Otro beso

(al estilo de Marwan)

Un beso que solo sepa hablar otro idioma.

Un beso que despierte de golpe lo olvidado,
que abra todas las heridas,
un beso que reanime.

Un beso que haga brotar la sangre de los recuerdos,
un beso que refresque la memoria.

Un beso que, por fin, me conmueva
que destroce mi cordura,
que grite mi nombre,
que hable de mi y me recuerde quien soy,
que salte de tu boca
pare devolverme a la vida.

Un beso que nada tenga que ver con amor
Y todo con el deseo anestesiado,
que no tenga future mas que doblado
guardado en el cajon desastre.

Uno con el que digamos todo,
-aunque no deberiamos hablar-,
el beso que me debo a mi misma,
el beso que te debo,
ese beso
que nunca deberia haberte dado.

-Leer en paralelo con el poema de Marwan "Un beso", en la pagina 73 de su libro Todos mis futuros son contigo-

Sometimes I feel like you own me. My life. And I resent you so much for that. And then I hate myself for feeling that way. You ask, no, you DEMAND that I take you in my arms and cuddle you, not caring that I don't feel like cuddling you right now, not caring that when I'm the one who wants the cuddles, who NEEDS them even, you can't be bothered. So, sometimes, pityless and mean, petty and a little bit cruel, I flat out refuse. You get upset, mad at me. I'd like to think it makes you sad but, truthfully, the only one who's sad is me. What you feel, most probably, is that you're not getting your way. What I feel is, once more, that I'm such a lousy mom. And, once more, I hope in the end you'll remember the good and obliterate the bad. I hope you'll retain the immensity of my love and erase all my shortcomings. I wish I was better for you, baby. I wish I was more patient, more creative, more involved. I wish I could stop thinking about all the things I can't do because of you instead of all the ones I do thanks to you. I wish I was less selfish. I wish I'd grow up, already, and finally be done with my grieving for my old life and my old self.

It breaks my heart to not to be the mother I want to be. To not be ABLE to be that Mom.
I don't want to be the way I am and yet I don't how to not...
How can I love my daughters to the moon and back and still be this short-fused, bad-tempered, impatient and inflexible, borderline mean, Mom? How do I prevent this bad attitude from bubbling to the surface?
Why do those two little beings who want nothing but my constant love, attention and devotion cannot get it? Why is what they need too much for me to handle? Why do they NEED so much, all the time? I would love to be able to step back, take a deep breath and let go of my frustration, anxiety and yes, sometimes even anger.
How can I love my daughters to the moon and back and still roll my eyes, grit my teeth, purse my lips, sigh heavily as soon as the going gets a little tough? Why do they bring out the worst in me instead of making me a better person? All those flawed traits in my personality, the very same ones I've been battling as soon as I realized how much I disliked them, they are stronger now and feed of all the need and want and dependence my daughters show. And I hate that!
It breaks my heart.

अनित्य

How long will you yearn for something that is not anymore? For someone who is not anymore?
How long will you compare what you feel now with what you felt then, even when you know there's really no other truth than that अनित्य you've got tattooed on your arm?
When will you finally learn how to let go and move on?
You cannot go back to being carefree, childless and thirty-three. You cannot go back to that, to there, to her. Not even by getting on the first plane and flying to India.
Let go!
Keep on going...
You can take those steps you're eager to take, you can do the things you've imagined. You just need to give yourself the means to do so. Just accept that it's going to be different, that you were never meant to stay stuck in a moment, poised in an instant. That even if you could, you wouldn't anyway. Not now that she is in your life. It doesn't depend on you, you cannot decide that.
Let go!
Find you way, look for it, start by starting...
Feel alive again, don't just go through the motions. You only have this one chance, don't blow it. This is it, this is your life.
Just let go and live it!

Morning run

This morning, I cleansed my body and soul, I surprised myself grinning a couple of times, I found my inner rythm and peace. This morning, I enjoyed the quiet that can only be found in my favorite songs. I danced in my head. This morning, I encountered an extremely hairy and freakishly fast caterpillar. I saw a grown man with a bright blue cookie-monster t-shirt and it made me smile. I listened to my breath. I meditated. I thought of nobody but me. I sent loving thoughts to my family and energizing thoughts to my friends. This morning, I marvelled at the pools of sunlight on the ground and the patches of shadows in between. I saw leaves falling, smelled autumn in the air and appreciated the warmth of the blessed indian summer. I valued the burn in my lungs and ignored the urge to stop. I reveled in the rush of endorphins that made me feel like my skin crackled. This morning, I liked all the uphills and preferred the downhills.

