mâcher des morceaux

I don’t see why love between mothers and sons should not be exactly like other loves. Why we cannot cease to love. Why we cannot fall apart. I don’t see why we cannot lose care, once and for all— about love— a faux kind of love, of all forms of love, even this one, why we must absolutely love each other, in families and elsewhere, when we tell stories with no end to ourselves or to each other. I wonder who invented it, when it happened, if it’s a kind of fad, a neurosis, a delirium, which are economic interests, political springs. I wonder what they’re hiding from us, what we want with this grand story of love. I look at others and I only see lies and madness. When did we stop with love? Why couldn’t we? I must know. I’m asking myself this question.

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Your little girlfriend Doesn’t want it tonight Because she’s too frigid So you go see me Because you know I’m Out of control

I’ll be gentle, I’ll suck liquorice I can be rough, I’ll take a beating How you consider me slip In my indifference: I’m reckless

All men know it They know the way And they have the key For them it’s not a big deal After all I’m nothing But someone out of control

So don’t be afraid See me in fifteen minutes And you’ll be satisfied You know we’re friends The moment you don’t forget To reign me in.

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No¹ fear². No³ shame⁴.

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¹ The space the place in which you face / abysmal as in unyielding / the birds in migration in the field

² […] spit it out from the abstract blob in your mind to your throat, to give you the illusion that it is now out there.

³ Your face in the shape / of a voice, unlocked / the hammer the timpani the sound / the prayer spat / the shape of your mouth

⁴ In offering myself nude, I feel the need to apologize for being seen.

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Go¹ outside² and³ look⁴ for⁵ the⁶ moon⁷.

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¹ I didn’t expect him to be gentle.

² I believe that underneath this muck there is something pure. I believe that the veil can be lifted.

³ Love has three crime scenes—

⁴ There are images better left behind.

⁵ I think of love as defiance against tradition, of love as a devotion to questions.

⁶ Who would’ve known that spring and cotton could be fertile as soil?

⁷ What else can be seen in a dark room aside from the dark?

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S'asseoir dehors l'après-midi et voir les arbres grandir ou s’allonger sur le lit très tôt et pas se lever; tous les deux sont bons. Le fini est en train de faire; je n’ai pas besoin de faire.

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Naa ko’y nakita nga naglingkod sa kalo sa usa ka tawo luspad siya gakurog naa siya’y ginahulat… di na importante kung unsa… ang giyera… ang katapusan sa kalibutan... imposible para sa iya mulihok o musturya ug ang usa pa naa’y usa nga gapangita sa iyang kalo nga nangluspad pud ug siya pud, gakurog ug nagahisgot sa iyang kaugalingon nga way kahumanan: akong kalo… akong kalo… nga gapugong na kahilakon. Naa ko’y nakita nga gabasa ug balita naa ko’y nakita nga gasaludo sa bandila naa ko’y nakita nga nakasuot og puro itom naa siya’y orasan usa ka orasan nga naa’y kadena usa ka pitaka usa ka marka na gipasidunggan ug usa ka antipara. Naa ko’y nakita nga ginabira iyang anak sa kamot ug gashagit… naa ko’y nakita nga naa’y iro naa ko’y nakita nga naa’y espada sa iyang sungkod naa ko’y nakita nga gahilak naa ko’y nakita nga nisulod sa simbahan naa ko’y nakita nga nibiya…

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Enero

Pirme siya galibog sa iyang kwarto ug sa akong opisina. Pagkabukas niya sa purtahan, naa siyay mabatyagan na mali. Kahuman, iyang hinayon og sira ang purtahan. Makita nako ang pagsaka sa huwiranan, na daw abi niya na walay tao sa likod sa purtahan.

Ginatago niya iyang labhanon sa iyang unlan. Karong gabii, gahuna ko sa iyang mga labhanon nga punog dugo nga iyang ginasuksok sa ubang labhanon sa attic hangtod sa adlaw sa paglaba. Halos 70 anyos na ko, nagatan-aw kaniya, naikag. Ug karon, punog tae ang iyang labhanon.

Karong gabii samtang gatrabaho ko, nadunggan nakog misaka ang iyang tingog, kalma, na murag naa sa teatro, sa sala, abay nako. Gasturya siya sa usa ka bata nga wala sa kwarto: “Gabii na, anak. Kailangan na nimo muuli sa inyo.” Nihagikgik siyag katawa sa sobrag kalipay. Napabutang ko sa akong mga kamot sa akong mata, na daw nalunod sa kaulaw. Wala mi sa teatro, ari lang ang akong mama nga gasturya sa iyang kaugalingon.

Naa koy nakit-an na sulat na iyang gisugdan: “Pauline, langga, dili ko makatakas sa kaduloman.” Karon, wala na siya gasulat. Murag sulat kini sa usa ka babae nga di na nako kaila. Nahitabo pa ni adtong niaging bulan.

