Letter from Glasgow: Exercised
I check in on the rooms opposite several times a day, from the first morning light until the lights come on at dusk, the spaces warmly lit, showing off their detail, gentle and inviting. I have become attached to these familiars, to keeping silent company. I open the blinds each morning and know that everything is in its place. We resume our rituals, the small marks and measures that are the rhythm of days, the clock of the street.
I try to leave the house every three days, to see if things feel different outside. It is cold enough in the house to catch my breath, and the work at my desk makes my heart beat faster, so I don’t feel under- exercised. Besides, I am resistant to what is “permitted”. I can’t help an aversion to the sight of the family jogging units, prominent last spring but thankfully becoming more rare in the last months, setting out on their daily exercise with bright zeal, father, mother and little ones trotting behind. They irk me with their self-conscious parade of familial virtue, uncalled for, like silver framed photographs. I look down on them from my window and retreat inside to ignore my own children. We go out separately, when we go out at all. I don’t mind the solitary walkers, I even tolerate the lonely runners, as long as they are lonely.
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INQUIÈTE EST LA TÊTE
chalk drawing & x-ray – 1/3/2021 –
“And in the visitation of the winds,
Who take the ruffian billows by the top,
Curling their monstrous heads and hanging them
With deafening clamour in the slippery clouds,
That, with the hurly, death itself awakes?
Canst thou, O partial sleep, give thy repose
To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude,
And in the calmest and most stillest night,
With all appliances and means to boot,
Deny it to a king? Then happy low, lie down!
Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.”
William Shakespeare – King Richard IV.
Des continents disparaissent sans qu’on s’en aperçoive.
Des continents d’amour, de tendresse, de sociabilité.
Des océans de rire et de douceur.
Tout petit à petit semble disparaître sous la pression de la crise sanitaire ou climatique
Le gamin debout sur le tas de pierres, c’est bien moi et à côté, c’est mémé Frania, le bon visage de mémé Frania. La photo a l’air de remonter d’un autre siècle. Je n’en reviens pas de la tenir aujourd’hui entre mes mains.
En ce temps-là, je ne pensais qu’à m’enfuir. J’avais fui la ferme de mes patrons pour aller marauder dans les gares, je m’étais glissé la nuit dans des wagons de marchandises, j’avais sauté le mur de la maison de correction, j’avais échappé à la bande de voleurs dont j’étais devenu l’esclave.