whatifeelslikeforagirl-blog

[whatifeelslikeforagirl-blog]

I’m a loser

Atelier “Les genres humains” à la Bibliothèque Hergé, animé par Anita Van Belle, printemps 2017

Bande originale : I’m a loser - the Beatles

J’ai 30 ans aujourd’hui. J’ouvre les yeux et regarde le plafond fendu. Je suis contente, ça veut dire que l’appartement perd de la valeur. Je crois que j’ai bien fait de dépenser le plus possible pour mon premier achat. J’ai menti à ma famille pour le montant, j’ai dit que c’était beaucoup plus quand même, que je n’avais plus rien, que je devais tout recommencer à zéro  Ils étaient tous si fiers. Ce n’est pas mon seul mensonge. Je me tourne vers le mur, qui, lui, montre quelques signes de moisissures. Il est 7h30 et je vais bientôt devoir appeler un Uper pour ne pas préparer le petit déjeuner seule. Il parait que ce n’est qu’une rumeur, cette histoire de caméra installée dans toutes les ampoules électriques mais on ne sait jamais. Mes parents, ceux qui ont 60 ans, racontent souvent qu’avant, la collab’ était plus libre, plus apaisée, moins monnayée et moins surveillée. Par contre, mes parents de 80 ans, eux, disent qu’on se la coule douce par rapport à leur jeunesse. ça me fait froid dans le dos de penser qu’une de mes mères a subi la collabo-ctature. Même si c’est dur maintenant, on a plein de petites choses qui nous facilitent la vie.

Mon Uper sera la dans 10 minutes, me dit l’application. Trois minutes de trajet et 7 minutes pour se tromper. C’est génial qu’ils aient inventé ce job, pour ceux qui ne savaient pas comment rater leur premier poste. Celui d’hier m’a expliqué que c’était absolument impossible de gagner assez pour vivre. Il faudrait accepter 25 missions par jour, et faire tous types de collaborations, même sexuelles. Evidemment, comme ils sont indépendants, ils sont libres d’accepter ou non leurs missions, et c’est là la beauté de l’idée. C’est la perte assurée, une expérience ingrate mais très formatrice.

On sonne à la porte 15 minutes plus tard. Je vais lui ouvrir en chaussettes dépareillées. Le Uper est essoufflé mais souriant. Il dit qu’il s’appelle Tom.

Alors, on s’y met? me dit-il.

Oui, j’ai pensé faire des toasts beurrés ce matin, ou est-ce que vous avez une meilleure idée?

Est-ce que vous aimez la confiture? C’est très bon avec le beurre, propose-t-il comme un pro.

La discussion collaborative continue encore un peu et puis on se met d’accord sur confiture et mayonnaise, puisque les deux éléments sont très bons séparément. Je ne lui dit pas tout de suite que j’ai déjà essayé et que je sais que c’est immangeable. Il a de beaux yeux, et j’ai envie qu’il échoue. Il a l’air d’en avoir besoin.

Lorsqu’il croque dans la tartine, il a une de ces mimiques typiques des moins de 25 ans: le dégoût-sourire, le dég-rire, pour les initiés. dégouté mais content de se tromper. Il est vraiment mignon. Je lui mets 5 étoiles pendant qu’il remet son manteau. J’ai envie qu’il reste, mais je n’ai pas d’amie avec qui en discuter  dans les règles avant, pour donner une note de 1 à 10 à son corps. Impossible de débattre de sa potentielle application lors des préliminaires, du coup, il ne peut rien se passer. Je laisse tomber parce que je n’ai pas envie d’utiliser l’application Kopines, c’est mon anniversaire, merde. Je retourne au lit. Si me parents m’entendaient penser….

