February 2011

Tiny

A tiny tooth that moves, the first for my Azur waiting for this day since trèèèèèès long, and with great patience ... (With too regularly, formal examination of all its small teeth one by one. Patiently and quite calmly, he tries to move his index finger. Sunday night, a miracle! There's one that a hint of a movement ...) So I thought to photograph her smiling teeth. Yes, I know it's very very stupid but I feel like crying when I think of the big teeth that will grow in that little mouth ....

July 2010, under the sun

Fortunately, his little brother still has teeth properly hooked ;-)

And when he comes into my bed in the middle of the night, he knows very well explain it because it is small, and he can not sleep alone not no no. Sometimes it bothers me to be woken at 3 or 4 hours, and then the next second, when I see him cower, smiling softly drag me "Mommy loves you" and hear her little quickly regular breathing and serene ... I say to the principles of education, we can forget about that and anyway, we never saw a big 12 year old boy sleeping in bed with his parents! (Well. .. I hope!)

June 2010, on the bus to Marie

Toddlers also delicious Arrietty, his Mom and Dad coward brave. Opinions are unanimous about this little world of pilfering, which makes you look a sugar cube in a different light ;-)

The children loved me, too. I especially liked the pace of this cartoon, the pace, slow but not boring ... The fineness of all those little details ...
And the need to refer to love, to develop the "little people", literally and figuratively. The simplicity, humility, willingness to remain free even if it means giving up a pretty well-decorated house ...

If your godmother mows your godfather, who cares for your uncle.

What she became I do not know, I do not think I have indeed anything to fuck today. This is not someone who misses me, this is not someone for whom I am concerned. It is not even twice my keys, so, she would be the point?

I loved him very much. She was my idol, my idol "head."

I liked his moods, moods that she changed several times during the day and this, logically, always unpredictable. A simple breeze could take it away on Monday and Tuesday to make it sour. On Wednesday, when it started to blow and we all wondered how she was going to live, she does it simply made no account, she was busy all marvel at the small details of life like that. Life she cursed in its entirety an hour before.
Nothing was fixed, it was the haphazard and we went to lunch with her. I called "Pilouface, all attached and just briefly, but I was 10 at the time, so it goes, it's happening is not dramatic.
When I gave him this pet name in his presence, always, every time, never missed it, she got up she was often seated because of what I'll explain later-and smirked before hooting Charby on Coryne. It looked sometimes right, sometimes opposite, making overly twirling her hair, like his singers of the 90s who was asked to play face to face with 3 cameras over a two-minute song 50, a choreography in two balls and quarter and lyrics in sales.

If at the end of the service, she caught a look any less disapproving, she retorted even before resuming his short breath "hey ho, the songs of shit done to it, otherwise, let them hang high and short, all!".
She taught me the phrase "we hang them high and short," I used it to lag larigot, another phrase she had learned that, "larigot to lag." I never ceased to cram what I imagined to be smart or intellectually, anyhow, anytime.
At school, when I tried to grill the tail of the canteen and the pawn grabbing me by the collar and m'admonestant gently placing me to my original position, ie at the end, I said "maisheu, yesterday I got my stolen placeheu, so today is derived larigot!" convinced of my argument all as far as my small effect. Good.

I loved her moods, so. His mood only, not the fact that she has, not her either when she had only her moods, such as whole entities.

I liked his troubles too. They were as dramatic in books. Everyone would die around her. Everyone. So much so that some live began to dig a ditch, postpone the appointment or go unlisted. A fuck off, whatever. "Damn superstitious," she said.
His son died of overdose should say. After that, his banker and his cousin and his cat and his childhood friend die, say, the same day and why not, all murdered by the same person, moreover, would have been a one-legged fan of Wagner, it would have done no more effect than a Wagner opera precisely. Nothing really touched. This
unconditional Walkirye even gave her tickets to anyone lodges Garnier. Seriously, I saw firsthand view tender its notes unknown to tourists, like that in the street, boulevard des Italiens.
In fact, everything touched yet, but precisely the same place where it was already dug, where there was this dirt, this sadness not even human and it never bothered to explain for the simple reason that she knew we would never have understood. Then ran over her disappearance and her well watered misfortune, as it simply.
More than his misfortunes, I liked his misfortune with his way of doing things, his way of doing without, the way it is as if, manners, as she liked living death. I liked the mood it caused him.

