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Showing posts from January, 2006


When she told me her doctor was putting her in palliative care at Notre-Dame, I knew it was over. She acted like it was a temporary thing, just to get some strenght back. I never asked her if she really believed that. I could hardly deal with it myself. All it meant, all I heard was "I'm going to the 5th floor, to die". Because that's all it meant really. I had been looking at the cancer killing her for six years. Looking at death making it's way, drying her skin, rotting her teeth, pulling her hair, eating her flesh, taking away her l
ife so slowly I almost wanted to help her go sometimes. For some years she did good, but the last 9 months were a complete waste of life. For everyone. I mean, how many times can you say goodbye, how many times can you prepare for death, how many times can you go over the paperwork to make sure everything is in order? Six years is a long time. Nine months is an eternity.

Before she was sent to the fifth floor, she was at the long term care unit, with the crazies, homeless, kinless, lifeless. People strapped to their chairs, sitting in their shit all day. People screaming all night, not able to get sleep. We couldn't have her at home, not with two small children. For us, but mostly for her. I could see she was going. She needed medical care everyday. So that day, when I came to see her, and she told me she was moving up, she seemed almost happy, relieved.

She sat in a wheelchair and a nurse brought us to the fifth floor. Exit the shit smell and the screams. The elevator door opens to carpeted floors and classical music coming out of nowhere, paintings hanging on the walls. A volunteer greeted us and took us to her room. Private, huge, filled with sunlight. He asked her if she wanted anything, she asked for a glass of juice. He brought it in a wine glass on a platter. And yet everything spelled death. I couldn't even talk, it was surrounding me, hitting me, killing me. I helped her settle in her room, we visited the music room next door, the smoking room across the hall, the kitchen where she could keep her energy drinks and stuff. Then I left. The following day I came back and put some christmas decorations up in her room, it was the 9th of December. On the 10th I brought her home with me to have a small dinner and put up the christmas tree with the kids, we sang some carols and I took her back to the hospital. She threw up in the elevator, even though she barely ate at home. She was really weak. The following morning, the 11th, my birthday, the hospital called me at work.

"Your mother had an embolism last night. She's a DNR, so we could only help her breath. Unfortunatelly she lost consciousness, and probably has only a few hours left." I have no brothers or sisters, nor did she. No immediate family either. For the next 24 hours it was me and her in that room. Me and a body I could not touch at first. A face trapped in pain, invisible, silent. The nurses would give her morphine when we thought she was in pain. Slowly, I started to stroke her face, wash her mouth, massage her hands, I sang to her I think, told her secrets, stories. Told her I was there for her, that I loved her.

Around 2 o'clock on the 12th, I saw she was getting agitated. I was sitting next to the bed, a volunteer from the cancer support group standing next to me. In the music room next door a pianist was playing Suzanne, and I held her hand and told her it was ok, let go Mom, it's ok, I'm here, I love you, but you have to let go now ok? it's all right, her pain was pulsing, trying to rip through her, but I think that she was trying to talk, and I like to think that in her last few breaths I heard her say I love you. One last tiny breath, and she just stopped fighting.

And I held her hand for a while longer, talking nonsense to her stomach where I had lain my head, hearing the soft melody coming from the piano and then the slience. Only my breath against the blanket, my blood in my ears. And then nothing at all.


bad bad bad

A very bad cold, nyquil and PMS do NOT mix well. I don't think I've ever been this confused, depressed, lonely, impatient, sad, psychotic in my life. I feel like I'm the end of my rope. For no fucking reason. If only it had a purpose. If only it inspired me. If only I had the strenght to hold a book or watch a good movie... I managed to make sense of an old CSI episode, fell asleep on the second one (it was actually a Miami and my god David Caruso is such a fucking bad actor). I should go to bed right now, wipe the drool off my lips, put out that cigarette (yes, even if my throat is killing me), turn off the cumputer. Turn off my head. Lights out.

Penses-tu vraiment?



J'attends toujours

All these people drinking lover's spit
Swallowing words while giving head
They listen to teeth to learn how to quit
tied to a night they never met
-Broken Social Scene

j'espère encore que ça revienne. j'espère encore.

y a jamais personne qui m'a parlé comme ça. jamais, personne.
je comprends maintenant, parce que je viens d'atterir.
je n'en peux plus d'attendre que le passé passe.
j'aurais pu y trouver encore du plaisir. mais pas au prix de mon nom.
j'attends toujours.
ta véritable identité.
la mienne est éventrée, en pleine rue, et les voitures roulent dessus, et les piétons s'enfargent dedans.
et tu y as jeté à peine un coup d'oeil.
c'était assez.
j'attends toujours.