Ce sont d’ailleur eux qui m’appellent. Ils se sont tassés tous les 8 sur le canapé déchiré de leur salon. Gabi et Ratou, les octogénaires, sont au milieu, Camille et Frédérique, les sextagénaires, les entourent. Coincés aux extrémités du sofa, Sacha et et Claude, les quadras mal dans leur peau, et enfin assis nonchalamment sur les accoudoires, Lou et Léo, les jeunes, la vingtaine en bandoulière.  Je sais que toutes les familles sont différentes, chacune avec une histoire particulière, des naissances parentales émouvantes, des déchirements intra et inter générationnels, mais je trouve quand même que la mienne concentre un bon gratin de connards.

JOYEUX ANNIVERSAIRE, lancent-ils tous en coeur mal accordé

Joyeux anniversaire mon cactus!

Ratou m’appelle comme ça depuis que dans un concours de sciences appliqués, j’ai démontré les similitudes entre le cactus et l’être humain.

Mon père Camille commence alors sa longue et rituelle narration sur sa naissance paternelle.

Alix, je me souviens encore du jour où je suis né avec toi…

Personne ne veut vraiment savoir ce qui se passe à l’accouchement, coupe Sacha qui devra y passer un jour ou l’autre, tu vas faire peur aux jeunes.

Ah ouai dégueu ! grimace Lou. Léo glousse en refermant ses jambes qui prenaient jusque là toute la place possible.

Mais Camille reprend, imperturbable:

J’avais 31 ans et je connaissais Fred depuis déjà trois ans. Evidemment, on collaborais déjà sur des projets parentaux avec Ratou et Gabi, notamment  sur Michel, qui a tout bien réussi du premier coup, d’ailleur, quelle perte de temps, soupire-t-il…

Arrête avec ça, Camille, s’énerve Gabi de sa voix de camionneuse sénior, laisse Michel tranquille, il est déjà si parfait...

Camille l’ignore et continue sur sa lancée.

Quand j’ai ouvert la porte et que j’ai vu la commissaire et son assistant, j’ai cru que j’allais m’évanouir de joie. Heureusement que Fred était là... j’ai paniqué quand on est monté dans la voiture pour aller à la ferme. Je me disais que rien n’était prêt dans la petite chambre, que je n’allais jamais arriver à tirer le bébé…

Ah! ça pour être stressé tu l’étais… on s’en souvient encore moi et Sacha, intervient Claude un peu remontée. On était pas bien vieux à l’époque mais pourtant on a dû venir avec vous! C’était dur. J’en parle encore avec mon analyste... T’inquiète pas Alix, je ne regrette pas! mais quand même, 11 ans, pour un accouchement… J’aurai voulu attendre, mais c’était la loi à l’époque.

C’est vrai que cette chute dans la flaque de sang, je m’en souviens encore, dit Sacha.

Ah dégueu! répète Léo. Elle n’a pas encore vu de ferme mais elle a vu des vidéos apparemment.

Et donc on arrive à la ferme et dans la salle d’accouchement, il y avait déjà plusieurs filles qui papotaient en poussant quelques grognements ici et là….

Je l’interromps car je connais ce passage par coeur et qu’il me fait froid dans le dos, autant qu’il m’émeut:

- Papa, s’il te plait…. Je connais déjà l’histoire de l'expulsion qui dure 2 heures et de la pauvre fille qui crie en insultant tout le monde en russe…

- Mais c’était si beau! C’est Fred qui s’y met maintenant.

- Tu ne peux pas encore comprendre Alix, assure Claude, mais quand tu tiens pour la première fois l’enfant dans tes bras, tu ressens quelque chose de fort. Ce n’est peut être pas ce que les pères ressentent quand ils sortent le bébé mais c’est unique, tu ne devras pas t’empêcher de pleurer cette fois-ci. Enfin, si tu te lance un jour...

Je hais le côté moralisateur de Claude. Elle en rajoute toujours une couche sur ce que doit être une femme, et comment je suis loin d’y arriver, ou même de ne pas y arriver, puisque je n’essaye pas.

Voilà Ratou qui se réveille ( je le soupçonne de s’être endormi au début de l’histoire) et qui lance:

C’est vrai que les Russes c’était le début, c’était autre chose que les...

