should i stay or should i go?

i didn't have much time to write lately my exhibitionist tendencies to write in this blog have also been undermined by endless doubts about what i should do and it still is should i really go to University? should I go and join the illegal population? should I go back home or bet everything on the fact that there will be more H visas next year what should I do when my visa ends...

mist

Last night was beautiful. Lights in the mist. Monsters in the streets. No work. Loud music. Traffic lights sending green, orange and red beams in the night. Shapeless masses of buildings. A guy fixing the engine of his pickup at the crossroad, the dim lights of the elevated subway passing in the distance in a muffled low sound.

Took a black and white picture of the street. The pick up guy was gone already. But the perspective of the street looked nice. And also, one of the building looked different that night. Beautiful and enigmatic. I hope the picture will render all that.

I really need a digital camera to make all the stupid pics and experiments I want without ruining films or having to wait months before I can see the results of the settings I used for such and such picture.

Friday

Friday was an incredibly busy night at the restaurant. There is really some change now that we have Franck as a PR guy. If he keeps bringing people who pay 200% tips, I won't have to keep worrying that much about dough again. So Friday, I counted my tips and realized that, at Rent Time - 2 days, I finally gathered together just enough money to pay the rent. It felt good. Still does. These last two months have been by far the most difficult I had since I'm in the City.

Still some tensions with my boss, though. It would suck that he fires me now that business SEEMS to finally be taking off.

Wednesday I had lunch with Professor R. He was my university professor in France, then returned to NY and he is now working on a new book. Sometimes, someone should lock my keyboard so that I can't send emails. Professor R. expressed his concern and wanted to know how I was doing. It must have been late when I replied, or I was exhausted, or I got carried away. Anyway, I started listing the major current issues and when he replied to this email, I clearly saw that I had worried the poor man beyond reason. This man is a Johnson, in the Burroughsian sense of the term. Someone you can count on. Someone who minds his own business but who will help you because you need it, without asking for anything in exchange. No mystico-religious bullshit either. This guy is not trying to ensure he'll get a good seat in heaven. Thank you, Professor. God probably won't give it back to you, but I will.

Brooklyn la nuit...

Bushwick, Brooklyn - Fall 2004.

too lazy to do it again

a fucking server error has eaten my post of tonight...

Of Hard Drives and Men

So I have this not-too-crappy-but-not-that-great computer that they wanted to throw away at my ex-job in publishing, and that I saved from a certain destruction and fixed. I added a hard drive but somehow the cable was too short. The whole cabling would need a reorganization in there, but I never had the heart to start the job. Also, for my defense, I would say that I was not sure whether the extra hard drive was in working condition or not, so I just plugged it and put it on the speaker of the stereo next to the open unit. It was supposed to be just a test, but it stayed there. And I've got those "Spanish" candles (those in a long glass) and the other day one of them fell off the table and landed right onto the extra hard drive.

It didn't like it at all. Since then, whenever I use it, it keeps making these strange crr-crr-crrrr sounds that I don't think hard drives were meant to make. I have been lucky though. I have not lost any data, I think. At least, nothing important.

The boss was surprisingly easy-going tonight. Also, there was not a single customer tonight, so no reason to get all excited.

Also, I've been in Laundry Denial Mode for too long now. I wanted to go tonight but... you know... it's warm inside, the music feels good, the light is dim enough to feel comfy. Why the fuck should I go out in the cold and carry a heavy bag of stinky clothes to a noisy place all lit up with merciless neons?!

But tomorrow... oh, yes... tomorrow, I'll go. Like I have the choice...

There must be something more important to write about. But obviously I won't find it tonight... And I still have to start working on that other blog about writers...

The way things go (or rather, don't) the horizon of my life looks like a beautiful dead end street and there's nothing I can seem to find to keep my eyes from seeing anything else.

Monday

I was in the subway. I didn't go to work today because my boss was supposed to call me, and, as I expected, he didn't. Which is supposed to make me stress out, or which will somehow be a reason to hassle me next time I work. At this point, whatever happens has little if any importance.

I went in the City today and tonight I'm 80 bucks closer to the rent. On my way back, on the Q train, Sonic Youth started playing "JC" (LP: Dirty) and I looked up from my book and out the window at the tunnel lights and the girders racing by and for some reason the music fit perfectly and I felt that it all made sense even though I didn't know what was "it." Just a moment when a song is just the perfect soundtrack for the movie of your life.

Sunday

So Sunday, I got into an argument with my boss. It would take too long to explain it all here. I'd need to tell you about my boss, about the restaurant, about the customers we don't have etc etc. So, suffice it to say that... I was right and he was wrong. Well, if you want the other side of the story, why don't you read HIS blog!

But that's beyond the point. Of course I was right! Everybody can tell you that. And if they don't, it just proves my point even more: they're wrong.

Bast! So my friend Vanessa came for the night from Philadelphia and she's sleeping on my bed by the time I have yelled loud and long enough under the windows to get someone open the front door for me since I gave her my keys. Grabbed a blanket and sheet and slept on the floor... but of course it was only 2 o'clock and I couldn't put any music on or read the newspapers online or watch dumb infocommercials so I brought the lamp over to my Spartan new bed and read. The last thing I notice before falling asleep are the blue and red lights flashing through the windows. And sure enough five minutes later the Firemen are knocking on our door.

These guys, they come so often in this building that we're just going to give them a spare key. This time, it's the neighbor from downstairs who reported a leak coming down on the wall where the circuit breaker is. Or something like that. Firemen come so often here that they feel like they haven't left their fire station. One is checking the fridge. Another one seize the opportunity to give us back a video tape he took on his last visit. We enquire about the well-being of their family, their dogs and their bankers. How much everyone lost betting on the Yankees. We shoot the shit. Nothing unusual. See ya guys!

