soundtrack : chelsea hotel n?2 – leonard cohen

soundtrack : haunted – poe

i’ve met my very first press editor today.
i think it went well.
i’m fine. i’m not completely realizing yet how it’s going to be to get published, to get assignments, the kind you can’t screw up, the kind where you have to follow rules and precise demands, how it’s going to be to earn money from it, how i’ll feel when i’ll see my name there.
i’m nervous. i’m confident. i have a thousand things in mind now.
like what it means to earn my living with my talent – and a lot of work -, like how am i going to learn to work and not just make pictures without really thinking about it, like…
it’s a job, and it isn’t a job at the same time.
i can say my editor, i can say my journalist – because she calls me her photographer -, and maybe i’ll come to say my magazine even.
everything’s new. everything’s strange.
and i feel new. and i feel very strange.

moi : bonjour ***, c’est juliette.
client : ooh bonjour juliette ?a va ?
moi : bien bien et toi ?
client : tu rentres de vacances ? ou tu vas partir peut-?tre ?
moi : oh non, je ne pars pas du tout, comme ?a, c’est plus simple…
client : heu…c’est pas ? cause de moi j’esp?re…
moi : huh…nooooon…j’avais pas le temps de toute fa?on…
client : ah…
moi : oui, donc…
client : ?coute, je suis en train de m’occuper de tout ?a…tu pr?f?res que je te l’envoie ou tu passes le chercher ?
moi : oooh, ben ?a tombe bien, justement je fais un saut dans le quartier cet aprem….je peux passer alors ?

p’tet bien qu’en plus de ne pas partir en vacances, je devrais m’habiller en loque et devenir anorexique, histoire de bien faire culpabiliser les clients qui me paient en retard…
ou alors, p’tet que je devrais juste apprendre ? m’occuper des choses en temps et heures avec la fermet? qu’il convient.
au choix.

(cela dit, vu les conditions extras de ce job l?, ?a incite ? l’indulgence. et donc ? bouffer des p?tes. accessoirement.)

say i’ve been out for a long time now
a wish to an old man across the street the curb like pinned to his feet, a hermetic smile that i cannot confront, he looks up,
say we’ve put hopes into the deepest blue, i fix my gaze to where he points, his finger eaten by arthritis like a warning, dangerous you cannot mend, i hear, but can you play chess ?
no. and not the water at his feet can bring anything back, and not his eyes so pale know how to read a map, past the shades of my eyelids i reiterate,
my wish to an old man across the street the moon like pinned to his feet, a hermetic smile that i cannot confront, i look up…