A good raspberry to quench my thirst

 

I am drinking a good beer in the De Klompf. The omnipresent music is not Depeche Mode this time, but rather one of those heavy-glam bands straight from the 80s, like Dokken or something. I am alone, so I'm writing on an old scrap of paper I found in the recesses of my bag.

I'm thinking about all the beers I could have drunk in pubs all around the world, as well as all the good novels I could have written if I only moved my ass a little (eheh, my narration would be as cut as the booze).

When I was writing the last words of my master's thesis, this is what I did; except that I went to the Deux Freres, this no-man's-land of a salsa bar.

Next time, instead of spending money on food, I'll take a few sheets and will come here to create or re-write. At this time of day the bar is empty and I can think clearly. As Henry and I found out last time, once you're inside, a rickety French pub is no different from any rickety pub in any other country. You can find yourself there, while travelling at the single cost of a little glass of some delayed beer.

I'm back from Cagnes, where Nicolas and I had an in-depth talk and decided to go on seeing each other even if for nine months we'll not be living in the same country. After all, it's worth it, isn't it?

I'm asking, I do not know...I still can't believe I woke up after having taken my pills last Sunday, and then fade out...I'm back – after all.

The mirror in front of me is reflecting the face of this reporter in Haifa. The world is exploding and all I'm thinking about is Scandinavia, my books also, going fishing, that someone is waiting for me somewhere, and that this someone is me, or Heathcliff. Nelly, I am Heathcliff. I am Him who is strong, who travels through mountain, river and wood, I am Him who is cold, I am Him when he lies on the grass and closes his eyes (Is he sleeping? Has the bear stole him from me?), I am Him who returns with his hides and catches. I am Her who opens the door and the fire crackles.

I had a weird waking dream today. I remembered the tractor we saw in Tourrettes last Saturday and how much I would love driving a tractor. I would be heard for quite far away, with the dingy noisy cart behind, the fox tail hanging from the mirror and little father Culto barking « Too Old, Too Cold » in the necro-sounding amplifier. Alright! I throw my beer can through the window but forget to open it.

The girl with the bandage over the left eye; because of the bouncing beer can. Sorry, ladies and gentlemen, I'm somehow witless, a little Asperger (well, we shall have it confirmed in Scotland).

Instead of that, I gulp down my beer and think about that shitty poem I wrote some other night about I cannot remember what. It's no better, it's only going to move elsewhere, and maybe shift to another language.

Good resolves for Scotland: go fishing, go hiking, broaden even more my musical tastes, get better, write La Tombe du Pasteur.

Woman at work...to be Him.

SCORPIONS - Send Me An Angel

The wise man said just walk this way
To the dawn of the light
The wind will blow into your face
As the years pass you by
Hear this voice from deep inside
Its the call of your heart
Close your eyes and your will find
The passage out of the dark

Here I am
Will you send me an angel
Here I am
In the land of the morning star

The wise man said just find your place
In the eye of the storm
Seek the roses along the way
Just beware of the thorns

Here I am
Will you send me an angel
Here I am
In the land of the morning star

The wise man said just raise your hand
And reach out for the spell
Find the door to the promised land
Just believe in yourself
Hear this voice from deep inside
Its the call of your heart
Close your eyes and your will find
The way out of the dark

Here I am
Will you send me an angel
Here I am
In the land of the morning star
Here I am
Will you send me an angel
Here I am
In the land of the morning star