Haunted

Finally finished reading the manuscript of Palahniuk's next book, HAUNTED. It takes me so long to read anything these days. Just can't keep my mind focused.

I hate it when the world brings you down to the reality level.

Laudanum recipe

'In the 1660s, the English physician Thomas Sydenham, once hailed as "the Shakespeare of medecine," claimed to have found a wonder drug. His laudanum, he boasted, was an unrivaled "cordial." Made from a pint of sherry or Canary wine, its chief added ingredients were saffron, cinnamon, and cloves, beefed up with a two-ounce slug of opium. For a long time Sydenham's laudanum was immensely popular with his fellow physicians. The spiced opiate was regularly prescriped for restless children nervous orators, light sleepers, pregnant women, a string of prime ministers and their wives, poets and artists. It helped them sleep, brought relief from pain, and made them feel terrific.'

-- Jack Turner, Spice: The History of a Temptation, p. 306 (galleys)

feel like shit... deja vu

It felt so good to walk on the campus of Columbia today... It's a city campus, ok. Nothing comparable to Grenoble, but still. The air smelled good, the buildings looked beautiful, with the most beautiful word in the world carved on some of them: Library. I could swear I felt a neurone move.

It is clear now that my boss is (in no particular order): an asshole, an alcoholic, a hustler. He is a "little man." It's hard to admit because, usually, I do not bite the hand that feeds me. No matter how little. But there's so much crap a man can take before breaking a bottle on the head of an abusing bipede. The list of people pushing me and trying to take advantage of me when I am not in a position to have any patience for this shit is getting uncannily longer every month. Maybe it's time to make an example of one of them.

The good thing about assholes (and most probably their only reason for existing) is that they mobilize your survival instincts. I've thus spent 10+ hours work today in YOU CAN'T BRING ME DOWN mode.

"Did you say, Feel like shit? yeah, sometimes I do feel like shit. I ain't happy about that but I'd rather feel like shit than be full of shit." (Suicidal Tendencies, "You Can't Bring Me Down." LP: Light, Camera, Revolution)

I understand more and more why reading Wilhelm Reich a few years ago was such a traumatizing experience.

broie du noir

Et sévère même. Même l’énergie des morceaux des Berurier Noir que j’ai téléchargés aujourd’hui ne suffisent pas à me secouer de ce spleen.

C’est pas que je laisse tomber. Y a pas moyen. Ca me soule, je veux pas chougner. C’est juste que ça fait tellement d’années que je rame. Des que j’arrive a me remettre a flot y faut que je me lance un nouveau challenge qui m’entraîne dans des années de galère. Je ne regrette rien. Je ne regrette pas d’être a NY. Je ne voudrais être ailleurs pour rien au monde.

J’ai du rater quelque chose. Louper une porte, peut-être. Pris un mauvais couloir. C’est quoi déjà cette chanson de Suicidal?

Sometimes I try to do things and it just don't turn out the way I wanted to, and I get real frustrated. And it’s like, I take my time and I try real hard but no matter what I do, and no matter what I try it never works out. It's like, I concentrate on it real hard but it never works out. It’s like, I need some time to figure these things out but there’s always someone there going, “Hey Mike, you know we've been noticing you've been having a lot of problems lately, you know, like, maybe you should talk about it and you’ll feel a lot better.”

And I go, “No, it's okay. I’m having some problems, I'll figure it out myself. Just leave me alone, I'll figure it out.” And they go: “Why don’t you talk about it, you’ll feel a lot better.”

“I don’t know, I don’t want to. Just leave me alone, I’ll figure it out myself.”
And they keep on bugging me and it builds up inside, it builds up inside.”

Suicidal Tendencies, “Institutionalized” (LP: Still Cyco After All These Years)

Ce soir l’Empire ressemblait à une bougie géante avec ses derniers étages illuminés de rouge tandis que la flèche était d’un joli jaune.

Dans le train en rentrant cette nuit, j’ai assisté a une virulente discussion entre un fan des Yankees et une fan des Red Sox. La fan des Reds etait une jeune fille d’origine latine, et le fait qu’elle soit certainement la seule fan des Reds dans le wagon ne lui faisait pas peur. Le type des Yankees avait l’air plutôt cool, mais ils se sont quand même bien pris la tête. Puis un autre jeune avec une chemise des Yankees et un gros badge «FUCK BOSTON » s’y est mis aussi. Finalement, tout le monde dans le wagon avait ce petit sourire au lèvre. Et puis un type (Yankee) a l’autre bout du wagon s’y est mis aussi. A un moment, le jeune Yankee qui était assis en face de la fille lui a demande : « Were you at the game?» La fille, se redressant pour faire ressortir les belles lettres rouges sur fond blan de sa chemise des Reds, « Of course, I was there. Yeah, tonight, I went to the game tonight. » Le jeune, ca l’a laisse sans voix. « What ? you walked in the city ? Dressed like that tonight ? You crazy ?! There are 70,000 Yankees fans out there !! And you came like that all the way from the Bronx ?! » Plus tard, le téléphone de la fille a sonné. Elle est passé en main libre pour que tout le monde puisse entendre la conversation. Parlant du match, elle a dit un truc du genre : « What d’you think ? Here they all embarassed because they lost the game, they all crying in the streets ! » Re-petit sourire de tout le monde dans le wagon, tandis que les fans des Yankees regardaient la fille sans y croire. Quand le type au badge est sorti, il l’a plaqué contre la vitre du métro derrière la fille, et les fans des Yankees se sont marrés.