There is no I in gone

I was all
I was the new
I was the unknown
I was the high
I was only, not true

I am nothing
I am the used
I am the uncomfortable comfort
I am the weight
I am only, just, real


Abandoned places


Billie Holiday's voice, only

In my solitude you haunt me
With reveries of days gone by
In my solitude you taunt me
With memories that never die

I sit in my chair
Filled with despair
Nobody could be so sad
With gloom everywhere
I sit and I stare
I know that I'll soon go mad
-Eddie Delange, Irving Mills, Duke Ellington

And it's back, so HERE, blinding.
I can't breath.
So fucking lonely, it fills the space.
Inhabited by absence, lack, void.
Surrounded, abandoned, up to capacity.
There's no escape from an abyss.
No exit from outside.
I think about here. I am there.
I think about there. I am here.
I want to go back forever. Live in your space.
Never will I escape the absence.

Here is nothing, here is the whole hole.




A few things...

I'm going to kill the stupid fucking bitch I work with before tomorrow. I swear, I'll tear her fucking head off. She's stupid, ignorant, arrogant, petty, she lies... FUCK. I hate it when I can't deal with someone. And she's the kind of person that talks ALL THE FUCKING TIME. She can't shut up. She thinks out loud, that's the worst. Always mumbling something, asking questions, answering herself. Arrrrrghhhhhh!!!

She's sitting in front of me. Right now. And she's typing something, and she's fucking TALKING, actually saying out loud what she's typing... Get me out of here please...

Oh, that's another thing... I'm at work. Never posted from here before. But that's how quiet it's been. It sucks, I hate it when there's nothing to do. The less I do then the less I want to do when the volume picks up...

It's the first time I work for such a big company (1/2 a bil in revenue last year...) and I can honestly say that security and proximity were the two major reasons I came to work here. But it's been 2 years, and I realize that I don't belong in this place. I'll never socialize, I'll never make friends, I'll never eat in the cafeteria, I'll never change my attitude (something that they actually HIRED me for, and pay me big bucks for) and never fucking pretend I like someone because I have to work with him/her. I want to be able to say fuck off, shut up, get the fuck out of here, don't bother me with your shit... I used to be able to, the other companies I worked for, but here NO. They want me to be pleasant, smiling and shit. No way. That's not me, just do your job properly, I'll do mine and see you tomorrow. Clock watchers... all of them.

Well, gotta do some work now, the crazy bitch is gone for lunch. I hope she fucking chokes on someting and DIES.



-Tu s'ras jamais heureuse, parce que t'as jamais appris à l'être


Ben coudonc, venant de mon boss, ça doit être vrai! J'déconne là, mais il a touché un point. Peut-être. Peut-être pas. Il me semble que ça s'apprend pas. Mais je sais aussi que j'ai passé de grandes périodes sans avoir aucune idée de ce qui se passait autour de moi. Pourtant je sais que j'ai déjà été très heureuse, et que je le suis encore des fois. C'est pas obligé d'être permanent. J'aime ça avoir le feu au cul, ou les blues aussi. Ici ça sort, ça dégouline, ça s'écoule lentement ou ça éclate. Je pense que je fais exprès d'être déprimée des fois, juste parce que j'aime l'état dans lequel ça me met devant l'écran. C'est toujours honnête, mais toujours temporaire. En tous cas maintenant. Les choses ont changées, elles changent, elles ne seront plus jamais les mêmes. Je m'en fout de la déprime, du noir, de la détresse. J'ai pris le dessus. Mais j'aime bien me vautrer dedans une fois de temps en temps.


To a friend, far, far away


You've gone this far...

To come this far.

Do NOT fold.


Election night...


