, toute l’admiration, qu’on puisse leur donner les accolades qu’ils mettaient tant de grâce à mériter.
Sauf que vous, vous avez déjà essayer de retrouver deux flocons dans un paysage d’hiver que la neige recouvre depuis des mois ?
Je me suis propulsé dans la direction de leur point de chute. Et voilà : moi, j’étais là, à chercher deux flocons de neige dans un univers où il y en avait des milliards. Sans parler de la crainte de leur marcher dessus : ça n’aurait pas été une bonne idée.
J’ai mis assez peu de temps avant de comprendre tout ce que ma tentative avait de désespéré. De constater que la plus petite tempête de neige jamais recensée était perdue à jamais. Qu’il n’y avait aucun moyen de la distinguer de tout le reste.
Il me plaît néanmoins de songer qu’unique en son genre, le courage de cette tempête à deux flocons survit, Dieu sait comment, dans un monde où semblable qualité n’est pas toujours appréciée.
Je suis rentré à la maison. Derrière moi, j’ai laissé Laurel et Hardy, se perdre dans la neige.

Richard Brautigan, "Tokyo-Montana Express"

24/08/2005

 

J'ai des émotions
qui sont comme des journaux qui
se lisent eux-mêmes.

Je passe des jours entiers
coincé dans la rubrique des petites annonces.

J'ai l'impression d'être une annonce
pour la vente d'une maison hantée :

18 pièces
37 000 dollars
je suis à vous
fantômes et le reste.

Richard Brautigan, "Journal Japonais"

23/08/2005

 

1. Prendre son déjeuner tout seul.
C’est toujours très amusant.

2. Se promener sans but autour de son bureau.
Le bureau est énorme et il y a beaucoup de place pour se promener sans but.

3. Monter et descendre par l’ascenseur sans la moindre raison.
Les gens qui montent travaillent.
Pas moi.
Ceux qui descendent sortent dans la rue.
Pas moi.

4. Je pense sérieusement à utiliser le téléphone intérieur pour appeler mon poste 8993 et laisser sonner très longtemps. Puis me demander où est-ce que je suis et quand je rentrerai. Devrais-je laisser un message à la réception me demandant de me rappeler dès que je suis de retour ?

Charly Meignan, Paris, Le 23 août 2005

Ce texte est vraisemblablement un plagiat éhonté d'un poème de Richard Brautigan et est probablement extrait de son "Journal Japonais". Le lecteur aura peut-être pu d'ailleurs constater que cette semaine est officiellement consacrée à rendre hommage à l'écrivain américain Richard Brautigan. C'est à dire que suite à un manque flagrant d'imagination et de créativité littéraire, je me contenterai donc de piller son oeuvre méthodiquement afin d'avoir l'air cool.

 

1. Se procurer suffisamment de nourriture,
et manger.

2. Trouver un coin tranquille pour dormir,
et dormir.

3. Diminuer le parasitage intellectuel et émotionnel
jusqu'à trouver le silence intérieur,
et l'écouter.

4.

Richard Brautigan

22/08/2005

 
Qu'est-ce que c'est agréable
de pouvoir se lever le matin
tout seul
et de ne pas avoir à dire aux gens
que vous les aimez
quand vous ne les aimez plus.

Richard Brautigan, "Il pleut en amour"

18/08/2005

17/08/2005

 


Raison 90 : Les Idées Personnelles.

Libellés :

07/08/2005

06/08/2005

04/08/2005

01/08/2005