Lorsque le Yankee avec qui tout a commencé est sorti du wagon (en même temps que moi) on entendait encore la fille qui se foutait de la gueule de l’équipe de NY.

Columbia

Tomorrow I will wake up early to go to Columbia's admission offices...
Tomorrow I will wake up early to go to Columbia's admission offices...
Tomorrow I will wake up early to go to Columbia's admission offices...

The Second Law of Thermodynamics

Today, when she saw me the woman said, "You're still working here?" The restaurant is empty again tonight. The Reds are kicking some Yankees' asses. It's cold. Everybody is somewhere else.

I say, "Well, you know. Gotta pay the rent. Not that I love it, but..."

She says, "I told you, don't stay here." I say, "I know." She says, "They are going to shut down the place." I say, I know.

Two days before (three actually, it's late already), I met that woman for the first time while she was drinking her Latte on the terrace. My boss was out of sight. She told me I was a nice person. I grinned stupidly (I'm very good at it, too) and asked her if she wanted more sugar. She said she wanted to tell me a secret. I said, OK, why not? Strangest things happen in this city. I'm good at that too, keeping secret. She said, "You know your boss has a problem, right?" Immediately, I think: "Booze." Because, I've had the occasion to meet enough alcoholics to spot 'em just like that, and on my second night's work I put my boss in the borderline category. So to the woman, I say, instead: "Yes, he has no patrons." Because, borderline or not, he is still my boss and I owe him not to have to eat yellow plantines from the Chinese downstairs to stop the hunger for the night. Plus he makes the best crepes I've eaten in years.

The woman was an artist. Her spoon was creating a nice little beige whirlpool in her white cup. She let her cigarette consume itself for a while, looking at me. Then she looked around before telling me that my boss was a con artist. That I shouldn't stay here. That the police already came here several time.

I didn't feel too well. At the end of the street stood the Empire State Building, its walls almost the same color as the woman's latte. Because the silence has been long, I said that I had mixed feelings regarding the police. She told me that she was warning me because I was nice and she did not want me to have problems.

I said, Thank you. I said, I appreciate. I wondered what it would be like to be up on the observatory of the Empire, right now. I thought that next time I was up there, I would have to try and locate that street. The umbrellas and that terrace that looked so nice just a few minutes ago.

She said, Don't tell anybody I told you that. I promptly agreed."Of course." She stood up and paid for her coffee. While she was looking for a one dollar bill for my tip, I told her to forget it. I told her that she already gave me a tip. She smiled.

So tonight, my boss is off somewhere, maybe having a beer, maybe making some errand. Possibly both. And the woman comes to use our bathroom and she thanks me because the other day I helped her unload her car of tons of bags containing her creations. She says, "So, you still here?" To which I reply that I still have a rent to pay. When she comes out of the bathroom, she says, "You know, your boss is going to receive an eviction notice tomorrow. He hasn't paid his rent for eight months." I tell her that I'm still looking for another job. "I hope he does not owe you any money," she asks. "No," I lie.

After she left I think that the fact that it takes eight months of unpaid rent before you receive an eviction notice is the best piece of news I have heard today.

SeX AnD ViOLeNcE - pArT 2

Wanted to go to Columbia to get some info about PhD admissions and finally fell asleep before the end of the first song of Massive Attack's Mezzanine album. Couldn't sleep till 5 this morning and then had to go to this job interview at noon.

So laundry it will be tonight. Amen. And working tomorrow. This Monday feels more and more like a Sunday.

Ok, the "sex and violence" part before I forget again.

Sex: So we have this party coming at the restaurant the other night. About forty people.

Amongst them, this blonde, vegetarian American girl who thought she must be beautiful since she had everything the magazines told her she should have. Blonde hair, blue eyes, tall, not fat. She believes so much she is the "must" that she can't tell the difference when a waiter is being professional and when someone is picking her up. Twice I ask her if she needs anything, and twice she looks at me saying nothing. Ok, Sugar, but don't expect a fast service when you gonna ask me for something later. Also I had noticed that she paid a lot of attention to my coworker, T. T. is a cute boy. Not magazine perfect, but very cute, with a personality, you know. And he's cool too. And he's also a model. So the girl is all over him while the poor bastard is running everywhere because it's only him, the cook and me against 40 booze-thirsty young people. I thought it was funny to watch her tease him, especially because I know he has a girl and he loves her. So I'm behind the bar, cleaning the counter, and I keep her waiting 2 minutes at the corner of the bar before enquiring how I could possibly help her aside from euthanasia. Once again, she has this "I'm too awesome for you" look and nodding her head towards my buddy she says, "T." I say, "Oh..." and turn around before she can see my bright smile. Later, I hear them talking and I hear him say, "Yes, I DID tell you I have a girlfriend." Later I see the girl leave. I ask T. if she told him goodbye. He asks, "Why, she left?" I tell him that she did and that the way she opened the door and walked out, I knew she ignored him. He was disgusted by her attitude. "We still could have been friend", he said. When he told her he had a girlfriend, she said something like, "So what?"

Poor bitch. Reading this, I realize it must sounds like I'm jealous that she had no interest in me, which is not true. What I told her, I told it to 40 other people, male and female, and they weren't erotomaniac (I'm not sure of the exact French/English translation. Basically, an erotomaniac is someone who is convinced that everybody sexually desire them).

Now the violence part. To those who keep saying that violence is ALWAYS useless, this is an example that there are things that cannot be solved without it.