I was 10, I was right in Madame Bovary, then, eh, okay, it's happening is not dramatic.

I loved the place it took.
round was a woman.
Often in the French language, and is one of the reasons I love him so much, one word, a single adverb, has several meanings. Here we focus on the adjective "round".
was a woman with over-weight and drunk most of the time, basically. Two images
in the same woman. It was really
Maousse without laughing, the boys delighted that my school days at that time should have put it to 10 for the meet after she missed the start of a song due to end bottle too.
was a phenomenon.
was my godmother.

I loved her thin voice and oddly out of tune with the prominence of his lungs, the powder applied gently and she had to warn me against the cold, the men and myself when I leaving.

I loved her smell. She could feel the bass. That's what I thought and I was 10, so it goes, it goes, you know the song. The big super clean, big flirt, soap powder and chic Marie Antoinette. I liked his play.

She was my idol "head." I loved the inside of her. How she thought, feared, bounced. I loved the show making jokes and laughing at one another and bounce again. It's a damn good thing she did, that the rebound. Nothing ever really let her down. Nothing could permit that lets us see how she crawled after millimeters of happiness and forgetfulness. His head, how it was ruined, roads that the thoughts and roamed the area of his cortex, I was a fan. My idol "of the head," I tell you.

But I liked not his body.

What had become, what he meant, how it had really care passionately.

One day her husband had wanted to show me pictures of their son. There's always a parent crack and puke all, and so only do it on a brat like me has not asked for anything. I looked at the picture without taking it in my hands like this, over one shoulder. Ok, the son was fine, okay, they seemed happy so far, nothing too surprising. I mean, it's good, I personally knew Santa Claus and I had already seen American movies and even It's a wondeful Life, hey ho.

But she, damn. At the time of her son, she was not just a mother, she was also the wife of a renowned art dealer husband and the wife just as bright and exuberant, and beautiful, beautiful breathtaking. Oh no, sorry, it's not the retail domain. And there's no "she lost her son, she may well take 40 pounds and having nothing to fuck." Exactly, no. She was a woman, whether she likes it or not, emerged a mess unbearable for his family. Mess that had been reinforced by its sepia photos at the con on a beach, north beach, every time. It was not showing me how she could be beautiful by being happy because I could not help thinking that his ugliness today was proportional to its sorrow. Person does someone love sad person.

I liked not this body who was selling a sloppiness even bon vivant, a lax suicidal cons that I could do nothing, nothing. I did not like his fucking body and sometimes when she sat beside me, I do not hide the discomfort caused his ton when she made her dig the mass of the sofa to her and her beads. Coincidentally, she said nothing before my facial expression of disgust. And it was not the type to say anything. As luck. It made me even more Maboule she closed her fucking huge mouth. Damn.

Because it was my godmother, it meant, on paper, it was potentially responsible for me if my real mother's womb were to die like a common man. Not because I tried it in the dictionary, one day I asked myself if it was not a mere synonym for "farcical". I was 10, how many times will it be that I repeat. It was not dramatic.

GODMOTHER nf (from the Latin mater, mother) Woman who has a child at baptism or confirmation and vouch for his fidelity to the Church.
Here!
Obviously, his loyalty the church was to believe only in "drink, this is my blood" and then, anyway, I had not been baptized or confirmed or god knows what. Still, it says "from the Latin mater, mother."
I preferred to die with mine as I find it with a responsible adult at home, I found it simply impossible to imagine paying bills on time and tuck me not vomit on me. I wondered if my mother had not caught, who consider themselves immortal, since it was certain Nor wanted to be relayed by someone who always forgot my birthday. And his. And all the others.

And her name was Jacqueline. Admit that it is a lot of defects for one woman, all that. For I know not what obscure reason, everyone called him Jacques. It turns out that her husband was also called Jacques. But, illogically, and without any respect to the symmetry, Jacqueline nobody called him. So when they cried "Jacques!" The 2 is returned.
Except that, generally, not just shouting the name, it launched "Jacques, you can not drink any wine? "or" Jacques, why have you parked the car in the middle of fields? Finally! "Or" Jacques, your husband is ashamed of you, then you know he is hiding. "Which means he knew the real Jacques, the man of the couple, that was not addressed to him. And nobody really addressed to him, never completely, I mean. Whenever someone spoke to him, was slowly and without publicly question, ear, telling him how his wife was all possible adjectives. Nobody listened. Nobody ever listened. It is even possible that this man has never finished one of the few sentences he had begun.

