*feeling like shit*

*wondering what shit feels*

“We can barely see you, but feel we know you already…

You show us the most amazing slices of life…I love the way your images give us entrance into worlds we might have gone our whole lives without seeing…you share wonderful secrets, like an artist should.”

writing these words in this blog is egotistical, i’m not trying to deny it, i accept my selfish need of words, of intelligent words, of thoughts, of opinions, real opinions, people who can put words on their feelings, people who use metaphors and verbal images, to show me, describe me what they feel about what i do, and thus analyze me.

i’m not denying other people’s words or opinions, whatever they are, of course. i’m not saying any are better or worse, and it isn’t that much my ego being flattered that i need, i just have to be sure, at this point, before leaving the shop forever and making the jump, that what i do, part of it or the whole, has a meaning of some sort, and most of it, makes sense.
it’s again, and forever, the whole search of figuring things out.

and sometimes, there are souls that emerge to you, that will disappear from your life eventually, after giving your their clues, their words, their reflection of you, even though they don’t know you, whose help you can never deny.

seems stupid ? well, then, i don’t mind…

i can feel the headache coming. it’s already there, maybe it’s always there anyway, waiting for the first sign that i’m giving up to invade my brain and occult my senses, much like i imagine sharks circling around a raft, waiting for the signs of their prey’s weaknesses.
tonight, it’s coming by my right eye, the one that i always keep open, the one that never rests, then, i feel it, deep and dark, against my forehead. if i move my head too fast, it will resonate to the back of my head, bounce, and speed up to my eyes again, gaining in intensity with each brain-cell on its way.

i must have done something wrong today, just like yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that one, too.
but i have no idea what it is.

****
– we thought you were mad at us.
there’s a hint of humour in her words, but i can still feel a bit of resent in her voice, too. why wouldn’t she be resentful at me ? why wouldn’t they ? the whole bunch of them.
– oh, i’m…
sorry ? hardly. embarrassed ? certainly. i hate being caught in the act. that act of what, i’m not sure. the act of working on my photography instead of going to parties ? these are the facts. but it isn’t that simple. so what ? was is more taking work as an excuse to refuse politely to go trashing myself on saturday nights ? well then. forgive if i’m not in the mood to forget anymore, if i don’t need to forget anymore.
still, i mutter that i’m sorry.
– so what happened to you ? where were you ?
– working kinda was…my priority. while i had some work, that is.
she laughs, relieved, and i think that it’s odd that some people get mad at you, just because they presume that you’re mad a them.
– all right then, we’ll see you soon, i hope, we’ve really missed you. we’ll get to talk a bit more about it all.
– certainly, i reply enthusiastic. i’ve missed you guys too.
true ? false ? i don’t know, so play my game, be my guest.

the problem in this matter, is that it isn’t only me who’s addicted to solitude, but that solitude is addicted to me, too.

****
– so you’re juliette, right ?
she’s a newby at the shop and we haven’t had time to say more than hi and bye in the corridors, or cashier’s room. considering that i still have my harry potter badge instead of my name, her question is quite reasonnable.
– yep, i answer.
we concentrate again on our job, that is reduced to make teenagers pay for ultra violent video games, when it isn’t nine or ten years old kids who had to bring their mother along, to buy them the same expensive games. i hear one mother saying “look, it says sixteen “plus” here…”. the boy beside her, who’s not much taller than the counter retorts “but mom, i’m not gonna play tetris !”. his indignant tone suggests that his crazy mother proposed him to sleep in the bathtub tonight, “but mom, i’m not gonna sleep in the bathtub !”. like that. the mother sighs and pays. sixty bucks. so be it.

the afternoon seems to have been caught in some time zone, where time doesn’t pass at all, trapped forever between my coffee at home, and the ride back in subway.
what the hell am i doing here ?
it’s only when i’ll get out of the station, and cross the intersection to walk my avenue, that i’ll come to remember that we were saturday, that it’s weekend for most people and that i, as usual, didn’t see any of the day.