All the people at that party were in Med school or MBA. So we can safely assume that for the majority of them their IQ number had at least 2 digits. Now, a theorem: All bar counters have one or two ends that can be used as exit by the staff. Counters can have more exits, but it seldom happens.

So for some reason, this guy in a red jacket has decided to block one of these exit for the whole night. And no matter how many dozen times I touched his shoulder and said excuse me, it was like he was discovering the 2-end-counter theorem for the first time in his life. After 30 times, I was kind of piss at this guy. I didn't do it on purpose, I swear it was a true accident. But at one point ran into him and spilled his glass of red wine on his hand and jacket. He was not at the counter end this time, but he was still in a place where he shouldn't have been, blocking the entry to the kitchen, and I arrived full speed and when I saw him because of the bend, it was too late.

After that, this guy, he never was in my way again. And every time he was passing by me, he was saying, excuse me. What a difference, compared to the guy in the middle of the way whose vocabulary seemed to be rich of only one word when he was talking to you: "Refill."

Do I sound like those bitter waiters always complaining about their customers? And I'm not a week old in the industry... but hey, I don't have a waiter pride. It's just that mommy taught me to be polite when addressing people, and for some reason I expected that everybody was taught the same.

sEx aNd ViOleNcE

Well, I thought I'd attract more readers with a title like that. You better read me guys. Don't make me post naked pictures of myself. I'm warning you. It's for your own good.

The title's actually from an old song by The Exploited. Which reminds me for some reason that Leonard Cohen finally pulled his fingers out of his ass and his about to release a new album very soon. I love this guy and I have tons of respect and admiration for his music but also the man, but hey, come on, 2 albums (including the one which will come out soon) in more than 10 years. All I hope now is that, flushed with success, he will realize that maybe it could be fun to go on tour. Even an antisocial prick like Bob Dylan is on tour. Why not you, Lennie? You live. Then you die. I know you are a Buddhist now (could have been worst after the life you lived, you could have turned a die-hard Christian, Muslim, or even a fucking Scientist), but still, what the fuck you been doing in your retreat making tea for your spiritual teacher or something at 4 in the morning? You're an artist. And you're not eternal. And I wanna see you on stage before you kick the bucket, old man -- or before I do. And it's you I want to see. Not your next incarnation.

I'm just back from a job interview. You know you start to get Americanized when getting two jobs to pay the rent seems like a normal thing to do.

Anyway, I'm running outta time now. Been there, done that. The title of this post was not innocent. I wanted to say something totally different before I got carried away by one of my multiple personalities. But I'm so late now that it'll have to wait.

L'Empire au bout de la rue...

Ce soir l’Empire State building trônait au milieu de Manhattan la Grise baignant dans la brume et la lumière violette de ses projecteurs.

Dans le Ici & Maintenant, il y a la reprise d'I Want You (J. Lennon) par Noir Désir qui tourne en boucle – basse envoûtante et arpège de guitare au bord de l’effondrement – tandis que j’apprends le français en regardant PBS. Redécouvrir le français comme langue étrangère.

The train

Aujourd'hui, depuis le train traversant Williamsburg Bridge, le ciel et le fleuve étaient du même gris. La ville aussi était sans couleur. Le ciel et le fleuve avaient aspiré le rouge des briques qui donnent habituellement ses couleurs à la ville. L'Empire State Building semblait terne et vieux.

Yesterday, I was more or less late to go to work. I was one block away from the station when I heard the train. Missing the train would mean arriving late. So I ran. A group of young black men shouted something at me and laughed as I sped past them. Basically, they were expressing in a colorful manner their doubts about my ability to catch that train. Without slowing down, I turned around and waved my book high above my head in what must have made me look like a nuts and shouted back, "Nonsense! Of course I'll get it, just watch how it's done!"

I'm not sure they heard the whole sentence because I leant forward and ran even faster, ignoring the pain that had started about everywhere and repeating to myself all the reasons why there was no way I was going to miss that train. Because I was almost late on my second day's work. Because the are working on the bridge and at this time of the day there can be a train every 30 minutes only. Because if I were to miss it, damn, I'd be losing the admiration of those black kids.

Without missing a beat, I flew up the first starway and swiped my Metrocard. GO. So I did. By then my legs started to feel weak and numb, and if I had had the time, I would have kicked my ass for skipping breakfast. But I had to resume my sprint up the second stairway, and I arrived on the platform just in time to see the train's doors close and the train leave the station. I was exhausted, out of breath (those stairs are really a bitch), starving and my 10-hour workday hadn't even started yet.

Compare with today. Today, I'm not early, but not late either. When I heard the train arrive, I was standing almost at the exact same place as the day before. It was like a fucking rerun. A repetitive gag. Minus the black kids. What did I do this time? Nothing. "Rien à foutre," I said to myself in French because 28 years of thinking in that language is a pretty damn hard habit to kick, "I'm not doing this stunt twice. I'll walk quietly and catch the next train." So I kept walking and soon the station was in sight and I still hadn't heard the train leave. "Forget about it, man. Don't speed up." I climbed the first flight of stairs and the train was still in the station. People were coming out of the turnstile. I swiped my beloved Metrocard. GO. So I did. Started climbing the second stairway, and I admit that, at this point I was tempted to run. Instead I quietly walked up the last steps, got into the train, sat down. The doors closed and the train started.

Quick update

Well, well, well... So now I got this job that takes me 10 hours of my life everyday, including the night, which is my favorite time to get things done. My life now needs a good deal of reorganizing if I want to do the stuff I planned to.

