La parole des vrais amis est comme de l'air frais à quelqu'un qui a mal à respirer. Parole, poésie: la santé... Est-ce qu'il y a vraiment des corps si robustes qu'ils n'ont pas besoin de l'un pour pouvoir profiter de l'autre?

(from a letter to a friend)

Two sources of writing: the urgent response to an experience (which, regardless of its apparent nature, is an experience of beauty); or the patience of the pen moving across the page, waiting for something, a shard of beauty, to appear. The plentiful source and the arid source. Both equally invaluable.

On attend. Il devrait arriver quelque chose qui résoudrait l'attente, lui donnerait un sens et annulerait le mur, ou au moins découvrirait qu'il n'est pas insurmontable. Un événement, un accident, quelque chose, on se contenterait de peu, sans que l'on puisse deviner ce que cela pourrait être. On écrit donc en attendant mieux, sans savoir ce qui viendra, pour être là quand cela se produira, pour occuper l'attente et rester en éveil. Si on cessait d'écrire, on est sûr que cela n'arriverait pas. On ne voit pas comment, mais on s'accroche à l'espoir que l'événement surviendra aussi puissamment que le mur, un jour, s'est élevé, devant. Il faudrait que cette paroi disparaisse comme elle est venue. Alors, on se souviendra surtout du mur comme d'un temps mort. On respirera à nouveau. On respire déjà mieux de peut-être, un jour, respirer davantage et se trouver dans un espace délié. On respire déjà mieux d'écrire que quelque chose déliera. On écrit qu'on respire déjà mieux, mais ce n'est pas ce qui doit venir. En attendant, on écrit pour respirer un peu.

~ Antoine Emaz, Poème du mur

il y a des êtres incapables de sortir d'eux-mêmes: même pour aimer. ainsi, ils attendent en vain que quelque chose leur arrive, vienne du dehors, qui percerait une issue.

un jour de pluie, le miracle passe inaperçu.

chemin étroit,
au bord des larmes,
n'aura
jamais
aucun raccourci

Guillotine makes a good headline.

NO COMMENT

a thieving dream

I was a thief's "girlfriend"--an "honorable thief's"--and was bound to him by respect and a high code of loyalty. Vague scenes of hotel lobbies or shopping mall window displays, with models (not sure whether live women or mannequins [interchangeable in Fr]). The "thief" had no physical presence in the dream. Suddenly, however, I became aware that the police were after him. A state of crisis. Yet I knew exactly what I had to do. I got into a car, a large 1970s vehicle, and told the driver to go as fast as he could. The driver didn't think this was the best idea: we could be stopped by the police, if only for a traffic violation. But he did what he was told. Indeed, a clumsy police van was tailing us: it resembled a boxy old-style ambulance. As we neared a large bank, which for some reason I considered as the least likely, and hence the safest place for a fugitive to hide, I told the driver to rapidly pull over and park. The police passed us in their pursuit. I needed to make a quick money withdrawal and give it to the thief, along with another important item: his leather jacket which I had been holding all that time. A successful escape was guaranteed.

*

I am not too fond of dream interpretation because, most often, I think that the visual qualities trump any psychological interpretation. This dream, however, is banal enough to sustain some analysis. It seems to offer some comfort amidst the uncertainties of daily life; to counter a sense of things being up in the air, undecided, undecidable, by presenting a simple story with a problem and a rational, swiftly implemented solution. The fact that the quick-minded action is in the service of another has nothing unusual about it: it is when faced with other people's problems that one is able to think most rationally and be most effective. The two props--the warm leather jacket and money--pertain perhaps to my own situation: the basic worries of food & shelter. The need to escape--escape the confinement, institutions (banks, police, ambulance)...--is perhaps also mine. And if we are indeed all the characters in our dreams, what kind of a thief am I?