Ta gueule Ratou, lui balance Gabi, avec son coffre d’outre tombe. Gabi a toujours le mot juste. C’est ma préférée. Elle commence ensuite:

“ Et ton Dany? Il est où en ce beau jour? Vous avez bien collaborer cette nuit?

Tout le monde éclate de rire en se moquant d’elle. C’est qu’on ne dit plus collaborer pour ce type particulier de collaboration depuis que ce n’est plus de la reproduction. La délocalisation extra-familiale systématique est une révolution qu’elle n’a pas encore digérer. Moi je trouve ça assez beau qu’elle oublie que ce n’est plus comme avant, ça la fait paraître un peu paumée, comme moi.

Alors, c’est vrai ça, il est ou ton Danichouchou? réplique Lou, moqueuse.

Il faudra quand même que tu penses à la collaboration officielle, tu sais que c’est mal vu qu’il habite chez toi sans avoir les papiers. C’est Claude évidemment qu’est-ce qu’elle m’enerve. Il faut qu’on le rencontre, et vite.

Et puis, commence Fred,  il peut tout te donner du jour au lendemain, tu n’as rien qui marche, tout qui tombe en ruine, tu fais ton chemin et puis pouf! tu te retrouves avec des tonnes de mobilier design, des écrans, des babioles en or…  il y a des hommes qui sont de vrais plombeurs. Des lead-dumper comme disent les autres. Fait attention, ma puce. Ils sont vénaux par nature.

L’ensemble des hommes de l’assemblé râlent par pure réflexe hommiste.

Dany vient de partir collaborer pour le travail. Il s’est lancé le développement d’une app qui fait un truc qui… qui fait que…

Je n’ai pas le temps de mentir plus longtemps, le téléphone de Léo sonne, elle décroche et elle sort de l’écran en rigolant. Lou la suit. Claude se lève aussi en s’étirant, suivi de Sacha qui souffle un bisou à mon attention vers l’écran. Ratou essaye de remettre en place les cheveux de Fred, qui l’écarte d’un violent coup de coude, et  ils se lèvent aussi.

Bon mon cactus, reprend Camille tout sourire , bon anniversaire. Je t’aime depuis que je t’ai vu sortir du vagin effacé de cette Russe vulgaire. Il s’esclaffe en sortant à son tour de l’écran.

Joyeux anniversaire Alix, répète Gabi.

Elle reste seule sur le canapé car elle a du mal à se relever toute seule, mais personne n’y prend garde. Je ne sais pas quoi dire pendant qu’elle essaye vainement de se mettre debout. Je pourrais appeler la police, c’est un délit de laisser une personne âgée se lever toute seule. Finalement, Camille arrive pour l’aider. Avant de refermer l’écran je l’entends rouspéter que c’est lui qui fait tout dans cette maison. Je le plains car je sais que c’est vrai.

Me voilà seule. Je n’ai rien à faire. Personne à qui parler. Aucune décision à prendre. C’est agréable, si je suis honnête avec moi-même. Je souris et me chante un joyeux anniversaire tonitruant. J’espère vraiment qu’il n’y a pas de caméra dans les ampoules.

[whatifeelslikeforagirl-blog]

Travestissement intime

Atelier “Les genres humains” à la Bibliothèque Hergé, animé par Anita Van Belle, printemps 2017

Clara devient Martin

On a terminé le jeu. On a exploré tous les recoins, regardé dans tous les coffres, amassé toutes les armes, tué toutes les araignés géantes et écouté à chaque fois la fée de lumière sans visage et sans voix qui est notre amie. Je ne sais pas vraiment si on a gagné. Je n’ai jamais trouvé le grand méchant pour le tuer.

La maison où nous avons grandi est vide. ça ne s’est pas fait de manière fluide (mais est-ce que c’est parfois le cas, dans la vie?). Les niveaux ont été durs à passer. Il a fallu sauter, sortir sa fronder, dégainer son épée, écouter les conseils de créatures surnaturelles et, faire des compromis. Mon frère et moi, on a essayé de ne pas être trop sentimentaux, de rester fiers et droits, courageux, pour les deux autres. Il n’y a pas de quoi pleurer puisque personne n’est mort. Tout le monde a encore des coeurs remplis d’élixir de vie. Chacun refait sa vie, c’est tout et voilà. C’est bon. C’est tout. Voilà.