Interesting (read scary) quotes from our next Prime Sinister (who should be confirmed in less than 2 hours):

"Human rights commissions, as they are evolving, are an attack o­n our fundamental freedoms and the basic existence of a democratic society…It is in fact totalitarianism. I find this is very scary stuff." (BC Report Newsmagazine, January 11, 1999)

“These proposals included cries for billions of new money for social assistance in the name of “child poverty” and for more business subsidies in the name of “cultural identity”. In both cases I was sought out as a rare public figure to oppose such projects.” (The Bulldog, National Citizens Coalition, February 1997)

“After all, enforced national bilingualism in this country isn’t mere policy. It has attained the status of a religion. It’s a dogma which o­ne is supposed to accept without question. … [M]ake no mistake. Canada is not a bilingual country. In fact it is less bilingual today than it has ever been...As a religion, bilingualism is the god that failed. It has led to no fairness, produced no unity, and cost Canadian taxpayers untold millions.” (Calgary Sun, May 6, 2001)

Êtes-vous allés voter? C'est triste.


A little bliss in the gloom


Then as it was, then again it will be

An’ though the course may change sometimes
Rivers always reach the sea

The sun is coming through the windows, warming the room, making her hair shimmer. Her head bowed, her face peaceful. I look at her. My eyes full of tears not meant to be seen, my love hard to contain, overflowing, going out to her.

-You are so good, really. I'm so proud of you.
-You are?
-Yes, I am. You must love this song very much, you were really into it.
-Yes I do.

She smiles, her eyes a little wet too, her cheeks flushed. Her head goes down again, and she starts Diary of a Madman.

I saw my 13 year old daughter play Ten Years Gone on the guitar this morning. I saw love. I saw a little bliss in the gloom.


Closing in


I get up in the morning, get ready for work, already hoping the day was over. I get home, enjoy some family time , then can't wait for everyone to go to bed. I sit at the computer, click click click for a couple of hours, then it's all over. Then it starts all over. I breeze through the day, dealing with people I can't stand. I breeze through the evening, dealing with people I love with all my heart but need a break from, from time to time.

I closed my eyes. I decided to not see. I can't even blame someone else. I made a decision when confronted with my feelings and fears and mistakes and unhappiness. It's so fucking hard not to cheat, not to take shortcuts. I don't want to be here, but I want to live my life with them. We never made any promises, just acknowledged our malaise, our emptiness. A month later, I'm floating. Ignoring everything I forced myself to admit.

I'm strong, the one they turn to, the one who can take it. But I'm crumbling, I'm imploding, not sure about what is coming out. Unknowns, strangers emerging. I see. I can't help but look, even though I'm sick of myself. I can't make it out. Will it ever make sense?

I hate that feeling of helplessness. I write and all I hear is this whiny voice. I want to beat the shit out of me. Stephaine, you were right, growing up is hard.




It's looming lurking checking me out. Waiting for a weak moment, a distraction. Then it's going to hit me, showing no mercy, not a fucking care in the world.

-Who decided you deserve a break? Just because I let you feel good for a few days doesn't mean you'll get a whole week without me!
-I just thought
-You shouldn't think, it doesn't do you any good. Don't assume anything.
-Fuck you.

There I said it. No pill's gonna cure my ill. I've got a bad case of "fuckoffimtiredofthisshitimactuallytiredofmyself".


I'm thinking about my mom again. She's probably around, trying to tell me something, I don't know. I have to write about when she died. I did, once, to a friend. I also realize that I've been ignoring my "father issue" since she's been gone. It's obvious why. The past may haunt me from time to time, but he's still here. She's not. I know I always loved him more than her, she knew it too, but there was nothing she could do about it. And since she died there was no reason to adress that, no one to notice, no one to bring it up, no one to blame me for that. It's bothering me now. I don't see that in my children, not the way it was for me. It might be in their hearts, I 'll never know. And don't want to.


Still working on a new template. Found a nice one, just tweakin' now.


Sinister, Wimp-Abducting Nightmare Provoked by Rage

Merci du lien victor :) wow, je trouve jamais ça ces liens là moi.


Mal de mer


De quoi on parlait déjà? Ah oui, la tempête... Ben, elle s'est calmée tu vois. Calmée, c'est tout. On s'entend, ça a fait des ravages.

Il y a bien ce grondement sourd, un tremblement subtil, des eaux qui ne sont toujours pas descendues. Des relents d'électricité dans mes narines.

Je ne l'ai pas ignorée, je ne l'ai pas évitée la tempête. Elle m'a pèté en pleine face. Un peu tard pour tourner le dos... Et là il y avait un radeau qui passait, et après une chaloupe. Finalement j'ai attendu le paquebot. Fuck it.