This job does not pay enough at the moment to solve my financial problems, but at least some money is coming IN instead of just leaking OUT.

Et dans le vide immense elle viendra déposer une effluve d’absence sur nos corps écorchés

Haven't written a word here for a while. Lot of shit happened and I didn't want to bore my "gentle reader." Just the best & worst:

FRIDAY: oh, Friday... I spent Friday looking for a job. At the end of the day, I was in downtown West side where I learnt the hard way that the credit card of my French bank account had been cancelled. Hellooo guys, I'm in fucking New York where you are NOT sending me any bank statement or any information, and where I can't get any information with my card. Helloooo guys who made me pay when I tried to get information on MY account from your website! So some fat ass banker let me draw too much money without giving me any warning that I had gone over my limit, not even a fucking email or a phone call to my mother in France. And then, he waited a little more until I reached a given point when he can just cancel the whole card. Of course I need to apply for a new card, of course I have to pay for this "service," and of course it's going to take at least two weeks. Try to make a lazy-ass banker dig that when you're abroad and in a tight situation, your credit card is something that shouldn't be fucked with cause it's the only thing that can truly save your life.

And I have worked 11 months in a bank, so I feel authorized to insult bankers. I know what I'm talking about. I've been amongst them. And ran away.

SATURDAY: Well, Saturday evening I can tell you exactly how long it took me to go from a "You can't bring me down" mood to a "Just shoot me" mood. It took 2 minutes and 19 seconds.

I was downloading music. When you travel and don't have the option to bring along all your CDs, there's a point when you say, OK, let's just start all over again. So band after band you start to recreate the discography you left behind. The essential. The albums you just can't imagine living without. Saturday is when I reached "Les Têtes Raides." That's when I made the mistake of listening what I had downloaded without thinking first. And what was bound to happen happened, the stereo started playing "Oublie cette chanson." And exactly 2 minutes and 19 seconds later, I badly needed a cigarette. Quick. A rush of memories so strong you can feel and smell like it all happened yesterday. I hadn't thought about this girl in such a long time. Suddenly I remembered so many details. Suddenly it was like I was still loving her. Like I had just buried everything deep inside and the song just made it all come back up. Suddenly I still missed her so much and wanted to understand what happened. Why she dumped me without an explanation. 2 minutes and 19 seconds later, I'm shaking and I need a cigarette and I try to understand what just happened. Oublie cette chanson. 2 min. 19 sec. Music can be dangerous.

Later that night, one of my roommate locked himself out of his room. It happened to my other roommate last time, and I had managed to open his door with an old credit card. But this time, we had to pick the lock and I learnt a new skill, even though I'm not sure I should mention it on my resume...

SUNDAY: Sunday night I went to Soho Billiards with Diana and ... well ... ah ... I lost 2 games... Then we went to a bar across the street and we had a couple of drinks and played hangman and I won.

Oublie cette chanson

Voilà cette chanson
Qu’on pourra caresser
Car c’est une chanson
Faite pour s’oublier
Un morceau de carton
Ou de verre élimé
Une chanson qui dit tout
Mais surtout rien du tout.

Car c’est à s’y méprendre
Quand on la voit passer,
Semant ses vers d’ambre,
Ses mélodies glacées
Dites-lui que frémir
Sur le sel d’un baiser
La chanson dira tout
Mais surtout rien du tout
On aura beau presser
Les fruits rouges ou rosés
Elle mentira les siens
La chanson qui dit rien
Portée par le silence
Elle viendra se poser
Là où se balancent
Les étoiles écorchées

La vile chanson
Qui ne dit pas son nom
Qui raconte tout bas
Ce qu’elle ne dira pas

Oublie cette chanson
Qui ne fait que passer
Car c’est une chanson
Faite pour s’oublier

La voilà sans raison
Glisser sur l’oreiller
Belle comme une chanson
Qu’il faudra oublier
En robe de chiffon
Ou d’hiver défroissé
Elle nous dira tout sur tout
Mais surtout rien du tout
Car c’est à s’y méprendre
Quand vient à couler
Sur son aile tendre
Nos désirs désirés
Dites-lui que maudire
Ses notes aiguisées
Ce refrain qui dit tout sur tout
Mais rien du tout

T’auras beau traverser
Les cercles embrasés
Elle ne nous dira rien
Cette chanson a du chien
Et dans le vide immense
Elle viendra déposer
Une effluve d’absence
Sur nos corps écorchés

La vilaine chanson
Qui ne dit pas son nom
Qui raconte tout bas
Ce qu’elle ne dira pas

Oublie cette chanson
Qui n’a fait que passer
Car c’est une chanson
Faite pour s’oublier

(LES TETES RAIDES. Album: Chamboultou. 1998)

I knew it even before I arrived in NYC...

I knew that I would have some difficult days after the end of my internship. But, damn, does it have to be that tough?

Moutons

The other day walking down Broadway somewhere in the 70s with Sarah and she's talking about a friend of hers and she mentions that he is the guy who wrote the screenplay of HEIST and it takes me some time to make the connection because the French title is very different and then all of a sudden I'm in Valence in an almost empty movie theater, David & I laughing at the great lines of this movie.

Right now at 4 in the morning all I can remember is this scene when Gene Hackman and his men are preparing their robbery and the heat stops by to check on what they are doing, so Hackman walks towards the cops and starts talking to them. In the meantime the rest of the gang is watching and the newest guy in the gang expresses to an older member his doubts that Hackman can talk his way out of it:

-- T'es sûr qu'il est cool ton pote?
-- Mec, mon pote il est tellement cool que quand il compte les moutons, c'est les moutons qui s'endorment.