Je n’aime pas jeter des trucs. Pourtant, pour être au maximum de ses capacités, et avoir les bonnes armes au bon moment pour tuer les méchants,  il faut se délester de l’inutile. La place de stockage est limitée. Mon frère et ma mère sont forts pour ça, alors je les ai laissé faire, dans mon ancienne chambre (Murs rouges, moquette noire, encore des traces de patafix et de vieux scotch, des relents de cendrier). Pendant que je regardais une à une les photos que mon père avait laissé pour moi dans le bureau, ils ont trié, jeté, emballé et m’ont enfin présenté un sac poubelle. Je n’ai même pas regardé à l’intérieur. Je suis allé au bout de l’allée et j’ai balancé le sac dans la poubelle. J’ai allumé une cigarette et j’ai regardé passé une twingo, ancien modèle. La maison d’en face aussi vient d’être vendue. Je ne sais pas si c’est parce que j’avais envie de me sentir encore comme une enfant qui cherche des indices, des armes et des vies dans des coffres magiques, mais j’ai réouvert la poubelle, sorti le sac que je venais d’y mettre et défait le petit lien orange. Ci-gît ma vieille console de jeux, la N64. Je sais très bien qu’elle ne s’allume plus depuis des années, mais je la prends quand même. je rentre dans la maison et je retourne aux photos.

Il y a des jeux où on peut choisir son personnage, être une fille, un garçon, un démon, une super héroïne, ou même un cheval. Mais dans celui-ci, non. J’incarnerai toujours Martin . Mes caractéristiques physiques changeront un peu avec l’âge (taille, carrure) mais au fond, je resterai le même. Il existe des options pour changer son apparence ( couleur des cheveux, taille des biceps, vêtements…) mais elle viennent avec les extensions payantes. Au commencement, après le chargement, il y a toujours une introduction, pour le contexte dans l’univers du jeu. Pour moi, l’intro est une photo dont les couleurs trahissent l’époque à laquelle elle a été prise.  Je suis le neuvième bébé garçon que Nadia tient dans ses bras. A ce stade, avant  que la ribambelle de cousines naissent entre 87 et 92, elle devait croire à une blague, ma chère Mamina. Sept garçons à elle (avec en bouquet final, des jumeaux), Arthur et puis moi, Martin Jean André. Le 12 octobre 1986, un jour après ma naissance, elle regarde d'un air entendu quelqu'un hors cadre, probablement ma mère, vu que je suis sûr et certain que c'est mon père qui a pris la photo.  Moi, j’ai les yeux fermés, collés, je suis tout rouge et franchement assez froissé, imperméable au fait que Nadia, résignée, attendra encore un an avant la première fille de sa lignée, personnage clé de la quête du jeu suivant.

Lorsque l’on prend possession du personnage, la première question à se poser est toujours “ que dois-je faire?” Il faut se déplacer doucement et voir ce que les différents objets et personnages proposent. Enfant, le choix est limité mais il existe. A qui faire plaisir? Quand dire non et quand dire oui? Sur cette photo en noir et blanc, je n’ai encore rien choisi. Je suis dans les bras de ma mère. Je dois avoir 18 mois. On est en coulisse d’un concert de mon père et ça se voit parce qu’on regarde vers la lumière, à gauche de la photo. Ma mère a encore sa coupe en brosse blonde décolorée, circa avril 88. J’ai l’air attentif, les yeux grands ouverts. Ca n'a probablement duré qu'une seconde, cette attention, le temps que le photographe anonyme prenne ce cliché un peu stylé, un peu rock, un peu flou - il en existe plein d'autres de l'époque dans les albums et dans les boîtes que mon père a déjà triées. Je me demande quand même ce qui a pu pousser ma mère à m’habiller comme ça, en total look années 80. A ce moment du jeu, j’ai un genre de casquette gavroche bouffante et une salopette à motifs géométriques, avec un mini perfecto BRILLANT. Ma mère me parlait encore hier de comment elle aimait m'habiller à cette époque: les petites chemises à motifs, les chaussures marrantes, les blousons flashy. Je me demande où sont passé tous ces  trucs maintenant.