Pendant que j'attendais (mais je l'savais pas que j'attendais) j'ai vu plein de gens assis sur le toit de leur maison. Certains ont arrêté d'espérer et se sont jetés à l'eau. D'autres ont pris le radeau, la chaloupe. J'espère qu'ils vont bien. D'ici, la vue est pas mal.

Je garde un oeil sur le large.


On letting my guard down


I once had a girl, or should I say, she once had me.

She showed me her room, isn't it good, norwegian wood?
She asked me to stay and she told me to sit anywhere,
So I looked around and I noticed there wasn't a chair.

Opening that door for me was a mistake. I came in, looked around, found the place quite comfortable. Even though there wasn't a chair. Stark, cold, grey, wet. But still I was comfortable. There was room, air, no ceiling. Eternal night, infinite abyss of black, opened, wide, no end. Inhaled your breath, exhaled my fear. I could settle for a lot less.

You lead me to the stairs. I'm now climbing, not even reaching for the railing.


A Once In A Lifetime Production


The past has smells, colors, temperatures, textures, sounds. This past too. With other things, other defining circumstances. It could be a great gonzo. Cause I see it from the inside too. What is it about images that causes my senses to fail, my insides to stir. It's not a silent movie, that's why. Odorama. THX.

Dick Magnum and Cherry Pop star in "Once is all there will ever be". Dick walks in, grabs Cherry by the ass, lifts her onto the table. "Ohh Dick, you're so strong!". Cherry and Dick kiss, touch, she unzips his pants, he makes her skirt fly, her panties desintegrate, Cherry is more than ready, her pussy glistening, dripping, calling, "Fuck me baby, fuck me now!". She gets off the table and turns around, showing Dick where to put his huge cock. Dick proceeds with no care at all and starts to fuck Cherry, hard, spanking her cheeks, pulling her hair "Yeah you like that, don't you? What's that? Harder? Yeah, here you go baby", pumping, fucking sweet Cherry with all he's got...

I didn't say it was original.

A while ago...


(More than a while actually, more like years) I wrote this. Doesn't mean much, I just like the rythm.


I want to apologize. Someone said to me once that apologizing is a sign of weakness. Still I don't feel weaker now than I did before, and no more than I will later. But really, I want to apologize. What about you ask me? About a lot of things. But most of them don't have anything to do with this, so let's stick to the facts…I apologize right now, because I know that I'll deceive you, one way or another. You'll be doing fine, reading along, enjoying the story that's told upon these pages, when it will hit you. Bang! You've been deceived. Now, I can't pretend to know when that will happen, but rest assured, it will.

The next question to come to your mind now is probably this one: Why? Why will I deceive you? Because I can't help myself. When everything is upsy-daisy, I'm bound to find a way to deceive even the truest believer. That being said, I feel comfortable telling you right away that you'll read this story 'till the end, because as sure as I am that I'll deceive you, I know that I'll entertain you. That's another thing about me, I'm entertaining.

Does that make me special? You tell me.


Building steam with a grain of salt


The moon rules the fluids

Including the inner juices of human beings
That which assimilates and feeds the body
So the crab feeds his astral plane
Assimilating and distributing all he receives
Slowly, until it becomes apart of you
-DJ Shadow...

Dans un cercle fermé, entourée d'ouvertures inaccessibles. "What does your soul look like?". L'attraction de la lune, plus forte que ma volonté. J'ai l'âme cernée. Entrez par la sortie svp.

EXIT L'ampoule est brûlée. J'me laisse aller assimiler boire respirer. J'me laisse envahir par un drôle de feeling. C'est presque agréable.


Y est temps que ça bouge


ben non, ben oui, sort donc de ma tête, tu vas pas faire ça, ben oui j'te l'dis c'est vrai, ta gueule, non non j'te jure, crisse moi la paix, j'peux pu t'entendre, ça fait mal, ça fait du bien, ah oui, shit mets en, c'est ce soir, pis après ça va être quoi, ça fini jamais, oui ça s'essouffle, ben non, c'est juste le temps qui frotte sur ton cerveau, c'est ce soir, et demain soir et peut être plus jamais, et peut être à jamais.

ahahahah, c'est tu assez le temps que j'sorte de ma tête... un dialogue, c'est pas normal. même quand c'est un monologue, j'essaie de l'interrompre.


Invasion of your personal space


I'm trying out that blogrolling thing here... Some links in French, some in English, I've put small tags on them.

