Beautiful Cynicism III

“Rêve de grandes choses, cela te permettra au moins d’en faire de toutes petites.” (Jules Renard)

And yet, and yet… Often, the only person who thinks one’s dreams are impossible is oneself.

Les nuages nagent comme des enveloppes géantes
Comme des lettres, que s’enverraient les saisons.

Ismaïl Kadaré

Photo: comptine.free.fr

Ardent capitalist? Proud elitist? Unapologetic imperialist? Or simply an elephant with a taste for the finer things in life, bringing all manner of material goods from the town back to the jungle to “civilise” his fellow animals? Whatever your take on the elephant king, he’s celebrating his 75th birthday this year.
“There are now over 30,000 Babar publications in over 17 languages, and over 8 million books have been sold. 78 episodes are broadcast in 30 languages in over 150 countries, making Babar one of the largest distributed animation shows in history. With over 100 licensees worldwide, the Babar brand has a multi-generational following. There are even 12 dedicated Babar stores in Japan. A global cultural phenomenon, whose fans span generations, Babar stands along side Mickey as one of the most recognized children’s characters in the world.” (Info taken from here.)

Long live the king?
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Light gray clouds are floating quickly through the sky, converging on the city. It’s supposed to rain tonight. Ma journée a commencée bien: le soleil, l’air doux, les calins avec mon compagnon jusqu’à tard le matin… Puis l’après-midi m’a apporté des mauvaises nouvelles, et je ne suis plus d’une bonne humeur. I’ve been alternating between being emotionless and teary. D’où vient ce mauvaise humeur? Je ne vous raconterai pas mes chagrins, sauf pour dire qu’ils sont des chagrins financières. Suffice it to say that my situation hasn’t really changed, but rather I’m now fully aware of it, and it isn’t particularly rosy.
As I rode home on the bus, crying behind my sunglasses, a woman with a child in a stroller got on. La fille n’avait que 2 ans, je crois, et elle était une petite fille extrèmement heureuse. Elle souriait, elle riait, elle disait ‘bonjour’ à tous les gens sur l’autobus. It couldn’t help but brighten my afternoon, even if only a little bit and for only a short while.
As I climbed off the bus at my transfer point, I looked across the street at the department store and thought: I need chocolate. Bien que je suis un peu déprimé grâce à mes finances, une petite tablette de chocolat n’est pas trop cher. Et comme vous le savez, le chocolat est un antidepresseur très efficace! But something else entirely caught my eye as I walked in to the store: the produce section. Bright pink and white, barely ripened strawberries, and fresh, green sugar snap peas – on sale! Make no mistake, I still got some chocolate; but as soon as I got home, I washed and prepared my fresh, colourful treasures and indulged. Imagine that: fruits and veggies as comfort food!
Les fraises, pas complètement mûres, sont toujours un peu dures et acides; les pois sont croquants et légèrement sucrés. Après ce casse-croûte plein de fraîcheur, je me sens mieux. And a quick look out the window shows that the clouds have parted ever so slightly, allowing some late-afternoon sun to shine through.

Wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving.

Khalil Gibran

J’avais envie d’écrire quelque chose de bien, un texte beau et émouvant, mais il y a une grande manque d’inspiration chez moi cet après-midi… Alors je vous laisse avec quelques mots de Rilke, un poème tout court que je trouve beau et émouvant. À vos rêves!

Après une journée de vent,
dans une paix infinie,
le soir se réconcilie
comme un docile amant.

Rainer Maria Rilke, Après une journée de vent
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Rien n’est plus beau, plus pur, plus vrai que le réveil du jour. Tout est jeune et fier. Le ciel, les arbres, les terres, tout a une couleur particulière.

Jean-Michel Wyl

Le soleil du matin doucement chauffe et dore
Les seigles et les blés tout humides encore,
Et l’azur a gardé sa fraîcheur de la nuit.
L’on sort sans autre but que de sortir; on suit,
Le long de la rivière aux vagues herbes jaunes,
Un chemin de gazon que bordent de vieux aunes.
L’air est vif. Par moment un oiseau vole avec
Quelque fruit de la haie ou quelque paille au bec,
Et son reflet dans l’eau survit à son passage.
C’est tout.

Paul Verlaine, Le soleil du matin doucement chauffe et dore

“La café sans caféine, ça réveille pas, mais ça empêche pas de dormir!”

Maïtena
—–

Quand je viendrai m’asseoir dans le vent, dans la nuit,
Au bout du rocher solitaire,
Que je n’entendrai plus, en t’écoutant, le bruit
Que fait mon coeur sur cette terre,

Jean Moréas, Quand je viendrais m’asseoir dans le vent…

Déjà les beaux jours, – la poussière,
Un ciel d’azur et de lumière,
Les murs enflammés, les longs soirs; -
Et rien de vert: – à peine encore
Un reflet rougeâtre décore
Les grands arbres aux rameaux noirs!