(approx. quote and yeah in French cause that's how I saw it)

Don't you just love it...

...when you wait 30 + minutes for a train and then you jump inside and then 10-15 minutes later you suddenly realize that you took the wrong train?...

Rois et Reine

Aujourd'hui, Sara m'a appelé vers 16h45 pour me proposer de l'accompagner à la séance de Rois et Reine au Lincoln Center pour le New York Film Festival. Le hic c'est qu'il fallait être là-bas à 18h et que j'étais en plein envoi de CVs lorsque j'ai reçu son appel. En fait l'ami qui devait l'accompagner s'est décommandé au dernier moment et donc j'avais l'entrée gratos.

Le film était bien, mais tout de même inégal dans l'ensemble. Il y a quelques personnages complètement déjantés avec des répliques terribles et qui valent à elles seules d'aller voir le film. Malheureusement, pour beaucoup trop de personnages les répliques sonnaient fausses. Trop écrites. Manquant de spontanéité. L'enfant, par exemple, ne parlait pas comme un enfant de dix ans. La syntaxe de ses phrases était irreprochable. Il faisait les inversions sujet-verbe dans ses questions etc.

Mathieu Amalric joue sans fausse note son rôle de violoniste maniac qui écoute du rap à fond et garde toujours chez lui une chaise sous une corde accrochée à une poutre. Autre personnage intéressant celui du père (Maurice Garrel) du personnage principal. Maurice Garrel apporte sa présence remarquable et lâche dans le dernier quart du film un monologue qui non seulement retourne tout ce que l'on croyait savoir de l'histoire, mais qui met également le spectateur mal à l'aise par la violence de ses propos.

Du très bon et du très moins bon, donc.

Par contre, un truc qui m'a fait triper et auquel je ne m'attendais pas du tout, c'est qu'une partie de l'histoire se passe à Grenoble! Certaines scènes ont été filmées pas très loin de mon dernier apart là-bas, d'autres pas très loin de chez des potes ou d'endroits que je connais très bien.

Quand l'actrice principale court dans la gare de Grenoble pour tenter d'attraper son train pour Paris, je m'identifie complètement. Putain, le nombre de trains après lesquels j'ai pu courir dans cette gare, quand je faisais le trajet Grenoble-Valence tous les weekends.

Une année, j'ai même raté le train pour aller faire le réveillon de Noël avec ma famille. Le soir de Noël, je suis resté chez moi à bouffer des pâtes. Comme je m'attendais à aller m'engraisser au réveillon je n'avais pas fait de courses les jours précédents et il n'y avait même plus de Coca dans le frigo. Par contre, tous les étudiants de l'immeuble étaient manifestement parvenus à choper leur train: l'immeuble fut très calme cette nuit-là.

K.

This morning I woke up from a nightmare. In my dream, I am expecting my friend K. to come and visit me in Brooklyn. Except that it doesn't look like Brooklyn at all but rather like Grenoble. She is late. One day. Two. She is late and I have no idea why. I'm nervous and worried. One day I notice something in an alley and it's K.'s body. Someone killed her just a few feet away from my door.

Her body looks like bodies do in old movies. She looks beautiful. She looks asleep.

I hold her in my arms. This is a dream. I know it is just a dream. She's not really dead. This is just a dream. Or is it? Another friend, Violaine arrives and immediately understands the situation. She tells me to go home. She tells me to call the police. She says, It's not a dream.

Later I'm in London in an English red bus, on the tracks of K.'s killer.

End of the dream -- of what I remember. Unpleasant wakening.

I like having nightmares. But I don't like nightmares of this kind. So that evening, feeling stupid, I sent an email to K. telling her about my dream. A few minutes later her reply arrives from Eastern Europe. She says she's fine. She says it's strange that I had that dream because she just had a dream in which she was dying too. She was stuck in a sinking submarine with no hope of seeing the sun again. She was in the submarine preparing her death. Talking herself into accepting it.

She says it's unusual for her to have this kind of dream. Her dream, she says she thought about it all day.

The roof

A couple of days ago, I found out that there was a roof access on my building. The last ladder that brings you to the roof.

I love to explore roofs. Always have. In France, I spent a lot of summer nights lying up there, watching the sky. And the shooting stars in August.

When I was a kid, every time my parents brought me with them to visit friends or family, I was always on the lookout for an easy way to get on their roof. Everything looks different up there. And even if what you see when you're up there (I mean the gravel on the roof, or the tar, or the tiles, the antennas or the chimney) is nothing new to mankind, it's an unusual place for someone to be. I have the same feeling every time I climb up to the Empire State Building observatory. While queuing to enter the last elevator for the last ride up, you're in a large open room with many windows. Some of them are open. I know the view. I like to go there often. What I like most is that those windows let you see all the little details of the building. Little things that you cannot see from the ground or from the observatory. Little details, really, because, anyway, that's the building's style. But I like that. One time I stretched out my arm out the window to touch one of the tile. You wonder when was the last time a human hand touched it. You wonder what the guy who installed it was thinking about while doing his job. What his life was.

The same feeling you have when you work on an old house. You tear down a wall and something that must have been hidden for dozen of years appears. Letters. Carving. Whatever.

Two years ago, I participated in the building of a house. I hid a few signs here & there. Something carved on a beam. Drawn in the cement before it hardens. Always I would leave a date. Sometimes I would add something else. Sometimes being voluntarily cryptic.