I've put only a few, the ones I read most often, I might add more, I don't know. If you see your link here and don't want to, please let me know. I'm a bit uncomfortable with this. I don't know why. I'll try it out for a little while anyway.

The puke pink will probably go soon. I can't stand it anymore. The font, the layout, I'm just sick of it. So I might venture in the template world shortly. I might screw up. Oh well.


I know, but...


The meaning of the words here, and all over, is different for each of us. For instance, the post below, was not written out of sadness. That someone sees it in a different light is good, it's flattering that someone can relate to the words. But that doesn't mean one can relate to me, nor can I relate to someone who wrote a post that compelled me, or touched me.

My words are whispers in my mind, become screams sometimes under my fingers, but without this space here, they would never be born. And like a child, once born, they keep changing, their meaning unsettled, always open to interpretation.

When I started to write here, I was in a different place, a different time. I wrote differently. And in a year from now, still it will have changed. When I'm happy, I'd rather live it, feel it. It hasn't inspired me to write yet, so raw the feeling is. And even while happy, some darker thoughts might spring, and here they end up, splattered.

Here is an outlet, not a barometer.


Space in the words


I dreamed you were facing me. You were looking at me like that first second, when your fingers brushed my hand, when our eyes were not big enough to take it all in. I dreamed your skin was against mine, facing me. I dreamed your mouth was on mine, facing me. But to face me would mean face it all.

I wish sometimes that the words were not empty, that the meaning was back. But it will never be back. It will never. be. back.

Then I think about what if. Then I understand why the meaning is gone. Not because it's not there anymore. But because the words were not big enough to hold it.

I still have words with meaning to write. Here, there. I'll create new ones with room in them.


Fun with Jane and Jane


Co-worker #1: I dropped a candle holder on my dog's head last night!!!

Co-worker #2: Oh my god! Is "he" all right?
Co-worker #1: We had to take him to the vet, "he" had a big bump. I was crying, the dog was whining, it was horrible! But the "doctor" said "he" will be ok! I was soooo worried!
Co-worker #2: Well! That's a relief!
Me: Somebody minds picking up the phone? I'm on the line here.
Co-worker #1: No need to be so rude!
Me: Wish I could say fuck you and get back to work, but since you're so sensitive I'll just say please, ok?

This is for real. I can't work with women. They're sensitive, vindictive, hypocritical and manipulative. I've worked with men for years. Never a problem. Just say what's on your mind and get it over with. Now I'm surrounded by women and they drive me nuts. And needless to say my attitude is a problem for them. Like I give a flying fuck.


The questions (vultures)


This is fucking ridiculous. How many times will I have to tell myself? Got... to... let... go. Maybe writing is keeping closure out of reach. To put it down, to read it, to have it read. It's out, in words. The weight is off to some extent. But I don't feel like I've dealt with anything seriously. Maybe I don't need to? And there it goes again, circling, waiting for my guard to be down, for my thoughts to be available. The questions, the fucking questions. Why didn't I, should I, have I, will I? Back to avoidance. I used to do it on purpose. It became a habit, now it happens without me having to make the effort. And outside, looking at the fucking questions, comes another one, a new one. Am I really feeling better, or am I avoiding my issues just because I can? And this is the one question I hate the most. And the one I'm not sure I want to come up with an answer to.

Further, deeper, I wander, wonder. Will I change if I face everything? In a weird way, sometimes I think my dark half makes me whole. Growing up, accepting, dealing. Won't that make me a different person? Because with all my shit, my big ego, my smart mouth, my detachement from everyone else, I like me. What does "coming to terms with" mean anyway? If we really are a product of our childhood, I'd be dead today, a spike in my arm. That was never me. I never saw myself in all the people that filled my early life. I saw everything from outside and only today, at 35, do I realize it was me, it was who I was going to be, that was there. And I knew. So to what extent did everything affect me? Maybe not that much. Maybe a whole fucking lot.

It is very dark sometimes, more than I can translate into words. But I'm not sure it has to do with the past. I'm not sure it has anything to do anything. Maybe it's just who I am.

Sometimes hungry, sometimes filled. My own balance.


My eyes, my eyes


I watched today

Just a little to taste it
Just to remember your smell
Not enough but almost too much
I watched
Like when I look at pictures
From the last trip, the last holiday
To recapture, to not forget

I watched, took it all in
Not one detail forgot
I don't have pictures, wish I did
You're dressed
But I know
That's why I watched
In case I'd see it.


