Beautiful Cynicism III

Eau printanière, pluie harmonieuse et douce
Autant qu’une rigole à travers le verger
Et plus que l’arrosoir balancé sur la mousse,
Comme tu prends mon coeur dans ton réseau léger!

Jean Richepin, Eau printanière, pluie harmonieuse

I woke up to a morning thick with fog and low-lying cloud; it was beautiful. The room was dark, so overcast was the sky. I don’t know why, but this gray, wet weather depresses me when I’m inside. Everything looks so pretty, yet so gloomy. Mais dès que je suis dehors, mon humeur change. J’adore la brume, la pluie, l’air humide… J’ai marché à l’arrêt d’autobus avec une sourire sur mes lèvres. The mist was gently falling on my face, and the tops of buildings disappeared into the fog. Pigeons flew by, weaving in and out of the clouds. Cars sped through puddles on the road, splashing great waves on to the sidewalk – and on to any unfortunate passers-by. Il faisait froid et j’étais fatiguée, mais j’étais aussi heureuse. I put on my headphones and started my mp3 player, which was set to random, yet somehow played a playlist that was perfect for waking up in the clouds.

By the time I left work in the evening, the clouds had risen, the fog had largely dissipated, and the mist had turned to rain – not just light showers, but big, fat drops, falling on my head with a big ’splat’. The distance between my work and the bus stop is a mere 2 blocks, but I arrived at the stop soaking wet. My hair (which was thankfully pulled back into a ponytail) was plastered to my neck and face. Water streamed down my cheeks, lined my lips, dripped off the end of my nose. My feet got wet from standing in puddles while waiting to cross streets. Mon pantalon était mouillé, grâce à les éclaboussements des autres piétons. La seule partie de mon corps qui a resté sèche étaient mes oreilles – parce qu’elles étaient cachées sous mon casque! Malgré tout ça, j’avais envie de danser, de rire, de chanter… All I wanted to do was let out great whoops of joy, it was so lovely being in the rain… I could smell the moisture in the air, and the earthiness of the mud, gradually being exposed as the snow melts; I could taste life again. Maybe that’s the difference between winter and spring; it’s not just about temperatures rising and snow melting and days getting longer – it’s about everything feeling alive again. Winter is peaceful; spring is buzzing with life.

La pluie fine a mouillé toutes choses, très doucement, et en silence. Il pleut encore un peu. Je vais sortir sous les arbres. Pieds nus, pour ne pas tacher mes chaussures.

Pierre Louÿs, La pluie

Les progrès d’un peuple ne sont déterminés ni par les gouvernements ni par les révolutions, mais par la somme des efforts des individus qui la composent.

Gustave Le Bon

“Voir, entendre, aimer. La vie est un cadeau dont je défais les ficelles chaque matin, au réveil.”

Christian Bobin

10h30: Réveil

“Il y a des réveils qui sont plus durs que d’autres.” (Paul Carvel)

Photo: miryves.ifrance.com

3h17: l’heure de coucher. Bonne nuit!

Los Angeles Photo: latimes.com

Paris Photo:libération.fr

Minsk Photo: mosnews.com

Washington, DC Photo: democraticunderground.com

You say you want a revolution?

Voici l’heure où le pré, les arbres et les fleurs
Dans l’air dolent et doux soupirent leurs odeurs.

Anna de Noailles, Le jardin et la maison
—–

I may have lost all of my emails over the weekend. There is a new computer in my house and during the transfer of files from the old machine to the new, things went awry, as they are wont to do, and I lost my emails. After much wrangling, they may have been retrieved – the computer says the files are all there, but they are in an as-yet unreadable format, so no one really knows how much was saved, what was saved, and whether or not it will ever be accessible.

But all of those are burned into my memory – why despair the loss of the tangible? (How ironic: the virtual is the new tangible…) I read those words when they were sent to me, when they were intended to me read, when they were fully in context. Their significance touched me then, and the meaning behind them stays with me now. Do I really need the evidence? Some things pass by us so quickly it’s as if they were never really there – an hour, a meal, a movie, even a relationship. And without the clock, or the dirty dishes, or the program or the photograh, we have no proof that the experience actually took place, as if our memory isn’t quite enough. Same with the computer: it’s as if there’s this fear that nothing really happened, that all the emotions behind the emails were never really there, as if all those messages of love and kindness and humour didn’t exist – unless I have the proof, which I don’t at the moment. But has it come to this point, where the souvenirs of an event are deemed more essential than the event itself?

Figure de femme, sur son sommeil
fermée, on dirait qu’elle goûte
quelque bruit à nul autre pareil
qui la remplit toute.

Rainer Maria Rilke

Photo: gemsbyjan.com

Sleep, pretty lady, the night is enfolding you;
Drift, and so lightly, on crystalline streams.
Wrapped in its perfumes, the darkness is holding you;
Starlight bespangles the way of your dreams.
Chorus the nightingales, wistfully amorous;
Blessedly quiet, the blare of the day.
All the sweet hours may your visions be glamorous -
Sleep, pretty lady, as long as you may.

Dorothy Parker, Lullaby (excerpt)

Photo: cc.jyu.fi

Charles Guérin

Oh ces larges beaux jours dont les matins flamboient!
La terre ardente et fière est plus superbe encor
Et la vie éveillée est d’un parfum si fort
Que tout l’être s’en grise et bondit vers la joie.

Émile Verhaeren
—–

“Les personnes qui boivent régulièrement du chocolat se distingue par leur bonne santé et leur résistance à toutes sortes de maladies mineures qui troublent la sérénité de la vie.”

Anthelme Brillat-Savarin