Plus tard, le personnage part faire sa propre quête, délaissant son village et sa famille pour une plus noble cause. Ce déchirement le construit et fait de lui le héro dont l’intrigue à besoin. Dans mon cas, bien que la cause n’ai pas été noble, j’ai bien délaissé l’amour de poupée que me portait ma mère pour exprimer mon affection uniquement par l’affrontement constant des règles et de l’ordre. Ce cliché résume assez bien cette phase du jeu : je suis debout sur la table basse, en slip,  dans notre ancienne maison. Je lève les poings en l’air comme si j’avais gagné quelque chose. Je suis hilare. A mes pieds, il y a un bol renversé et de la purée un peu partout. Un verre ne va pas tarder à tomber, au bord de la table. Par terre, mon petit frère assis, pleure. Il a un bol sur la tête et ça lui dégouline dans les cheveux. Il doit avoir 3 ans et moi 8. L’âge de raison n’est pas encore atteint. Je n’avais pas encore trouvé la potion verte qui permet de contrôler ses émotions mais j’avais clairement fait mon choix entre faire plaisir à maman et être le héro de ma vie. Je ne sais plus très bien ce qui s’est passé ce jour là, mais globalement, c’était mon oeuvre, ce bordel. Dans le coin droit de la photo, on aperçoit le pieds de ma mère qui accourt et un peu plus haut, sa main qui arrive, armé d’une serviette. C'est donc mon père qui prend la photo, peut-être un peu fier que je ne me laisse pas faire, que je pratique mes coups pour le combat final, renversant les codes de bonne conduite à table. Ce n'était pas une identité très facile à gérer au quotidien.

La photo suivante est un moment clé de la saga, puisqu’il s’agit de l’époque où le premier but de la quête est enfin révélé. Exit les repas perturbés, les toilettes de l’école inondés, les tresses de filles coupées et mon petit frère torturé. C’est cette année là que j’ai découvert ma première passion, le premier  des trois cristaux qui me permettra plus tard de sauver le monde. Sur la photo, pourtant peu représentative, j’ai 12 ans. Cette année là, je suis allé en vacances avec ma tante et ma cousine aux Etats Unis. On me voit faire la gueule devant le sapin de Noël géant du plazza Hôtel, à NY, à côté de ma cousine Julia qui sourit jusqu'aux oreilles. Elle voulait y aller parce qu’il adorait Maman j’ai raté l’avion 2, moi je ne voulais pas venir ce jour là. Je me souviens très bien du moment où ma tante a pris la photo - elle venait de dire que non, on n’allait manger un deuxième hot dog.

Il faut savoir que je venais de découvrir la passion qui changerait l’ambiance de la quête à jamais:  La légende de Zelda : l’ocarina du temps. Jason, le cousin ado de Julia l’avait eu à Noël et y jouait toute la journée dans sa chambre. Les rideaux étaient toujours fermés malgré les injonctions de ses parents. Il avait recouvert les murs de photos de filles à gros seins sur des motos ou lavant des voitures en petite tenue. Bien que Zelda soit un jeu qui se passe en pleine nature, et dont le héros ne soit pas particulièrement masculin (cheveux longs, yeux en amandes), je ne me suis jamais autant senti homme que pendant ces deux semaines, à m’enfoncer âme et manettes dans le jeu de Jason, tout en lorgnant sur les posters. Parallèlement, j'ai confirmé mon amour pour les fast foods, et tout ce qui touchait de près ou de loin à la gastronomie américaine. Dans cette pré-adolescence tiède saveur sauce  Ranch, tout s’est codé pour moi, par niveau, par vies restantes, par pièces récoltés - entrecoupé de repas que je ne voulais jamais sauter. Jason mangeait souvent dans sa chambre, et je l’enviait terriblement mais on menaçait de donner ma part au chien si je ne venait pas à table. Une fois assis, vu que je ne pippais pas mot, et on me disait que je ne m'intéressais à rien. Noël 98, donc, après la coupe du monde qui ne m’a pas trop intéressé, je pars dans le New Jersey à Noël  sans mes parents, et je passe mon temps devant la console, entre des filles à poils sur le mur et un petit héro sur l’écran qui court dans la forêt, mariant à jamais mon excitation sexuelle avec  les jeux vidéo. Etrangement, il n’y a pas de photo.

