« C’est l’humeur et l’état d’esprit d’une femme qu’un homme doit stimuler pour que le sexe ait un intérêt. L’amant, le vrai, est celui qui vous fait fondre rien qu’en vous touchant la tête, en vous souriant droit dans les yeux. »
-Marilyn Monroe
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Photo: southofmainstream.com
While cleaning house today I came across boxes full of memories; old photographs, old notebooks, old albums. Later, when taking a break from the dusting and sorting, I couldn’t decipher what music I wanted to listen to. I decided to rifle through my mix tape collection.
I have many, many mix tapes, which fall into two categories: those I made for myself, and those I received from others. The former group I love because it represents my past; each tape is a chronicle of my moods, my creativity, my self-expression – and they all contain songs that I love or that move me, so there are no “bad” songs.
But the latter group is equally important to me, perhaps even more so, because it consists of expressions of love and friendship from people who were close to me at one time (or still are). A mix tape is meant to convey a certain feeling, a certain mood; it is a collection of songs that certainly means something to the tape’s creator, but is also designed to send a message to the recipient.
In my collection, I have tapes from old friends who are no longer in my life; from old friends who are thankfully still very much in my life; from acquaintances I never really knew that well (whose tape was perhaps an attempt at becoming closer? who knows…); from ex-boyfriends. I cherish them all, even the ones containing – shall we say – questionable musical choices. I love them for what they mean to me, and what they must have meant to the person who made it for me.
Tonight’s selection: a spunky yet melancholy mix from a very dear friend who is far, far away in physical terms, but who remains very close to my heart.
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“Winter must be cold for those with no warm memories… And we’ve already missed the spring!”
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L’amour que je sens, l’amour qui me cuit,
Ce n’est pas l’amour chaste et platonique,
Sorbet à la neige avec un biscuit;
C’est l’amour de chair, c’est un plat tonique.
Ce n’est pas l’amour des blondins pâlots
Dont le rêve flotte au ciel des estampes.
C’est l’amour qui rit parmi des sanglots
Et frappe à coups drus l’enclume des tempes.
C’est l’amour brûlant comme un feu grégeois.
C’est l’amour féroce et l’amour solide.
Surtout ce n’est pas l’amour des bourgeois.
Amour de bourgeois, jardin d’invalide.
Ce n’est pas non plus l’amour de roman,
Faux, prétentieux, avec une glose
De si, de pourquoi, de mais, de comment.
C’est l’amour tout simple et pas autre chose.
C’est l’amour vivant. C’est l’amour humain.
Je serai sincère et tu seras folle,
Mon coeur sur ton coeur, ma main dans ta main.
Et cela vaut mieux que leur faribole!
C’est l’amour puissant. C’est l’amour vermeil.
Je serai le flot, tu seras la dune.
Tu seras la terre, et moi le soleil.
Et cela vaut mieux que leur clair de lune!
Jean Richepin, Déclaration
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La voix de la mer parle à l’âme. Le contact de la mer est sensuel, et enlace le corps dans une douce et secrète étreinte. -Kate Chopin
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Mon âme est ce lac même où le soleil qui penche,
Par un beau soir d’automne, envoie un feu mourant:
Le flot frissonne à peine, et pas une aile blanche,
Pas une rame au loin n’y joue en l’effleurant.
Tout dort, tout est tranquille, et le cristal limpide,
En se refroidissant à l’air glacé des nuits,
Sans écho, sans soupir, sans un pli qui le ride,
Semble un miroir tout fait pour les pâles ennuis.
Mais ne sentez-vous pas, Madame, à son silence,
A ses flots transparents de lui-même oubliés,
A sa calme étendue où rien ne se balance,
Le bonheur qu’il éprouve à se taire à vos pieds,
À réfléchir en paix de bien-aimé rivage,
A le peindre plus pur en ne s’y mêlant pas,
A ne rien perdre en soi de la divine image
De Celle dont sans bruit il recueille les pas?
Charles Sainte-Beuve, Mon âme est ce lac même…
—–
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Sleep will not come to this tired body now
Peace will not come to this lonely heart
There are some things I’ll live without
But I want you to know that I need you right now
I need you tonite
I steal a kiss from her sleeping shadow moves
Cause I’ll always miss her wherever she goes
And I’ll always need her more than she could ever need me
I need someone to ease my mind
But sometimes a someone is so hard to find
And I’ll do anything to keep her here tonite
And I’ll say anything to make her feel alright
And I’ll be anything to keep her here tonite
Cause I want you to stay, with me
I need you tonite
She comes to me like an angel out of time
As I play the part of a saint on my knees
There are some things I’ll live without
But I want you to know that I need you right now
Suffer my desire
Suffer my desire
Suffer my desire for you
Smashing Pumpkins, In The Arms Of Sleep
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Qu’on puisse oublier ce qu’on aime,
Et qu’un fatal éloignement
Ebranle le coeur d’un amant;
Non, cela ne se peut, j’en juge par moi-même.
Je songe à mon Iris et la nuit et le jour;
Je soupire après son retour,
Et je connais bien que l’absence
Est un prétexte à l’inconstance,
Plutôt qu’un remède à l’amour.
Antoine de la Sablière
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Le Corps ravi, l’Âme s’en émerveille
Du grand plaisir qui me vient entamer,
Me ravissant d’Amour, qui tout éveille
Par ce seul bien, qui le fait Dieu nommer.
Mais si tu veux son pouvoir consommer,
Faut que partout tu perdes celle envie:
Tu le verras de ses traits s’assommer,
Et aux Amants accroissement de vie.