Gérard de Nerval, Avril

Voilà une photo m’envoyée par une amie (et une fidèle de ce blog), chère Elysabeth. (Merci!) De belles fleurs d’un beau jardin.
There have been sunny skies for several days now; flowers are poking out boldly from the earth, bright green buds have sprung from the tips of branches. Spring comes slowly in this part of the country, almost like a whisper; there are no sudden bursts of blooming flowers or full, green trees. Perhaps because it gets so cold here in the winter, nature’s slumber is that much deeper, and it simply takes that much longer to wake up. Life restarts gradually here, but restart it always does.
I’ve been thinking about the coming months, and how I’ve been lucky enough to go back home every summer for several years. This year promises to be different. My financial situation is up in the air, my employment situation is worse than usual; I don’t think I’ll be able to afford a holiday this summer. And I’ve realised how much that bothers me. It’s not about having time off – my work is so spotty during the warm months, I’ll get enough time as it is. It’s about going home.
Ce fut presque 7 ans que je vis ici, dans cette ville, sur les prairies du Canada. J’ai fait une petite vie ici; j’ai beaucoup de famille ici, et mon compagnon, qui j’adore… Mais malgré tout cela, je ne me sens pas complètement à l’aise ici. Quand je parle de “chez moi”, ce n’est pas ici dont je parle; c’est la côte ouest. Pas nécessairement ma ville natale, mais cette région. Mon province, mon île – ils me manquaient beaucoup quand j’ai déménagée; tout le monde disait que je m’habituerais à mes nouveaux alentours. Suis-je habituée? Oui. Mais ce n’est pas ma ville, ma régoin à moi… vous comprenez?
Don’t misunderstand – the prairies have their charms. Endless fields and meadows have a certain beauty, and give way to a seemingly endless sky; with nothing to obstruct the view of the horizon, all the wonders of the heavens are on full display here: sunrise and sunset, lightning, cloud formations, rainbows… But I admire these things in a passive sort of way, like a tourist. I still feel like a tourist sometimes. My parents are both originally from this area, and for almost as long as I can remember, my mum wanted to “go home”. I’d say, but we are home! And she’d explain that she meant the prairies. Family is very important to her, and she grew up here, but it wasn’t just the people; she missed the golden wheat, the big sky, the feeling of wide open spaces. She always said she felt claustrophobic among the towering mountains and evergreens. As for me, I never understood the draw for her; how could she long to return even after 24 years?
When I moved away from home, to this very different part of the country, I came to realise what she had meant, and also just how strong those ties are to our birthplaces. I believe that where one is from is internalised somehow, and becomes part of one’s very fabric as a human being. When I say I miss being home, while I am talking about my dad and grandpa and my friends and the memories my hometown still holds for me, I’m also talking about so many other things. I think about Cathedral Grove, a stand of old-growth forest 15 minutes from my hometown; I think of the moss and lichens clinging to the tree trunks of 300 year old Douglas firs, the deformed mushrooms boldly jutting out from their branches; I think of Long Beach, a stretch of sand and driftwood that goes on for kilometers along the Pacific Ocean, the smooth, soft sand juxtaposed against the rough driftwood and forest mere meters away; I think of the towering mountains, coloured that blue-green tint synonymous with dense, thick tree cover; I think of the rainforest, slippery boardwalks, humid air, and green, bright green, everywhere. I think of the salty coldness of the ocean, the lush colours of the flowers, the quiet beauty of the Dogwood tree. I think of the very visible bald patches on the mountains, representative of the sad spectacle of clear-cutting and de-forestation. I think of clear, blue lakes and the wooden docks floating on them, perfect for sunning on a summer’s day. I think of the forest floor, covered in bark, strange insects, and dirt – and I think of that dirt: dark, rich, aromatic, earthy. I think of the low-lying cloud, the grayness of a rainy day, the swooshing sound the evergreens make as their tops sway about in the winds, the fog as thick as heavy cream. I think of the sounds of all the birds awakening in the morning, a cacaphony of song, and I think of the earthworms squirming through the gardens, unsuspecting prey.
I think often of my childhood. Tending to the gardens in the backyard, where we grew garlic, onions, lettuce, radishes, carrots, peas, green beans, zucchini, cucumber, strawberries. I think of the plum trees in the chicken yard, and the many flowers scattered in gardens across our property: petunias, gladiolas, foxgloves, rhododendrons, climbing roses, hyacinths, daffodils, tulips, irises, amarylis, lilacs, pansies. I think of the wild fruits growing in our yard and on the mountain out back: gooseberries, red currants, rhubarb, wild strawberries. I think of our chickens, roosters, rabbits, pheasants, canaries, racing pigeons, mourning doves, all making the backyard a much livelier place… When I was little, I used to go out and play with the chickens – as much as one could play with chickens They were laying hens, and they were my responsibility. I tended to them, locked them in the henhouse at night so the racoons, foxes, minks couldn’t get to them, let them out into the yard at daybreak, collected the eggs, and sold them at my parents’ bakery. (“Larissa’s Farm Fresh Eggs, $2/dozen!” said the sign.)
I think about all these things when I talk about “home”; the lush vegetation, the moist air, the forests, the mountains, the water – it all runs through my veins, every day, every waking moment. Sometimes I miss it so much I can’t breathe. I’m homesick, still, after several years! Et même si je suis contente avec ma vie à présent, je dois me rendre à l’évidence qu’il y a un vide constant dans mon âme qui ne peut être rempli que par la beauté et la grâce des merveilles de nature si abondant dans mon ancien province. And even if I’m reasonably happy with where I am now, my secret desire that I carry with me every day is a wish to just go home.

Te voilà, rire du Printemps!
Les thyrses des lilas fleurissent.
Les amantes qui te chérissent
Délivrent leurs cheveux flottants.

Théodore de Banville, Le printemps
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Photo: Nuclear Nightmares

I originally discovered this site through Boing Boing, an excellent website/blog, repository of random things. Nuclear Nightmares is a series of black and white photographs detailing the aftermath of nuclear disasters in the former Soviet Union, and is heartbreaking. It should be required viewing for all.

Dans la brume de printemps
le vol blanc
d’un insecte au nom inconnu

Yosa Buson