I knew a girl once, or rather I tried to, but she was one-of-a-kind, a creature I'd never met before, nor had I encountered any of her traits in another woman in the course of my adult life. Twenty-five years since my first contract with a girl, such contract running anywhere from a single night up to marriage, and since then many more contracts than I would care to admit or could even remember, but resulting in what qualifies as experience, that awful, cynical thing, that point where you'd be a fool to expect anymore surprises.

And still, there she was, real as can be. She was a superbly, almost criminally talented poet, words seemed to dance right out of her fingers and straight to the screen where they placed themselves in harmony, and then sense and meaning grew out of the words, as if organically. It was really something.

Why then could I never get more than two or three sentences out of that girl, in the tens of hours we talked during the dozen times or so we met and the hundreds of times we chatted, more than two or three lines that were not moronic, futile, childlike, dishonest, sophistic, circular or downright hysterical?

She was fluid. No personality to speak of. Nothing solid, nothing concrete. Nothing resembling a moral center or a principle, nothing she could hold on to in times of distress, which were of course many. She let herself be a slave to her own unending petty desires, the satisfaction of which mobilized her entirely and carried her from one moment to the next, pushing further away the dreaded task to think, reflect upon her life, judge herself and make real decisions. That prospect scared her to no end, and I was powerless to help. She was never in one place, be it physical or emotional or frame-of-mind, long enough for me to connect. She made escaping each instant her main activity, not really aware that it consumed her, and also the energies of those around her. She went relentlessly through life asking, demanding, pleading, whining, begging, commandeering, like some sort of ancient mythological beast ravaging the country, demanding to be fed, endlessly. She could not give a thing in return, not even her body, since her pleasure obsessed her, devoured her soul, and her body was but a conduit to that end. another black hole from which no light escapes, no tangible matter, nothing, neither flesh nor sunday shoes. She thought herself a good, compassionate person, with a heart and everything, but the truth is she was sentimental, like most of her contemporaries, brought up on tv and movie magazines and slogans and sob stories, and she was naturally equating crying for herself with what she thought feeling for another might be like. She never could grasp the basics, risk a place in her chest to love and trust and cherish someone, not even for an hour. She just could not bring herself to stick a toe out in the rain. Had she not been such a gifted and inspired artist, one would have dismissed her as just another flaky brainless nutjob, but that poetry, the flat solid fact that she knew a place in herself where no fear entered, no primal lust nor hunger nor capriciousness nor dumb automatic defensive jibberish, a place where her mind could flourish like an orchid in a greenhouse, well, it shaked the shit out of my cozy boring certainties, forced me to revisit my experience, and I'm glad at least for that. That, and that I'm still sane after all.

What a character that girl was...

4 commentaires:

Mighty Mélissa LeBlanc a dit...

Voilà un personnage qui tiendrait parfaitement la route si le monde obéissait aux loies du constructivisme dans la perspective de Christian Mistral. Hors la réalité est infiniement plus complexe que le regard d'un homme sur la femme qu'il désire ou que le regard d'une femme sur ce qu'elle est ou croit être.

Je suis bien plus que cette fiction. Quoique tu as mis le doigt sur quelques uns de mes malaises.

Que feras tu quand je mettrai le doigt sur quelques uns des tiens...
But I won't go there.
I don't dare.
Même si je vois moi aussi bien des choses,
dans ce regard bleu...
Jamais j'ose.
Jamais j'oserais.


Mistral a dit...

Que ferai-je, que ferai-je... Me suicider, probablement? Gémir comme une fillette, peut-être. Me réfugier en forêt et relire Thoreau. Faire voeu de chasteté et de silence. Kestu penses, que je ferais?

Mets ton doigt sur ce que tu veux. Mes malaises, je fais métier d'écrire autour et à travers. Je n'ai plus grand-chose à redouter de la presse, de l'opinion, des sciences molles, des créatures vexées parce que je ne fais pas 150 km en stop pour aller les voir en pleine tempête. I just don't give a shit anymore.

Ose, ose.

Mighty Mélissa LeBlanc a dit...

Love the picture btw. C'est genre la première qui sort quand on tape "Roy Lichtenstein" dans wiki.
J'aime mieux celle là.

Mighty Mélissa LeBlanc a dit...

Je voulais dire dans google. Gosh 1/2 litre de rouge et je suis complètement pétée. Bad Girl, Bad Girl, m'en va me coucher avant de gâter quelqu'un sur msn.

Fallait me voir aujourd'hui - ma grande luge en pcv noir, mes kids pis l'épicerie , mon 3/4 en cuir noir qui pognait dans la bourrasque et qui constrastait dans les flocons blancs qui tombaient mollement, doucement et moi résolument je tirais tous ces trésors jusqu'à la maison, jusqu'à mon deuxième étage de sainte côlisse de paix et pis y'a un refrain de Pantera qui me viens dans la tête, WALK, c'est ça. Be yourself, by yourself...
Ostie que ça t'énerve quand la musique pop vient à ma rescousse...

"Is there no standard anymore ?
What it takes, who I am, where I've been
You can't be something you're not
Be yourself, by yourself
Stay away from me
A lesson learned in life
Known from the dawn of time

Respect, walk

Are you talking to me ?
No way punk"