Elia dans le soleil

There she is,
allongée par terre au milieu du salon,
entourée de jouets multicolores, un peu ridicules,
having a moment.
A moment that almost seems mystical,
elle regarde le soleil filtrer à travers la vitre sale.
Elle est immobile; tranquille; calme.
Sa petite main aggripée à l'oiseau-abeille,
elle se tient pour ne pas se laisser emporter dans son tourbillon de pensées...

La typique cuillère

C'est la typique cuillère que tout le monde suce, personne ne lave et qui finit dans ton verre...
Agonda Beach, 29 Janvier 2010


Première diapo dans la série "C'est la/e typique...";
Jean-Roch, Veri et moi on ne se lasse pas de cette phrase ni de celles qui suivront.
Nous sommes à la terrasse de notre boui-boui favori, face à la mer, dans nos fauteuils en rotin aux coussins douteux. On a commandé nos sempiternels ginger-lemon-honey ou un thé. On a besoin de sucre, et dans la sucrière, il y a toujours cette fameuse cuillère dont parle ce polaroïd.
On ne se méfie jamais assez de cette fichue cuillère...

Polaroïd, Mumbai

Trois petits enfants; deux filles et un garçon, âgés de 4 à 7 ans. 
Assis sur le trottoir, ils regardent une pub à la TV dans une vitrine. 
Ils sont fascinés.
Mumbai, Maharastra, 25 Janvier 2010

Ils ont vraiment l'air petits, ces gamins. Si ça se trouve, ils sont plus âgés que je ne le crois mais ils sont tellement rachitiques et dépenaillés. Si ils n'avaient pas leurs énormes sourires aux lèvres, ils auraient sans doute l'air grave des enfants des rues; le regard sérieux de ceux qui ont la vie dure. Pour le moment ils ont l'air heureux, assis sur leurs talons crasseux et craquelés.
On est à Colaba, le quartier chic et touristique de l'hôtel Taj Mahal, de la Gateway of India, des grands hôtels particuliers reconvertis en auberges de luxe à 3000 roupies la nuit. La vitrine devant laquelle se trouvent mes trois mini-mendiants est celle d'un magasin de yachts. De grands hors-bord pour la jet-set de Mumbai. La pub qui passe est en réalité un court métrage promotionnel destiné à vendre ces bolides des mers aux élites locales et aux NRI qui viennent claquer leurs dollars expatriés sous le nez de ces pauvres gamins...qui ignorent tout de cette vaste ironie...

Polaroïd, Hampi

Une "vieille" femme aux longs cheveux gris, sari noir, yeux dorés, profond sourire. La peau cuivrée. Les dents abîmées. Namasté.
Hampi, Karnataka, 18 Janvier 2010


Il est encore tôt et il ne fait pas trop chaud. Je ne peux plus dormir, je vais me promener sur les Ghats. Elle vient de terminer de se laver dans la rivière, elle et tant d'autres. Elle me repère, comme les autres. Elle s'approche tout prêt de moi, aucun respect pour mon espace vital et elle me scrute. Elle doit décider que j'ai l'air gentil, elle me fait un grand sourire sincère, comme un cadeau, joint les mains devant sa pauvre poitrine flétrie et dit "Namasté". Je la revois encore...

Polaroïd, Margao

Paillettes orangées,
Nuée au marché
Bindi diamanté
Margao, Goa, 16 Janvier 2010

Deuxième séjour en Inde...je craque, il me faut des braceletes. On plonge dans la foule colorée du marché de Margao. Le dédale d'allées est couvert, il fait très chaud, très lourd, très humide...Il y a tellement de monde. On transpire comme dans un hammam, la sueur ruisselle partout où elle peut, les vêtements collent à la peau, les cheveux bouclent à grande vitesse. C'est très désagréable et pourtant je ne peux pas arrêter de sourire. Ça pue, ça sent bon; ça grouille, ça crie, ça pousse; comme d'habitude!

The party

Long tendrils of hair,

matted and knotted

Long locks of smoke,

joints and cigarettes

Plumes of music going up in the air

The beat of drums, the clapping

of  hands and the beat of hearts,

The clapping of all else that

goes on and around...

Sweating, dancing, humming

The flow of waves, the sway of palms...

The flow of breath, the sway of arms...

The flow of life, the sway of dance...

Kuddle Beach, India.
February 2010

I miss...

I miss seeing my toes everyday,
I miss having a sandal tan-line on my dusty feet,
I miss my Indian silver anklet and
its silvery bells sounds when I walk...
I miss my colorful Ali-Baba pants,
I miss wearing a rainbow of a shawl everywhere,
I miss my dirty heavy backpack and
its dozen international flags...
I miss my long hennaed hair,
I miss having a bindi for a Third Eye, 
I miss my free traveling self and
its unburdened and easy friendliness...
I miss my best friend around 24/7,
I miss the long days of just being,
I miss the adventure and the unknown,
I miss the joyous wandering and  
its endless possibilities...