Is it worth it?


Is it worth it, let me work it

I put my thing down, flip it and reverse it
If you got a big [!], let me search it
To find out how hard I gotta work ya

I'd like to get to know ya, so I can show ya
Put the pussy on ya, like I told ya
Gimme all your numbers so I can phone ya
Your girl acting stank than call me ova
Not on the bed, lay me on your sofa
Call before you come, I need to shave my chocha
You do or you don't or you will or you won't cha
Go downtown and eat it like a vulcha
See my hips and my tips don't cha
See my ass and my lips don't cha
Lost a few pounds in my whiffs for ya
This the kinda beat that go bha ta ta
Ra ta ta ta ta ta ta ta ta
Sex me so good I say blah blah blah
Work it, I need a glass of wata
Boy oh boy its good to know ya
-Missy Elliott

I had this on, sweating, and it made me laugh out loud. It does every time I listen to it, but while working out, it takes a whole new meaning!

Is it worth it? You bet.


Painful self-discipline


My butt hurts. I was on the bike for an hour at the gym. Is there any way they could make the seats more uncomfortable?

However. The suffering is worth it. I hope so anyway. My ass is sadly sagging :(

My spirit is not so much though. Feeling a little lyrical, but overall pretty good. This is so strange. So remote from last week, last month. I almost feel guilty, thinking "avoidance, avoidance, avoidance".

"Cutting myself some slack". A kind soul shared this. Yeah, I guess I should too.

Sur le fil


ça aurait pu

ça failli
c'est encore là

sur le fil
trop à perdre
pas assez à gagner
tout à perdre

ça aurait pu
ça failli
c'est encore là

sur le fil
le vide
la faim
trop à perdre
tout à perdre

c'est encore là
ça sera toujours là
tapi dans l'ombre
à attendre
pret à sauter
pret à tout faire sauter

le silence des souvenirs partagés




Hush child - lay your sweet lips on me

This greed - bigger than you and me
Will you come again
Tongue tied and a visceral third degree
Feel warm - center of gravity
Wash us all away
Body never lies
Will you come again
Will we stay friends
Oh you paralyze

Greed as hunger as lust as desire
I'm hungry again, awake and hungry
A predator on the loose
The prey elusive
But still, in plain view
I will chase you, hunt you, catch you
Just to smell your fear
Just to put my teeth on your skin
Just to taste your blood on my tongue

When you are here, when I have you
I will tear you apart, to see you inside
To eat you, feed my hunger
When you feel my mouth closing in
You flesh will shiver
Your blood will race
Your eyes will plead

Your hunger for the unknown
That you know, that you fear
Your false sense of control
Is your submission
I want to eat you alive
Hear you scream


Juste parce que


Y a plein de choses qui se passent. Pis en même temps y a rien qui se passe. Tout ce qui se passe peut se passer tout seul. Mais ce qui ne se passe pas me demande des efforts. Ça me fait chier, j'ai pas envie de justifier mes choix. Je ne devrais pas avoir à le faire. Me les justifier à moi. Les autres j'en ai rien à foutre.

41 ans me dit "J'ai jamais été aussi heureux... Mais ça m'a coûté cher"
42 ans me dit "Être heureux, ça n'a pas de prix"
43 ans me dit "Je ne peux pas faire face à la solitude... Peu importe le prix"
44 ans me dit "C'est de la marde, la recherche du bonheur. C'est juste une tempête"

Moi j'ai trouvé ma réponse. Je sais ce que je veux. J'ai pris ma décision. Et maintenant j'en paie le prix.

Pour le meilleur et pour le pire, je reste.


Autres choses... Qui ne se passent pas, mais qui passent. J'ai toujours pas vidé mon dossier. J'y arrive pas. Je n'y vais plus, depuis longtemps, mais il reste là. Ces fragments de nous. Ces mots qui voulaient dire tant de choses, et qui ont fini par nous faire taire. Je sais qu'ils étaient vierges, qu'ils naissaient sous nos doigts, qu'ils n'avaient jamais été dits et qu'ils ne le seront jamais.

Mais pourtant ils sont toujours là, en suspens, en attente. L'écho, tu l'entends? Des fois c'est assourdissant, des fois c'est juste un soupir. La sourdine, j'ai eu envie de l'enlever souvent. Des fois c'est comme quand le volume de la radio est trop bas, on entend une toune, on essaie de l'identifier, on y arrive presque. Et on fait un choix. On change le poste ou on monte le son pour en avoir le coeur net. Je laisse ça comme ça, juste un bruit de fond. Parce que le silence ça m'emmerde.