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To read in French, armed with a limited vocabulary, is to cruise the language, to caress it, without really getting into the matter of its flesh. What used to be hard becomes easy, which is to say that the glue that makes the words cohere— the grammar— becomes the only thing I understand. While practicing, I trip over grammatical mistakes. In practice, I cling onto these grammatical structures.

If my lover forgets to wake me with a kiss, what should I worry about?

In great pain, what would the body learn that it doesn't already know?

What does the heart learn that it has not already understood about regret?

What do trees enjoy when it is the same wind that passes through their heads every day?

What could two dogs do that would go unnoticed by others?

What does the worker wash her face with to hide from the sun?

How many dogs from different families were suspicious of each other?

What is discovered about silence after the fire truck has passed?

What does the heart learn that it already understands?

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Translating French to English is relatively harder than the other way around. It’s like munching on something inchoate and gnawing it into something palatable. The French have a lot of unnecessary words in English, an excess of letters that need not be uttered. Although by way of poetic license, I can make the poem more beautiful as I manipulate its literal translations into something that flows better. To paraphrase Rilke, it’s like feeling the raindrops with a coat on, only that the one under the rain must find pleasure in the gentle pricks of the raindrops on their covered shoulders.

“But I want you, yes. This wasn’t only about your body or desire.”

— So what was it about, then? She rushed towards me, like a tornado.

— You never assume what you think. You always talk of nuance, of complexity. You believe it is that, to be intelligent, to be mature, to have one’s thoughts? On the gravest of subjects, even of the most ordinary ones, your thoughts are permanently balanced. You want. And the second after, you no longer want. You believe and doubt the same sentence. A life of maybe’s! Is that what you want? One never knows what you think. The world for you is a fine line of a ridge between two abysses. In the beginning, on this night, when I saw that you did not come, I wanted you for that; I was disappointed because I had wanted and you uttered equally this want. But in thinking about it, it’s your general attitude toward the world or before the world that you are frustrated. What do you care about? To what desire do you submit? To what are you faithful? Even in the debates on The Labyrinth of the Inhuman, you seem indifferent, like if we saw ourselves ignited, only then would you be interested. But how about you, where is your fire?

I want you to cross things and people like how ghosts travel through walls. We stick to you at a time when you also seem attached. But one night, you left; when we woke up, your place beside us is cold and we don’t know why nor where you left for. We only know that you will not come back. People are not attempts, not laboratory experiments— I am not a fucking laboratory rat, Diegane. People are not literary subjects that are always available, not sentences to be knitted in your soul with a wry smile. Do you know that Musimbwa has more than you? You are alike in many ways, but he knows how to see people. He is on earth, with us. He fucks when he must fuck, drinks when he must drink, comforts when he can, unafraid of yielding, of deception. That is a man. That is the best a writer can be. He is warm. You, you are cold. Blind to the people, to the world. You believe yourself to be a writer. The man in you is dead. Do you understand?

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When I was 6 years old, I saw, one time, a magnificent image, in a book about the Virgin Forest called “Lived Histories”. It showed a boa constrictor that ate a wildcat. Here is a copy of the drawing.

It says in the book: Boa constrictors take their prey whole, without chewing. Afterwards, they cannot move anymore and will sleep for 6 months for them to digest it.

So I reflected a lot on the adventures of the jungle and I, in turn, with a crayon, did my first drawing. My drawing number 1. It was like this:

I showed my masterpiece to important people and I asked them if my drawing made them afraid.

They responded: Why would a hat scare us?

My drawing did not illustrate a hat. It illustrated a boa constrictor that ate an elephant. So I drew the interior of the boa constrictor, so the important people would understand. They always need explanations. My drawing number 2 was like this:

The important people advised me to set aside the drawings of boa constrictors, both interior or exterior, and rather interest myself with geography, history, calculus, and grammar. It was thus, at the age of 6, I abandoned a magnificent career in painting. I have been discouraged by the failure of my first and second drawings. The important people never understood anything by themselves, and it’s tiring for the children to always and always give them explanations.

So I have chosen another career and I learned how to drive airplanes. I flew a little around the world. And geography— it’s exact, it served me a lot. I have learned how to recognize, at first glance, la Chine de l’Arizona. It’s very useful, if one gets lost in the middle of the night.

Thus, I have had, my whole life, a pile of contacts with a heap of serious people. I lived in a lot of places of important people. I saw them very close. That hadn’t improve my opinion much.

When I met someone who seemed serious, I tested her by showing her drawing number 1 which I have always kept. I wanted to know if she really was comprehensive. But always, she answered me: It’s a hat. So I stopped talking to her about boa constrictors, not even the Virgin Forest, nor the stars. I put myself in their shoes. I talked to them about bridge, golf, politics, and neckties. And the important people were very happy to know a man who was also reasonable.

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