La découverte suivante s’est réellement faite sous la forme d’un coffre que l’on ouvre et qui vous illumine le visage.

Ce coffre, bien qu’immatériel car je suis de la génération mp3, contenait des chansons, quelques livres de mythologie, des uniformes, une guitare et un peu de drogue. C’est le deuxième cristal, la deuxième clé, la pièce manquante. Il a fallu la chercher pendant de de longs trimestres scolaires en dessous de la moyenne, d’interminables étés à l’intérieur et de nombreuses interactions sociales plus qu’ inconfortables. D’abord, une émission tard le soir sur Canal Jimmy, puis un peu de temps sur Napster, et aussi à la médiathèque: deux ou trois lectures plus tard ( l’autobiographie de Marilyn Manson, L’aventure Punk, un livre sur les Ramones), j’étais converti. Je connaissais les dieux du rock et je serai leur servant. Et puis, j’ai trouvé ma tribu. Il existait en fait un certain type de personnes qui se délectaient de ne pas être comme tout le monde, qui n’écoutait rien de ce qui passait à la radio et qui n’avait pas envie d’aller en pécho en boîte. Si l’école ne les intéressaient pas, ils n’en était pas moins lettrés et pouvait se vanter  en cours de français d’avoir lu tout Bukowski.  Sur nos tables d’école se côtoyait les pentagrammes satanistes, les “A” anarchistes, “ We are the mods”, “la jeunesse emmerde le Front National”, entre autres  “ I hate myself and I want to die” surmonté d’un raffiné “ je ne connaît ni dieu ni maître, sauf maître Kanter”, hymne de nos soirées dûment alcoolisées. Bref, j’étais rebel à tendance rock n’ roll, début des années 2000.

Sur la photo, je suis au milieu une bière à la main, et je regarde vers l’objectif. A ma gauche, il y a Etienne et Mathieu et à ma droite, Sabrina et Guillaume se roulent une grosse pelle. On est devant une tente mal montée dans un sous bois et plusieurs cadavres de bouteilles jonchent le sol. On est partis en Bretagne, et ça doit être la fin d’après-midi car la lumière est assez belle, presque orange. On avait trouvé ce plan de camping semi-sauvage au dernier moment pour partir en septembre, tous contents d’être libres un mois de plus avant d’aller à la fac. J’ai inventé une histoire de maison de tante à Sabine pour mes parents, et on est partis. C’est la dernière fois que j’ai pris un appareil photo jetable avec moi. En 2004 on en trouvait encore plein et je n’avais pas encore touché mon premier salaire pour m’acheter un numérique. Grâce à ça, je tiens cette photo à présent. Ensuite, j’ai eu un appareil, puis un téléphone, et puis je n’ai presque plus eu de photo matérielle.

Quand je regarde la photo maintenant, je me dis que j’étais vraiment bien à ce moment là, quasi christique au milieu de mes potes, n’ayant pas encore vraiment eu le coeur brisé, pensant être le plus classe du monde avec mon look post punk qui allait bientôt devenir 60’s et mes références obscures pour “les autres”, et un usage encore très récréatif des drogues. ça se voit sur la photo, on est moches et heureux.