Le bruit


Mes mots me donnent mal à la tête. Ils font un vacarme intolérable. Je les entends la nuit, le jour, je les vois à l'écran, et sous mes paupières. Je les écris, pour qu'ils se taisent, mais ils restent. Ils prennent forme, ils deviennent vrais.

Mais ça c'était hier, ou ce matin, je suis pas certaine. Plus tôt de toute façon. Pas maintenant. J'ai compris tout d'un coup. Comme ça, devant la télé, et ça m'est venu. C'est mes mots, mais c'est juste ça. Je ne voudrais jamais avoir ce genre de discours à voix haute. Un peu, pour partager, un peu, pour pas exploser. Mais il y a des mots qui ne sont faits que pour être écrits, lus. Parce qu'une fois dits, ils perdent tout leur sens.

Des mots, commes des émotions, comme des souvenirs, qui ne se disent pas. Parce que j'ai ressenti, parce que je me souviens. Mais qu'est-ce que j'ai ressenti? De quoi je me souviens? C'est moi qui donne un sens à tout ça. La perception des autres, le son, le ton, c'est plus la même chose. Et je veux me souvenir de ce que j'ai ressenti, à ma façon.

Des souvenirs délicieux, des souvenirs douloureux. Des émotions trop intenses pour être racontées, trop folles pour être réelles, trop réelles pour être revécues. C'est à moi tout ça. Personne ne peut me l'enlever. Celles que je veux oublier, je n'ai qu'à les effacer. Celles que je veux revivre, je n'ai qu'à les écrire. Je n'ai pas à en parler. Et tout ce que j'écris ne me défini pas comme personne entière. Je ne suis qu'un fragment de mes mots.

Je me souviens, je me rappelle.
Le reste, c'est la vraie vie.


All of me


This is not all of me

Here you'll find pieces
Fragments of what makes me
Ideas of who I think I am
Dreams of who I'd love to become
Fears of what I could've been

This is not all of me
Here you'll find letters
Words that fill my head and meet the screen
Never make it out loud
Truth is, I wouldn't want to hear them
They're not meant to be heard
Not meant to be spoken

This is not all of me nor you nor us
This is only meant for our eyes
Spiders, troubles, randomness
All that fills our soul
And spills out on the keyboard
But never makes it passed our lips
For it would loose its meaning
Its magic
That brings us together

This is not all



whoaaaa, I had forgotten how good it feels to work out! It lifted 150lbs of pressure off my brain. Just me, the machine and my toy.

I was going to the video store yesterday, a different one, smaller, where they have old movies, documentaries, repertoire... They're closing! That's too bad, it really was unique in this area. They're selling all their movies at 8$ and games at 10$. But the sale started Monday, so all the good games were gone. All the new releases too, but I got 5 great movies! Glengary Glen Ross, Reservoir Dogs, The Falcon and the Snowman, Trainspotting and 2001.

Watched the Exorcism of Emily Rose last night, not bad. Good entertainment. Then The Falcon and The Snowman. This movie fascinates me, I don't know why. But I remember that I fell in love with Sean Penn when I first saw it, totally. Tonight will be War of the Worlds (saw it at the theater, but I want to see what it looks like on the big 60'') and probably Glengary Glen Ross. There are lots of extras on the DVD, that should be interesting.

I really feel good right now, I have to remember that feeling, I have to keep in mind why I want to work out. It's not only about my body. The discipline I'm imposing on myself to go to the gym, it will spread. This summer, I was feeling like this, and before I hit the bottom, I have to shape up, kick myself in the ass, and go get them demons.


My new toy


This is the gift I made to myself for Christmas

I've just put in 1G of music in it, and will hit the gym Saturday morning to the wonderful sound of Hypnotize by System of a Down (because, yes, I've developped a little obsession with them) and hundreds of other sweet melodies :)

I lost my butt, gotta find it back!


Oh the joy


of the cycle of the moon, the cycle of the blood

Last month I was 4 days late, now I'm 5 days early. What the fuck is my body telling me?

Get some rest, relax, let go, forget, remember, exercise, eat better, get some sleep, let GO. Of everything. It's getting too much to bear anyway.

