elle n'est pas terroriste

Le Cordonnier

J’ai rencontré Le Cordonnier, celui dont tout le monde parle.

On s’est bien entendus tout de suite. Le jour, même Il m’a invitée dans son atelier pour boire un café, on a papoté longtemps, le temps du café, le temps du repas. La soirée s’est emboitée avec fluidité, tout en douceur, tout en enchantement.

Très vite il m’a proposé ce qu’il ne propose qu’a peu de gens: La Paire. Celle dont tout le monde parle. Tout le monde ne parlait que d’elle comme l’alpha et l’omega, le 5e élément, et j’admets que, flattée, j’accueille l’offre joyeusement, en chassant mes réserves.

En rentrant chez moi, je remarque avec tendresse les paires qui se tiennent alignées dans l’entrée. Certes, je n’ai pas besoin d’autant de chaussures, mais il y tout de même quelques unes que j’aime beaucoup, et me connaissant, je risque surement d’en vouloir d’autres, et souvent même, je risquais aussi de vouloir être pied-nu.

Je retourne voir Le Cordonnier pour lui expliquer que je n’étais finalement le bon pied à sa chaussure; Que parfois je me sentais de porter celles ci, souvent celles là, et par période encore celles ci. Il me dit, avec La Paire, tu n’auras plus besoin de t’en soucier. Elles s’adaptent à toi, elles grandissent avec toi, elles vont t’aller a merveille, te flatter, te soutenir, te nourrir. Elles seront d’une qualité tellement supérieures que tu n’auras plus jamais envie d’autres, même plus en pensée. Elle seront belles, et chics, comfortable, solides. Tu pourras voyager, diner, danser, marcher, trainer, nager avec.

There is no such thing as being whoever you want to be. As there is no not being who you don’t want to be. It’s all out there. There is literally no such thing as privacy. And when we distance ourselves from some thing or someone all we’re doing is closing a door in a glass house or a gate to no fence. We’re so so far beyond privacy. Privacy is a completely obsolete notion.

Dear lovely Omegas,

Bear with me, I never get to angry letter writing citizen arrest soccer mom angry level but this time it’s fucking enough. Omega, make a fucking effort. I’d love to wake up one morning, step outside for some fresh air and actually breath in some. 

Understand that you’re not only responsible for what goes on in your bedroom. You’re renting room X from unit Z but you’re also renting the rest of the community. I get it that community sounds like a lame word when you are a young struggling artist intellectual dark knight, but we chose this lifestyle and we need to pay the price of licking our own arseholes. 

We have no invisible town cleaning people, concierge etc. we need to make the effort OURSELVES (shit boi!) to keep this place above favela level. 

Fuck you Omega and your broken glass on the floor. Fuck you Omega and your rotting outdoor sofa. Fuck you Omega and your “that ain’t my shit” mentality. Fuck that shitty fridge under the tunnel. Fuck that broken van at the front. Fuck the never ending pile of shit in the bin area. Jesus guys! What the fuck?! (please find attached pictures of the bin area lately)

Call the council if you have some bulky shit to get rid off. ITS A FREE SERVICE. Here’s the number 020 8885 7700, I’m sure it won’t take too much of your unemployed time. 

Sainsburys has a lovely set of bins if you need to get rid of your clothes. I get it comes from a good place when you leave a box of stuff outside for people to dig in, but no one does, and it’s left rotting there, and I’m the one who ends up throwing it away. 

The bins are picked up twice a week and here’s the deal. They won’t pick it up if the bin is overflowing, they won’t pick it up if it’s outside of the bin, they won’t pick it up if there’s too much shit in the way. The bin guys are better than this. We’re not getting more bins, deal with it. 

I can’t believe how clueless some of you are. I still hear people saying “what’s this hearing thing about?”  Some tried so hard to get a dialogue going, but not a single shit was given. If you ever bothered to be curious, you would know what is up. 

I’m sorry we had to get to the point where some had to get paid by the landlords in order to feel like there’s something to be done. 

I’m sorry I’m not a poet, I’m sorry if my grammar offends you, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Please make an effort with the bins. I’m sorry for having had enough. I’m sorry I’m being agressive. 

I love you Omega, but you look like shit lately. I suggest you rest a bit and drink some cranberry juice, it’s good for your bladder. Oh and fix your letter boxes. 

I'm gonna go for the honest thing, nobody reads this anyway. It seems to work for New Yorkers, let it be me now.

Is that what my chin looks like?

I dropped out of my dream school. It's ok. It's alright. It's been a couple of months now and it only just hit me. I dropped out of my dream school. I worked hard to get in and worked soft to get out. It's alright.

What do you do?

Oh you know, the usual. Watch True Blood and stare at the oven as my small fimo figures harden. You should try fimo, it's really amazing, you make a shape, put in on a plate, woosh in the oven and out it comes, exactly the way you made it, but all hard and permanent. If you had trouble playing with modelling clay as a kid because you couldn't accept letting go of the pyramid of shit you just created, fimo is just what you need.  Whatever you just made can look the exact same forever. Also works if struggle to get your head around the concept of fading beauty. It's botox instant satisfaction, without the Mickey Rourke aftermath.

Cool.

Yeah, baby steps.