l’art, c’est l’ennui rendu productif.
l’amour, c’est des illusions avant d?sillusion.
la photo, c’est l’exhibition ?hont?e du produit de ses rapines visuelles.

la flemme, c’est l?, tout de suite, maintenant…

my youngest brother is sixteen. he wears large sweaters with hoods and stuff written on them that i must be too old to understand.
my youngest brother is sixteen. he will finish highschool next year, and i even if i went to the same highschool, i don’t know his teachers.
my youngest brother is sixteen. he’s a big time rock fan, he’s in a garage rock band, he sings, he writes songs and he learns to play the guitar. he’s played his first concert recently.
my youngest brother is sixteen. he wants to be a journalist, a movie critic and he has seen movies i’ve never heard of.
my youngest brother is sixteen. he’s been to new york, boston and he’s just back from russia.

when i’ve left my parents’ place, yesterday, my youngest brother was eleven. he still had quite short dark hair that only curled at the back of his neck, now his hair is a dark pack of beautiful curls that fall on his forehead and his eyes.
he was as thin as the rest of us, and he still is, but back then, he didn’t reach my shoulders, now i’m not sure that i reach his.
when he was eleven, his teachers were bitches, and i certainly could tell.
when he was eleven, he was learning the drums, after giving up the piano. we’d had the same teacher.
when he was eleven, he came to paris to visit me, and i took him up the eiffel tower, it was the first time for both.

but long before that, i can remember when he was just a few months old and i was allowed to give him his bottle of milk. i can remember when he was about two and would make faces instead of eating, we would found that so hilarious that we would encourage him behind our parents’ back.
i can remember how he would always fall on his head, and the scar that his multiple ground experiences left on his forehead ; it went with him through his childhood, but i can’t remember if he’s still got it now.
i can remember how i pushed him from the piano bench while playing – obviously not the piano – when he was six and me fourteen, and that he hurt bad the back of his head and bled.
i can remember when i’d pick him up from kindergarden and would hold his tiny tiny hand in mine.
i can remember how we’d help him build cities of legos, and play with him with his cars and his zoo, even if we were much too old to enjoy that on our own, i remember that back then, it was fun only because it was with him.
i can remember when i’d go wake him up from his afternoon naps, i’d always watch him sleep for awhile, then i’d lightly kiss his cheek and he’d almost immediately have a short shiver, before opening his big dark eyes as if he was about to ask me what the hell i think i’m doing by waking him up.

my youngest brother is sixteen. he calls me lil’ sister, and i don’t mind it.
my youngest brother is sixteen. i can never be absolutely sure that it’s his voice on the phone, whenever i call my parents’ home.
my youngest brother is sixteen. he’s got strong hands and could make me eat the ground anytime.
my youngest brother is sixteen, but when he appears in what i dream, he’s still eleven…

my youngest brother is sixteen. he’s not a boy anymore, and not quite a man yet…
i can’t wait to finally meet the person he’s becoming.

reality is an illusion

(nb : whatever “creation” must be, i believe it comes from a huge dose of boredom with oneself)

my inspiration has gone boom-kablooo?.

blame it on the weather. or whatever.

evening soundtrack : the national – it never happened

je pixiese
tu pixies
il/elle pixiese
nous pixisons
vous pixisez
ils/elles pixiesent.

ou?, ?a se conjugue plut?t pas mal.
mais l’int?grale en boucle, pas plus de trois jours de suite…

current music : is she weird – the pixies