If I don't leave some things behind, they will drag me down forever. It's not being blind. It's about acceptance. It's not denial, hell, I've been looking at everything too closely. Not denial. Just letting go of unecessary shit that haunts me, that keeps me from settling, from looking at other things, from thinking about other things.

I know where the weight is. I know exactly where the rope is tied. I think I've only made half assed efforts to untie it.

I'm still looking for balance. If I let go of everything, it's too much, if I don't it's not enough to come up. Keep some, lose some.

But the deeper I look, the heavier the weight gets. So, definately have to untie, to cut, to sever if necessary. I need to breath.


Les mauvais mots


on les utilise toujours au mauvais moment

pour les mauvaises raisons
sans savoir ce qu'ils veulent dire vraiment
sans se soucier de leur poids, de leur force
sans vraiment chercher le sens
juste parce qu'ils sonnent bien, juste à ce moment là

mais c'est après qu'on voit
après qu'on comprend le mal
qu'on réalise l'ampleur de leur importance
mais pourtant je sais
que jamais je ne comprendrai vraiment ce que veut dire
je t'aime

qui peut être un ensemble de mauvais mots
parce que je ne comprend pas leur sens
parce que je ne crois pas à leur unité
c'est quoi? c'est tout, c'est rien
c'est une odeur, un sourire, une caresse
un cri, des larmes, de la tendresse

aimer, c'est un mot aussi
pas juste un verbe, une action
à chercher, on trouve ce qu'on aime
ceux qu'on aime
les choses, les gens, le monde, la vie

les mauvais mots au bon moment
les bons mots au mauvais moment
le sens des choses, le sens des mots
c'est tout, c'est rien


I didn't say that


Why do people say they didn't say something when they did?

That is such a waste of my fucking time.

You said it, live with it.

If you think you said it wrong, just apologize.

C'est pas compliqué ça.

Tu me dis quelque chose en pleine face, pis 15 minutes plus tard tu me dis que t'as pas dit ça.

C'est qui qui a l'air fou là?


Not the eye of the storm


There are moments, I think, ok, I'm doing pretty good, this day is going fine. Then for a reason, for a word, for an idea, it just crumbles. Black returns, tears knock, knots get tighter. One line, one sound, one note, I'm lost. Fuck the storm, I hate her. I just want peace in my head, no winds, no rain, no debris flying all over the place, hitting me, cutting me, making my blood pour.

I want sunshine to illuminate my soul, a gigantic gust of wind to take the shit away. I want my eyes to settle, stop jerking around. I want to feel alive in the morning, not like a fucking corpse.

One note, one word, one line, one idea turns me around. The other way would be nice too. Is there a ladder down the rabbit whole? Maybe it's not a rabbit whole, maybe it's dark in my head because of the blinds I left closed. Open the blinds then, no? Haaa, but see, open the blinds, then open the windows, where is this all going to end? Maybe I'll just take a peek first.


It's a beautiful day in the... NOT!


I was right, the office sucks. The biggest problem is that I love my job. I have ambition, drive, experience, a very good reputation in my field. My boss is an idiot, corrupt, has no drive and has been riding on my coattails since he hired me.

I deal with an assistant who no matter how many times I explain something will ask me about it the next day. Who instead of looking up the orders she puts in the computer will also write them down, each of them, on a piece of paper and try to trace them later. Who insists on transfering me a line when I'm already on one with 2 holding, who insists on giving me a message when I'm fucking kneeling in front of the photocopier, my hands stained with toner, torn sheets scattered on the floor.

I deal with ignorant sales reps, who think that the products they sell deliver to their customers on jet planes that burn water and that are driven by computers. They don't understand that the freight is actually put on a trailer, pulled by a truck that burns fuel and that is driven by a human being. I asked for a phone number because the driver could not find the location, the coked up asshole went nuts, screamed for 5 minutes and finished by saying " well, it looks like the driver is a fucking idiot anyways, all that's left for him to do is to go and shoot himself in the head".

I work in a business where screwing your customer is the norm, where importing exotic lumber that is bordering extinction is ok, even for customs and government agencies.

I'm a dispatcher. I love my job. It's just going to kill me one day.


Back to life to life, back to reality


back to life

the life I've known
the life I've thought of leaving behind
the life I know I belong in, to
the life that's always been there
the life I need
the life I have to lead

back to reality
the fucking office.