So the other day, the sky was clear of clouds. I climbed up there with the camera. The last ladder has no protection. You're five stories high and if you fall, there's nothing to stop you but the narrow last fire escape platform below. The view is alright up there. Even in the distance, the Empire still looks big. You can see some of the steeples of Brooklyn churches and the massive figures of projects standing out against the cold blue sky.

H'm

No, nothing...

Bout du monde

The way things used to be, it would take a long time for a letter to reach its recipient at the other end of the world. It was a couple of centuries ago. Make it three. I remember.

I remember that when you were, say, in the newborn Colonies of the Americas and you wanted to send a letter to the already doomed Europe, it could take months. Years even.

The ship carrying your precious letter begging for money to return to Europe and civilization, the letter begging the King to send you military support before you end up in the stomach of a pagan savage, the letter to the Archbishop asking for more Bibles to convert savages and explain them why good Christian meat is not edible; well that that ship reached her final destination depended on the mood of the Ocean, on the pirates she would certainly run into, on the skills of the men on her deck, on the weather...

By the time your letter reached your correspondent 6 months have elapsed. That is, if your lucky. One year, more likely.

You had to choose your words carefully back then. No way you'd write like you write an SMS now. No way you want to receive a reply to your letter of life and death two years later with the other guy just asking you: "What? Can't make any sense of your letter. Please rephrase." Not when you can already smell the savages' human-size pot already filled with carrot and other stuff for a nice "pot-au-feu."

Sometimes, your letter would find your correspondent dead. Or the King would have changed his mind and decided that your mission wasn't worth a rat's ass anymore and hey... even butt-naked savages need to eat.

A saint or a psycho

Yesterday Diana & I had a long walk. A counterclockwise tour of the city from the Public Library on 42nd to some bar in East Village, via Times Square, W 14th st, Union Square, and finally St. Marks. Not touring. Hunting for a bar.

You wouldn't believe how tricky it can be to find a good bar with a good pool table and without already 20 people waiting their turn to play. Finalement, trouver un bar avec un billard s'est révélé inutile car nous avons successivement commencé à enquiller des Coronas, rater notre tour, éponger d'autres Coronas tout en decidant que la Grand Tournoi Diana vs. mézigue était reporté à une date ultèrieure encore non specifiée.

Later, on the way back home and while I was duly reminding myself that

1) the shortest way between two points in a 4 dimensions universe is always the straight line.

2) Zigzagging in public that early in the evening is bad for your public image.

when I met this black guy, George.

When you come out of the N, R, train at Canal Street and you want to transfer to the J train, you have to walk from one end of the Q train platform to the other. As I was quietly zigzagging behind him, I saw him tell everybody on the platform that they shouldn't waste their time. That there was no train on this platform today. Which was true. But taking the time to warn everybody on the platform?! By NY standard, this guy was a psycho or a saint. Either way, no way I'm letting him disappear somewhere without talking to him first.

So we did. Turns out he's an actor and also a very easy going, articulate guy (the former being his profession, the other two just a hobby). Turns out he was curious about the book I was reading. Turns out he categorically denies running for Best New Yorker of the Month. Turns out we had a good conversation about NY architecture and history while the train was lazily carting us about across the bridge. Turns out I might even still have his email address somewhere around to send him some more info on something I'm not sure to remember... something about a newspaper, I think...

Muses sponsored by Corona ain't good muses.

It never rains...

The woman from the agency, a couple of days ago she calls me back. She says, "Please do not contact the French publishers yet." She says, "Put everything on hold." In her brief message she says that she'll contact me again soon. That she's negociating with her boss for me, but that they might actually hire me for the translation part of the project only. No more research. Which I should say kinda sucks beyond limits because it cuts off the longest part of my work in the first place. And also because even if a research on graphic novels is not gonna require a lot of aspirin, that's still research. The Frontier. Whatever that means.

It's now official, I'm a the legitimate owner of a Brooklyn Public Library card!!! The branch is located a couple of blocks away from my place and is basically all magazines and cheap thrillers and romances. But you can reserve a book from other branches and that sounds terribly good.

3 plombes du mat. It's either I'm working on my roommate's paper due for Tuesday. Or... well, updating this blog. Earlier tonight there was a "pure" photo to be shot just under my window, with a fireman guiding a long fire truck backing up out of a narrow one way street. But by the time I talked the camera into stopping hiding for St. Paul's sake (why always the Christ, hum? poor guy must be overbooked so give him a break) it was too late and the perfect picture was gone.

The shit you can put up with just not to do someone else's paper. Once again it's on a short story. And once again it's a "black" short story. At the Dekalb branch, they call those books: BLACK INTEREST.

Whatever that means...

The short stories in my roommate's school book, they are not bad. I just don't get the reason why black/Hispanic people should only be taught about 19th century slavery for their History class, and read average short stories (but written by/for black/Hispanic people)? There's a kind of obvious benevolence in this which in my opinion hides something else.

At the Dekalb Public Library branch, you have looooots of BLACK INTEREST. Cheap stuff about strong black female characters raising their kids. But you don't have Booker T. Washington's biography. You don't see Du Bois, on the shelves. No need to look for H. D. Thoreau's book on Civil Disobedience. Yeah, well, Thoreau was not black... It's been a long day and I'm not sure about the point I wanted to make. Except that I was upset to see these little tags "Black Interest." How many Black fiction writers can an average student in literature name?

Maybe what upset me so much is the community innuendo. As if Black people couldn't have any interest in literature (or culture in general) other than when it deals with their culture. And preferably their past culture or romance. Always the same old shit about keeping races separated. Now we can teach the history of slavery to Black people. It's harmless. The same reason you'll never be alive when they'll release documents regarding J.F.K's death.

