Beautiful Cynicism III

Combien a-t-on fait aux fleurs
d’étranges confidences,
pour que cette fine balance
nous dise le poids de l’ardeur.

Rainer Maria Rilke, Combien a-t-on fait aux fleurs

Voilà le début d’une histoire… Pendant ce matin gris printanière, une petite canadienne, chargée par des ennuis financiers et professionnels, dit « adieu » à presque 200 dollars, des fonds réservés pour un concert dans une terre lointaine… Et bien qu’elle a seulement 9 mois pour trouver les moyens de payer pour le voyage d’environ 6636km, au fond de son coeur, elle croit que tout sera bien.

Et on m’appelle une cynique?! Hum…

“A man ought to carry himself in the world as an orange tree would if it could walk up and down in the garden, swinging perfume from every little censer it holds up to the air.” (Henry Ward Beecher)

J’adore les oranges: leur douceur et leur acidité, leur couleur et leur parfum. Perfectly bright little spheres heralding nothing but happiness and healthfulness. Dimpled rind, taut skin, they fit perfectly in the palm of one’s hand. Et n’oublions pas les autres dans la famille: les mandarines, clémentines, satsumas, de toutes les couleurs, de jaune à rouge. Le parfum des oranges est synonyme avec les jours longs et chauds de l’été. (And, incidentally, it’s also somewhat synonymous with the cynic, for those who know her, as her body butter is satsuma-scented!)

Voilà: maintenant la couleur orange et ces beaux agrumes vous rappelleront du cynique!

Heureuses les amours qui se dénouent sans détours.

Proverbe anglais

…but even after all sorts of twists and turns, sometimes things still turn out well in the end

L’amour est comme l’églantine sauvage,
L’amitié est comme le houx,
Le houx est sombre lorsque l’églantine est en fleur,
Mais lequel fleurit avec le plus de constance?

Emily Brontë

Aujourd’hui j’ai dû passer une quinzaine de minutes supprimant du spam dans mes commentaires. There’s some time I’ll never get back… J’en ai marre de tout ce spam; aujourd’hui il y avait presque 100 commentaires remplis de pubs! C’est vraiment chiant…

Vous vous tendez vers moi, vertes petites mains des arbres,
Vertes petites mains des arbres du chemin.
Pendant que les vieux murs un peu plus se délabrent,
Que les vieilles maisons montrent leurs plaies,
Vous vous tendez vers moi, bourgeons des haies,
Verts petits doigts.

Sabine Sicaud, Premières feuilles

What began as a beautiful, sunny day has suddenly transformed into a rather stormy afternoon. As I type, the first roll of thunder is rumbling across the sky; the house is covered by a large, dark cloud. Another spring storm is about to arrive.
My wonderful boyfriend and I went to a small fair today, of the cotton candy/midway/mechanical ride variety. It was a very small fair, occupying only a portion of a parking lot. But no matter: there was a Tilt-A-Whirl. (For those who don’t know, this was my favourite ride on the fairground when I was younger; sort of a spinning teacup kind of thing.) I hadn’t ridden on it for probably 10 years. That drought ended today! Unfortunately, my boyfriend ate right before going and he felt a little sick for the remainder of the afternoon
There’s something about those fairgrounds that are a combination of nostalgia and creepiness. Maybe it’s the ride operators, all tough-looking fellows one wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley. Or the sickening scent of grease, from the fried corn dogs and cinnamon doughnuts. Or the unnatural colouring of the hot-pink cotton candy and fluorescent blue sno-cones. Or the scantily-clad ladies painted on most of the rides (what’s that all about, anyways? Aren’t these rides mainly targeting kids?)… but something about the fairground is definitely unnerving. And yet we go, people of all ages, parents with children, brooding teenagers, adults out on dates, grandparents – we stand in lines, herded like cattle into the rides, we share massive globs of cotton candy, we hold hands, we laugh and scream on the rides, we leave with empty wallets in our pockets and large stuffed animals in our arms. As far as I can remember, the fairground was never magical; it was never imbued with a sense of mystery; it was always just an overpriced lot selling greasy food and 3 minute-breaks on great heaps of clunky metal. People claim it’s a “reminder of childhood”, and maybe that is why we still go – fast rides and sugary-sweet treats: what more could a child want?