– so you’re the one who’s a photographer, right ?
i’m surprised, and glad at the same time, i must admit. surprised that someone who doesn’t know me would know that i’m a photographer, and glad that someone must have told her something like juliette, the one who’s a photographer.
– why, yeah, sure, in real life i am. i smile.
– cause i’m also into photography ! she says on a tone that sounds like it’s meant to explain every mystery in the world, from the big-bang, the creation and god, to art, love and girls.
– that’s great, i reply, not really knowing what else there is to reply to that.
now why is it that everytime someone asks me if i’m a photographer, they immediately say that they’re into photography, too. not that i mind, though. the more the merrier. or whatever. it’s just something that happens everytime.

i have a short look at her, like this side glance is a snapshot, the only mental image that i want to keep of her.
i notice then that she’s a bit taller than i am, with a thin nervous body that her baggy jeans and tight white and red t-shirt seem to reveal more than they cover it. her face is thin, too, pale yet vivid, of an unusual shape that couldn’t make her compete for the queen of the prom title, but its regularity makes her look handsome and sweet. her hair is short, cut irregularly like fashion wants it to be, of a blond color which i can’t decide whether it’s natural or not.
at first sight, one would assume that she doesn’t talk or laugh too loud, the kind of girl who’s sitting in a corner at a party, listening and looking like she’s interested, but not in everyone’s reality.

i would like to ask her if she feels like an alien, but i don’t, because it just isn’t the kind of question you can ask to someone you don’t know in front of customers.
i don’t have much to ask anyway, because she starts speaking fast about her and asks me a dozen questions at the same time, like we are speed dating and have only seven minutes to see if it would match. later on, this afternoon, we find ourselves laughing and joking silly together in the corridors during our minuted break, and that is before she announces me outside, eventually, before saying bye in the street where the freezing winds prelude to an even more cold and damp night, that her contract finishes this very saturday evening.

now it’s funny, because i don’t know if i prefer the idea that i had that she wouldn’t laugh loud, make silly jokes or wink but would sit in her world in a corner at a party instead, or if i’m relieved to see that she’s just normal, like any of us, distracting in her own way, like any of us, and charming in her own way, just like any of us.
sometimes, i know, i just have too much imagination, wanting to make up lives and situations to the people around me, like they’re the characters of some movie in which i’m barely present, despite the inevitable reality : this movie is the movie of my life.

****
we’re all gathered in the small kitchen, more or less around the table where full ashtrays compete for vital space with bowls of crackers, bottles of cider and red wine, cups of tea and glasses full of various alcoholized beverages, a bonza?, cigarettes packs and their respective lighter, scribbled papers and pens. there’s more water boiling for another round of tea that evaporates slowly, waiting for any of us to decide that it’s ready, therefore announcing that we’re ready for a new break.
we’ve all found arrangements to sit down somewhere while the rehearsal lasts, all but him, the producer of the play.
i’m not actually in the cast, just the photographer and i enjoy the concentrated atmosphere, serious and tense despite the fact that none of us is a professional. i look around me, at each of my friends, and i have to wonder about their motivation to act in a difficult play when only a few of them has acted before.

i look at each of them, and i can remember them all, during various evenings and nights, mostly last summer, when we’d spend our saturdays trashing ourselves with all sort of legal and illegal substances, just because the week had ended, just because the weather was great, just because we all needed to have a release from the shop (where nearly all of us worked back then), as if some safety-valve would explode in ourselves if we didn’t find a way to forget where we spent our days.

i look at him again, he explains the tone each one must have for their lines, he mimes it, he sings it, he looks like the conducteur of an orchestra where voices and words are the only instruments. his voice is always sweet when he talks to the customers, always posed, always calm and cheerful. everyone listens to him, trying his way before proposing their own, repeating the long strings of words over and over.

and suddenly, i know, i think i know why we’re all here, why they’ll propose me to join the cast later this afternoon, why they invited me in the first place, and why they’re all so serious about it, rehearsing week after week, why they look more confident and passionate, in a way i had never seen them before, they didn’t need to explain to me, i know now, i know that i’ve missed them and that it’s true, i know that i’m here, but not for the same reason, i know that i have my exit ticket from the shop, and mostly i know that they are, for a part, getting theirs in this way, too.