"They"? "J.F.K"? pssss.... I should stop writing my blog like I'm writing down notes...

Brooklyn la nuit

Tonight, I wanted to see what Williamsburg looked like on a Saturday night. It was that or doing the laundry, so . . . I hit the street faster than it takes to say "detergent."

I took the J train to Marcy, got out and walked to the river under the Williamsburg Bridge, spotted a dive bar with a pool for future reference and turned right to head north.

NOIR DÉSIR dans le lecteur CD. Une compilation personnelle. La voix torturée de Bertrand Cantat, les guitares brouillonnes, l'ambiance lourde: tout s'accorde parfaitement au décor de Brooklyn le long de l'East River. Les lofts desertés aux murs graphés. Lumières oranges. Routes defoncées. Rideaux de fer.

Took a picture of an oooold American car. Probably from the early 1950s. That's about all I can say. My knowledge of American cars has huge gaps. It sucks: I'm using my last roll of film. Black & white. I don't know when's gonna be the next time I can buy new films. Should've bought a digital camera while I could. Shoulda, coulda. Anyway, I shot the pic without using the flash. Had to stand perfectly still for 3 seconds. Low angle shot. I can't wait to see the result. Except of course that I already have 4 films in front of me that will have to wait till . . . till I don't know what. Till I can have them developed.

So in the meantime I'm like that girl in SKY CAPTAIN & THE WORLD OF TOMORROW -- asking myself every time I see something I want to shoot: is it worth it? will it make a good pic? It's already bad enough to have your only camera loaded with black & white film when you're in those narrow dimly light streets. Tout ce jaune et cet orange qui n'attendent que d'exploser sur pellicule et apporter leur touche d'irréel.

.......
Feel like I'm only bitching about money here. I don't care about money. Usually. But there's a point below which, whatever your views on the monetary and economic systems are, you just have to think about it. The lower you are, the more you have to worry about it. And you do. No doubt about that.

So yeah, I shoulda bought a digit. cam. when I could. I would have been able to shoot as many photos as I want now, instead of having to wait months before I can buy new rolls, have the old ones developed and find out whether I screwed them up.

So, how is Williamsburg on a Saturday night? Not too bad actually. Some weird things though. Like, basically, you can judge a neighborhood by it's liquor stores. Liquor stores in Williamsburg, they don't have bullet proof windows between the customers and the clerk. And also, the streets are full of white people. And also I think I've seen too many vegan/bio/health food stores in a single neighborhood... A whole new world only 5 minutes away by train from my home. A perfect negative of my own neighborhood. I prefer mine, though.

On the way back, I put on Serge Gainsbourg. L'HISTOIRE DE MELODY NELSON, suivi de L'HOMME A TÊTE DE CHOU, qui comptent facilement parmi les meilleurs albums de l'histoire de la chanson française.

nutella

Et le deuxième jour, Dieu créa le nutella.
Et il vit que cela était bon.
Amen.

Premières lignes...

The idea is to connect.

That's why they are so many titles and names and words in my profile. Because from them I can jump again and again from one diary to another, one universe to the next.

You can disappear like that. Drown your identity. Your you. Forget.

The most exciting is the unexpected.

L'idée c'est de trouver un taf. Ou deux. L'idée c'est de finir ce bouquin sur Reich et attaquer Foucault comme un enculé. Et y piger quelque chose suffisamment longtemps pour en triturer une idée qui plus tard pourra peut-être me permettre de me pointer devant le jury d'admission de Columbia et dire: "J'ai une idée, les gars!"

Ca fait deux semaines que T. est partie maintenant. Ne suis pas très sûr de savoir si je me sens triste ou soulagé. Sûrement, j'ai des questions plus urgentes à rêgler. La tune. La bouffe. Le loyer. Toutes plus ou moins liées entre elles.

Qu'elle merde d'écrire en francais. Putains d'accents. Il doit sûrement y avoir un moyen pour ne pas avoir à devoir aller à chaque fois les copier/coller depuis Word. "Tu m'as pourri mon groove!"

It took her 2 weeks to send a sign of life. "I have crossed half of the world and survived." It's important, wherever you come from. "Arrived well."

Not receiving such universal a sign, it can't be good.

You can say, "Had a safe trip." See also: "Had a terrible trip." Arrived well is implied then. Because sure enough, there are still very few hospital rooms in the world with an access to the internet.

I am a man of the 21st century. I believe women have brains. Some of them. Even though I'm afraid to say I haven't meet any for what is a long time now. Which may explain why I feel... well... like that. Meeting a smart, cultivated and literate girl, it's like you're in a library and you pick up a book because the title sounds good and you read the first page as you always do and it looks good and even though you've never heard about this author before, you have this great feeling that the world is a little bit bigger than you thought. That there is a new frontier.

That there is still room for something new.

A way out.

See also ASK THE DUST, by John Fante.

See also LES RACINES DU MAL, par Maurice G. Dantec.

See also LISTEN, LITTLE MAN, by Wilhelm Reich.

See also NAKED LUNCH, by William S. Burroughs.

See also FEAR AND LAUGHING IN LAS VEGAS, by Hunter S. Thompson. Long long before Johnny Depp gave the character a face. Long long before the Internet and the tons of info you can get in a couple of clicks on the most obscure writer you can run into.

That the book was written 70 or 2 years ago is irrelevent.

Bear in mind that the idea is to connect. Time is irrelevent.

It's not that I have not met some smart girls lately. There was just something missing. The little thing that makes all the difference between a good book and ASK THE DUST.

You can call it genius.