Pernette du Guillet
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Au dedans, le silence et la paix sont profonds;
De froides pesanteurs descendent des plafonds,
Et, miroirs blanchissants, des parois colossales
Cernent de marbre nu l’isolement des salles.
De loin en loin, et dans les dalles enchâssé,
Un bassin de porphyre au rebord verglacé
Courbe sa profondeur polie, où l’onde gèle;
Le froid durcissement a poussé la margelle,
Et le porphyre en plus d’un endroit est fendu;
Un jet d’eau qui montait n’est point redescendu,
Roseau de diamant dont la cime évasée
Suspend une immobile ombelle de rosée.
Dans la vasque, pourtant, des fleurs, givre à demi,
Semblent les rêves frais du cristal endormi
Et sèment d’orbes blancs sa lucide surface,
Lotus de neige éclos sur un étang de glace,
Lys étranges, dans l’âme éveillant l’idéal
D’on ne sait quel printemps farouche et boréal.
Catulle Mendès, Paysage de neige
Comments rss Trackbackhttp://yugop.com/ver3/stuff/03/fla.html
Voici une horloge bien intéressante…
Soyez patient: le téléchargement prend quelques secondes – mais ça vaut la peine!
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J’usqu’au ciel d’azur gris le pré léger s’élève
Comme une route fraîche inconnue aux vivants;
La mouillure de l’herbe et de la jeune sève
Répand dans l’air rêveur son haleine d’argent.
Sur les bords de ce pré le bouleau se balance
Avec le merisier profond dans ses rameaux
Où des moineaux dorés sautillent en silence
Comme aux pures saisons d’un univers nouveau.
Je te pénètre, ô pré que longent des collines
Où la fougère étend son feuillage en réseau.
Et j’écoute parler la voix molle et divine
De la calme nature au milieu des oiseaux.
Cécile Sauvage
Comments rss TrackbackThere has been an election campaign ongoing for several weeks now; Election Day is Monday, January 23rd. However, advanced polling opened today, and I voted. I have voted in every election since turning 18 (legal voting age in Canada); I consider it a fundamental duty of a citizen. For most of my life, my country has been governed by the Liberal Party, a centrist group that manages to gather support from both the left and the right. Sneaky little buggers, they campaign from the left and then govern from the right, but not too far right. And in our current election campaign, the Conservative Party is leading in the polls, which strikes fear in my heart and frankly, if it wins, I will be thoroughly disappointed in my compatriots. (I will say, however, that even the nuttiest, most racist, sexist, homophobic faction in the Conservative Party of Canada is probably more subdued than the majority of the Republican Party in the States, or any number of other right-wing political parties on the rise in the Western world today.)
It is in this spirit that I am reflecting upon my country: why I admire it, why I am proud to be one of its citizens. Love of country can be hard to describe; it often consists of an image burned in one’s memory, a fleeting moment, a particular scent or melody, the feeling of the wind blowing off a lake, or the sight of a snow-capped mountain. Here, however, I’m speaking in strictly socio-political terms. There are some defining characteristics of Canada (many I acknowledge have occurred only recently) of which I am proud…
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Most days, I love riding the bus. Public transit may be inconvenient, crowded, tardy, dirty; but it’s always interesting. Each bus or train car or tram is a microcosm of society. All kinds of people use public transit – the elderly, shuffling on board with their zimmerframes and canes; the young parents, struggling to push their strollers through the aisle; the university students, snaking through the crowds with their backpacks slung over their shoulders; the commuters, dressed in their suits, trying to juggle briefcases, umbrellas and designer coffees. It’s a wonderful place for one of my favourite pastimes: people-watching. I sit in my seat and I scan the crowd – discreetly, of course. Most riders are absorbed in their own little worlds, either engrossed in a book or whatever’s playing on their headphones; some take the opportunity to sleep; others stare intently out the window – what is it they see, anyway? - while others do exactly what I’m doing. Sometimes our eyes meet. In that instant there is a sort of acknowledgement, a complicity. Some people look away, intimidated; some look down, embarassed; some smile. I always wonder what thoughts are being bandied about in their brains. Are they wondering the same? Are they creating elaborate stories to spice up the daily grind of the commute? We’re all held captive for a time, all hurtling forward in a vehicle over which we have no control, all at the mercy of the driver or conductor. Time is suspended for a while.
It was late when she got on the train
Found a space between the coffee stains
Struggling to lift her suitcase
Pushing back the hair from her face
Here in my seat
I feel a rush beneath my feet
She’s just a girl on the train
I’ll probably never see her again
The girl on the train
Never even asked her her name
The girl on the train
Wonder if she’s feeling the same
She looks listlessly at magazines
Past the horoscopes and beauty creams
Through the suburbs and the scrubland
I wonder whether she understands
This world is drab
You’ve got to take what you can grab
She’s just a girl on the train
I’ll probably never see her again
The girl on the train
I never even asked her her name
The girl on the train
Wonder if she’s feeling the same
Rialto, Girl on a Train
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Elle passe des heures émues
appuyée à sa fenêtre,
tout au bord de son être,
distraite et tendue.
Comme les lévriers en
se couchant leurs pattes disposent,
son instinct de rêve surprend
et règle ces belles choses
que sont les mains bien placées.
C’est par là que le reste s’enrôle.
Ni les bras, ni les seins, ni l’épaule,
ni elle même ne disent: assez!
Rainer Maria Rilke
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