We often went to dinner Drugstore Champs Elysees, we knew everyone, we were greeted like gentlemen. And one night when the maternal godmother decided to linger longer than necessary at the bar, with artists she exhibited, I dared asked him who was not my godfather "Hey, Jack - suddenly, it was called like that, Jack-you take care of me if your wife die? "
It did not really dampen the meeting, really. My mother sent me one of those looks that she has a secret which you never know if, in percentage terms, takes over the stigma of complicity. Jacques's best friend had found my question frankly mature for my age, 10 years old, you know. And Jack's best friend seemed to enjoy hearing from the mouth of the brat that she had never dared to make this old bitch.
He did not respond, it's like that dinner, we go to something else and then move on and then we should move on and then nobody remembers anything and conversations are three dots. Still at the bookstore where I loved Drugstore loitering, Jacqueline showed up, as if by magic. I was flipping through a book, something with images, I had the right is not dramatic, I was young, and she put her hand on my shoulder. It was clear heat almost inhuman, something sultry, something crazy.
I had turned as dry, disturbed to find myself face to face with a monster thermonuclear, and she leaned toward me like that, just like you can imagine, like that.
I thought she was going to tell me something, maybe give me hell for my questions underhanded earlier, but no.
She had merely to look, put me smell incredible bass dusted in the nostrils, and his eyes met mine, and said nothing. I was not very secure messages like, at my age, but I would have sworn it was a promise. A silent moment that says a lot, what, if you want.

At the checkout, she had followed me, still without mufti, and when I presented the postcards of Marilyn I wanted to buy and the cashier, the cashier horrible, noted that despite my many parts 1 and 2 francs, I did not have to pay, I had returned to her. It was the first time I was counting on it. No shit, Marilyn was kind of important to me.
I was ten.
And, having just crossed my eyes, a look of a child, after all, who thought to be independent but is in need and hopes to 3 rooms, she was gone. Party. Even that, she had not wanted to give it to me.

She was the woman I would not like if I had not put in the legs and if you had not said it would be one that should take care of me like the flesh of his heart if I were to die spawning.
Without that, we would have never looked at the corner of her mouth and me. It was something of a snob and obsequious that disgusted me when I went to visit him in the gallery. She was too. She had more love. She was already dead. Somewhere, I wanted her die, I thought it was strange that a ghost take much space, I understand it, really, for real, I did not understand that listen when she was speaking about emotional issues, so we all knew it was all dry. I saw no reason to listen to an old crust of stale bread on the fluidity of expression and feelings of love shipwrecks. It was his recollection that spoke. I typed his memories. I was ten, damn, I must tell you in what language. I was ten years old and I wanted a living being, with the future ahead, right now, for good.

It never came. I could image the matter romanticizing the years that followed and by lending a disinterest Total food, beverage, human relations, in short, anything that makes someone human to tell it eventually stunted and sickly in a maid's room, but it would have been too easy and with hindsight I have today, too scripted. No. She continued to guzzle, getting drunk and, in all the most beautiful places in Paris with the most brilliant Parisian. But I wanted a living being. So I decided to cut ties. I knew it would make it a bit hot and cold and just after, just nothing. I murder anyone. His tomb was already open, shit. I was 10. I was hateful and true. It's good, it passes. It's not a drama.

Today, I give my spare key to anyone other than itself. It should perhaps take a train for it but it gives me the train would offer me the hospitality for the night and all without asking any questions, ever. Whether through lack of interest or modesty, I do not worry too much, in live conditions. I just owe him would be the one who answers the phone at any time of day and night. And the small morning, with much indolence in the evening.

If it is, finally, I liked him a lot, that fat lazy pig of happiness. And then they offered me a max, postcards of Marilyn since. If it is, well, I understand that she is gone but left before deciding to surround himself with people who understand, who would understand. Not like me. I could understand. I should have, surely. I realize now, 28 years. And if I had told him that, I know she would say "it's not dramatic" between mouthfuls. And it would have added, after a sip of wine, "like everyone else."

I hope she was wrong.

-maispastrop-

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