Catégorie : Cup of Tea



Audrey is away, this is almost the same word, sounding like order, ending in anarchy: I’m here and there and always away, always leaving places and people I am bound to. And I am weary. Stay. Stay is not my name. My name is away. Things are torn apart in space and time.I am a tree whose roots spread as far as my branches go and my heart stretches painfully from where I come to where I go.I don’t forget you – family, friends, love, acquaintances I like – as the time spent with you is a part of me and of my experience for today and tomorrow, however far away…

-and if-

And if travelling from place to place, living here and leaving there was just a way to learn ? A-way to learn how to go away ? A-way to learn how to die, to some points… To say goodbye to places, people and everything we know. A-way to accept being away. A-way to accept that there is a tomorrow and that elsewhere is not nothing.

Away is the way life found to teach me how to live – for living is leaving.


Here I go

I cannot sleep. I can definitely not sleep. How could I ? My heart is throbbing so hard, so quickly, and I keep thinking, thinking, thinking… My hands are trembling on the keyboard, I just want to laugh and cry at the same time. Now my legs are trembling too, I am precisely at a key moment of my existence. I am writing these words because I do not want to forget them, because I want you to read them, I want you to know how the world can be huge and so tiny at the same time, how time can stretch and shrink so easily… Here it is, I am crying, actually crying. London is that place in which everything is gathered : all the world, all the best of the world – its cultural wealth, its openness ; all the kindness, the smartness, the knowledge of the people of the world is right here. I am trying to make a list of all the nationalities of the people I have met here, with whom I had a really good time, has it been short or long… People from every continents, every parts of the globe… English, of course, but also American, Chilean, Mexican, Brazilian, Portuguese, Spanish, Italian, German, Scottish, Irish, Australian, Iranian, Korean, Chinese, French, Russian, so many others…. People of many origins, of many ages, many cultural backgrounds… These are the real treasures of the Planet. Not oil, gold or diamonds : people.

All my apologies to the Erasmus French besides : I may have become distant with you after a while, maybe I would not have lived this international London as much as I did if I had not done so. Or maybe I did not live that much… At least I evolved a lot. The girl who is now going back to her microscopic universe in her microscopic part of Southern France is definitely not the same who left home, nine months earlier. Now the world is home too. Of course, I am linked to this land in which I was born and raised. Of course, the smell of the soil in Carcassonne, the sight of the vineyards of Aude, the feeling of the warm stones of la Cité are deeply anchored in my self and this is what I may always call « home ». But now I know that there is this other place on Earth which is a link to all the other places and its name is London. And London has been home for me.

I only realise it now… What I lived this year is the most decisive experience in my life. I am not an adult though, being an adult sounds like a full stop in one’s evolution. But I have grown up, this is sure. Life is in front of me, as close and uncertain as it has never been. I have failed in many points, but this is just the kick my bottom needed to go ahead. I feel richer, I am richer than all these people who are succeeding in other ways I miss. I am rich of everything I shared with you all… And I thank you all for everything.

This place is about to become remote. What is easy to reach now is about to become rare. This present time and the time spent with you is going to become memories.

I am just an incorrigible nostalgic.

And I really look forward to seeing back again as many of you as possible.

Holly Crap, I love you, people of London.

(Sorry for my English, I may have done some mistakes… Now I am going to sleep – or try – I have a sea and a country to cross today.)

Picture : A wall in Brick Lane

Il y a du feu partout, vive le feu, vivent les fous

Pas pour rien que date limite se dit deadline dans le pays de par-ici… La ligne de la mort approche et je m’occupe plus de la setlist de ma marche funèbre que de la rédaction de mes oraisons shakespeariennes. Et si je finissais DJ, pas prof ou interprète ? C’est bien, DJ… Je ferai des soirées à trois pelés velus et deux tondus créteux dans une cave à vin, au milieu des vignes, et dans notre bacchanale, nous sacrifierons cruellement le canard confit aux dieux de la non-musique sur un fond d’indus ou de post-punk.Coqs coquets aux crêtes noires ou peroxydées, poissons humains dont les filets se déchirent, aux hameçons ancrés dans la peau des langues, des lèvres et des narines. D’un punk’s not dead poussiéreux s’élèveront d’autres hurlements, ceux que l’on cherche à enterrer sous des masses.

Let’s be monsters, set aside and pointed out,
Freed from their normality.
Let’s be artists and cry our liberty.

Assez déliré.

Au boulot Audrey, on inspire, on expire, on se fait craquer les doigts et on Shakespeare.

Les os de la Tamise

Thames River fluctue comme un serpent, le dos caressé de Soleil, de nuages ou de pluie ronronnant en vaguelettes dont les couleurs évoluent en reflétant le ciel. Sous ses reflets, la Tamise est opaque, boueux bourbier comme un nuage dans une tasse ; le lait du Smog d’il y a cent ans s’y retrouve encore, malgré l’eau sous les ponts et la lumière dans les yeux de Londres.

Londres a son ombre dans les eaux, souterraines comme autant de squelettes, ondulant sur la note discordante d’un instrument cassé : elle respire les morts qu’elle emporte, et l’on retrouve dans leurs regards vitreux l’opacité qu’elle projette à nos yeux.

Le Styx a un vieil air de choléra, et l’odeur d’autant de pestes s’y souvient. La fumée des incendies s’y jette, et les poisons y nagent et se mêlent en foule compacte et silencieuse : véhicules des souvenirs embouteillés, ils coulent maintenant sans cesse…

Londres se barre de nuit dans la rivière et par-dessous la ville, la mort appelle et se souvient…