Destins, destins, corps bruts par l’esprit achevés!
La lune est sur les monts, les astres sont levés!
Sur la rose assoupie un beau Zéphir nu vole;
Dans l’éclat velouté de cette lune molle
Les oeufs des rossignols brillent! Soleil pieux
Bientôt tu mûriras ces fruits mélodieux;
Le chantre aux tendres yeux brisera ses demeures;
Il dira le secret rayonnement des heures,
L’eau des vallons glacés, le saphyr des bluets…

Emmanuel Signoret
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“Ce qu’il y a de beau dans la vie est toujours un secret…”

Alessandro Baricco
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Ce matin, quand je suis allée à mon boulot, voilà, la terre était toute blanche, couvert de petits cristaux de glace. Il faisait froid, mais le ciel était bleu et le soleil brillait. C’était plutôt un matin d’automne que du printemps…

Je me suis promené ce matin, après le travail. J’ai marché dans les rues au centre-ville, parmi les hommes d’affaires en route aux rendez-vous et les femmes âgées qui faisait des courses. Je suis maintenant chez moi toute seule, sauf pour ma petite Daisy, of course. J’ai mis des graines par terre pour les oiseaux dans l’arrière-cour. Des moineaux, des étourneaux, des mésanges viennent timidement, sautent et pépient parmi les tulipes, mangent furtivement, puis s’envolent. Ils ont du courage, ces oiseaux.

NB: 1e vers: Émile Verhaeren, Le gel (extrait)
2e vers: Victor Hugo, Je travaille (extrait)

Photo: cbsnews.com

*Sigh*

I awoke to gray skies and cold wind this morning…. only to see snow later in the day. (Welcome to Winnipeg.) It’s May, it’s 2 degrees Celsius, and it’s snowing. (Albeit very lightly – and nothing is sticking – but still!)
My general bad mood still lingers, like a little black raincloud hovering over me. I am feeling forgotten and insignificant; I am withdrawn and defensive; I am tired and coming down with a cold. I feel like putting on pyjamas, wrapping myself up in a warm, fuzzy blanket, drinking hot chocolate and watching movies with my Daisy curled up beside me. I’m in the mood for comfort.

Photo: langhorns.plus.com

Le coeur le plus sensible à la beauté des fleurs est toujours le premier blessé par les épines.

Thomas Moore
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Il est plus facile de devenir ami au hasard d’une rencontre que de le rester dans la vie.

Proverbe chinois

Maybe it’s the weather, or the season, or just fatigue, but my emotions have been going up and down lately, leaving me reeling. When things are going well, sadness stops me short; when there is chaos, a calm soon takes over. I worry about the speed with which my moods change; I can become very sad very quickly, but then I can be cheered up fairly easily – so maybe it’s not too bad. Just as in my heart and soul, the skies are ever-changing: I wake to a beautiful, sunny morning, and by the time I leave work I’m surrounded by clouds and rain. Not that the rain isn’t beautiful…
I’m back at work this week after a month-long hiatus. Being productive again is a good feeling. I walked to the bus stop this morning smiling, the sun out in full force, the sky a light blue, the leaves of the trees bright green and still wet from last night’s rain. There’s something magical about the look of sunlight filtering through treetops. Everything seemed to be glowing. Of course, by the time I got out of work the clouds had taken over. I decided to walk home. during the trek, it started to rain, and the wind picked up speed. I arrived home 45 minutes later wet and rosy-cheeked. And smiling.
My mum and dad have been chatting on msn for the last couple of days. They’ve been mostly civil since the divorce, but the split was not a good one (nor was their split in ‘89, but I digress) and there was much left unsaid between them. However, today they apparently actually addressed some of their “issues”… and came out better for it. Which pleased me greatly. I always argue that communication is best kept free and open, and that compartmentalising and hiding things away deep in our souls is no way to heal. My mum’s a big talker; my dad isn’t. But he opened up to her today, and I got to see something in my mum’s eyes that I hadn’t seen in the last 6 years: closure. And a sense of understanding – actually understanding my dad, perhaps in a way she hadn’t in their 24 years of marriage. My mum mentioned one lovely thing that was agreed upon in their conversation – that regardless of what had happened between them, that I had come out of their union and that that made everything worthwhile. Which is, I suppose, what most parents would say. But it’s still nice to hear
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