We Are Bears

We are bears.
Striking broken cauldrons,
Firing sounds up to the stars,
To watch them dance in the infinity.

We are bears.
Trying to forget,
Along the spectacle,
That we’ll die without a name.

We are bears,
Grumpy and clumsy,
Hungry for creation.
Thirsty for destruction, we scream!
We bleed, and make bleed.

Then we sit in a circle
And with a quiescent smile,
We look at the moving pictures: Pretty white teeth, sharp.

Pretty brown eyes.
Soft, coarse fur.
Together, we learn.

My nocturnal monster,
In blue pajama pants,
Running like a child,

Your scars will turn into butterflies,
And beat their wings to the tune of your imagination.

I graduated!

Je viens de recevoir mes notes de ce semestre: A, A, A et A; de quoi casser la baraque au poker. J'ai enfin terminé mon MBA, et avec lui, l'école en général. Si on m'avait dit plus tôt que j'allais faire un bac+8, j'aurais choisi d'être chirurgien, ou architecte. Ou strip-tiseuse.

Ouf! c'est fini.

Bonne année 2010!

A Glimpse of the Moon

The screen framed a moon landscape, beautiful and gray, where a little wooden dwelling stood like an anomaly. The astronaut had finally received green light to approach the construction, and was trekking, laboriously, through the depressed gravity. He was breathing his words heavily inside the helmet. “This is not the work of the NASA."

His life system was gargling.

"It looks like a slump."

Ezra had turned the TV over to follow the developments of the mission and was watching the broadcast from the living room TV, mesmerized by the unexpected turn things took.

The gloved hand stretched to knock at the door—a silent knock—then waited.

He pushed the door open.

Inside the cabin, there was light. The camera slowly scanned the room. It revealed all sorts of objects: a heap of sheets and cloth, similar to a camp bed; a desk, pencils, a bookshelf….

“These are human objects,” said the voice inside the helmet. And, zooming on a particular book lying on the floor: “It's a copy of The Odyssey. It is in English."

The camera shifted to explore the ceiling and structure of the place. The little house reminded Ezra of the cabin his father had built in the communal backyard, back in Boston when he was a child. Him and Gaël used to play there in the summer, until a hobo decided to make it its home, scaring the kids away.

There was a clicking sound and the camera operated a complete turn towards the entrance. A young man was standing in the doorway with a female companion behind him. The man was about 6 feet tall, with short dark hair and big brown eyes. Homo sapiens sapiens. He was wearing black jeans and a white shirt, and looked at the camera with defiance.
"What's going on here?" he said. And, without waiting for an answer, he commanded that the astronaut turn off the camera.

The screen went black.

"What a fucking joke!" cried said Ezra, throwing the remote control at the screen.

And he called Gaël.

La dernière ligne droite

Enfin, enfin, le dernier semestre d'études de ma vie. Non je ne veux pas de doctorat, pas de Ph.D. Je n'ai plus rien à me prouver, je veux vivre maintenant. Vivre!

Dernier semestre donc, 4 cours à compléter:

- intermediate accounting,

- financial markets & risk management,

- organization design and change,

- strategic management.

En parallèle de quoi je suis à la recherche d'un stage à San Francisco, en finance ou marketing (peu importe), mais avec une composante artistique. Il me faut de l'art. De l'art ou je suffoque!

Kant is dead, au MOMA

Quote of the day

The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes 'Awww!'

Jack Kerouac

Le Garçon Huître

J’ai aimé un garçon qui était comme une huître.
Il ne parlait pas, mais il fumait beaucoup.
Et il écoutait de la musique.
Je lui ai dit, « Édouard, tu es une huître austère,
Tes contours sont tranchants et l’on s’y blesse, toutes.
Car on s'est mises en tête qu’il y a une perle à l’intérieur. »
Il a souri avec ses cils de chameau.

Un jour, j’ai réussi à induire l’ouverture de l’huître.
Juste comme ça, en tournant le dos.
Et j’ai vu son secret.
Il n’y avait pas de perle à l’intérieur ; c’était vide.
Alors j’ai fait une jolie génuflexion,
Et assez poliment, j'ai dit à Édouard:
« Au revoir ».

Fran

He was playing guitar on the couch when June introduced us. I could distinguish Paul’s features on his oval face. How did I not know that Paul had son?
Fran was bent over his guitar, tuning it. He was a reserved young man. He had short thin hair of the darkest sort, and dark fugitive eyes. His expression was this of a child, and yet there was something very noble about him. Possibly his aquiline nose.
Paul was lying on the damask divan across the room. He pushed his guitar aside and said: “you two are very close in age,” so I asked Fran how old he was. He replied with a soft masculine voice, without looking at me, without taking his eyes off the strings of his instrument. “I am 25”. “I am 24,” I said.
I sat on the carpet next to the couch for a moment. I would have liked to stay there with them. Listen to the father and son play guitar together. An intimate musical dialogue.
But I left. I felt like an intruder.
And as I left, I heard a voice rise and carry a soulful tune.

I woke up later that night and went to the kitchen to get some water. There was a dim changing glow in the hallway to the living room, where Fran was staying. He was watching TV. I could hear the indistinct murmur. I filled my glass with water and listened for a while. Should I go with him? I tried to think of a way to engage a genuine conversation, but could a midnight conversation ever be genuine? Colorful fantasies uprose in mind.
When I came out of the kitchen, red-faced and decided to talk to him, the living room was pitch dark.

Fran left in the morning. The sound of the gate woke me up. June told me: “Fran doesn’t talk much. He is schizophrenic.” I marked a pause; my thoughts were still clouded with sleep. Then the clouds dispersed and I felt my heart race. Schizophrenia...

“Does he visit here often?” I asked. She shook her long curls.

“He makes me uncomfortable, she added, I never know what to tell him.”

Oh...
As much as I wanted to, I didn't find the words either.