La structure du jeu et la métaphore filée qu’il représentait pour moi s’envole au moment où je repose la dernière photo. Les détails qui me reviennent ne permettent pas de créer un narration, une construction de mon identité, les images sont éparpillées sur des blogs aux balbutiement de la mise en abîme du numérique. Fini, la projection de soi dans le petit personnage qui court. Finis, les niveaux et les pièces. Fini la claireté des mouvements.  La console est là, près de moi, inerte. Il reste encore un cristal à trouver, peut être. Ou bien est-ce que c’est simplement de jeter cette foutue console? Je suis un homme maintenant.

[whatifeelslikeforagirl-blog]

Date Night

They had met in the hallway one Friday and he had invited her to have dinner and a couple of drinks with him later in the evening. They had been saying “hello” to each other for a few months now. There might have been a few smiles but her thoughts had never lingered on his features or his aura. At the restaurant that was really just a students’ hangout, everything had slid smoothly. His moves were clear and perfectly understandable to her. He told her that he had been married but did not believe in marriage anymore. She shared her views on the question: she did not believe in this institution either because life had already proven to her that love had nothing to do with signing two names on a paper. He said smiling that it should not prevent anyone from having a little fun and tenderness. When she was half-way though her first beer, he told her that if she did not feel like driving back, she could always crash at his place that was nearby. He listened to her thoughts and fears about life and analyzed the strings of her relationships web. His moves were clear and understandable to her. He bought her drinks and fed her. She looked at him and tried to understand his eyes, and remember his face. She tried to integrate his features into her senses so it would feel good sleeping with him later. They went to a much noisier bar where they drank some more. Every time she went to the bathroom, it took her a minute to remember who to look for in the crowded room. When she went there for the third time, staggering on her pumps, she had to memorize the pattern of his shirt.

They went to his apartment and drank and talked some more. His place was bare and she could not see any identity in it. It was impossible to say who lived there. When he went to the bathroom, she was almost surprise to see this person come back. His moves were clear and perfectly understandable to her, even though his was not pressing. They went to bed as she was starting to doze off on the couch. They had sex in the most usual and understandable way: him on top, her on top, doggy. Touchy-touchy, done, sleep. Everything was crystal clear. In the morning, she woke up with the headache and he made her coffee. When she looked his face while he was doing some dishes she did not recognize him from anywhere. She wondered if he had looked like that yesterday, and every other time when they said “hello” in the hallway of the office. She sipped the coffee quickly in his bare kitchen. They talked about the weather and the prices of books. His moves were clear and perfectly understandable to her. He said he’d rather keep this very discreet, and that in this perspective she should not mention it to anyone. He said he liked to be a mysterious man, and liked mysterious things. Crystal clear.

The following days, when he stopped on his way to the copier to say a few words to her, she started noticing that his eyes were green. She had the feeling that his face was not the one of the man doing the dishes, nor of the man telling her people should have a little fun. Nor was it the same shirt, either. She started noticing how he good smelled and how sharp and straight his shoulders were. She thought that he looked at her differently now, and that his smile was indeed mysterious. Suddenly, his face is everywhere.

[whatifeelslikeforagirl-blog]

Fail Tale

At almost thirty-two, Sally is at a fairly good stage in her life. She likes her job as a teacher in a private school, she has a regular amount of friends she can trust and, she believes, know her. She gets along with her family and sees them more often than national holidays. She lives in a big city that she loves and she goes out for drinks, coffees, lunches and dinners at regular and irregular intervals, planned or improvised. She buys clothes, buys make-up, buys food, and buys jewels.  She goes to exhibitions, concerts, foreign film festivals, classic film festivals, and regular movie showings. She does all of this generally not by herself, but sometimes she does.

Overall, Sally is a pretty happy person. Of course it saddens her that it has not occurred. “Yet,” she says, when asked about her sentimental life. “Not yet.” It also saddens her that she has lost count of the number of boys she slept with. Sally is a helpless romantic, and every time she goes to bed with a boy, she opens a window of possibilities. Maybe he’ll fall in love, maybe he will call her back, maybe he’ll break up with his girlfriend, maybe he will want to take her to dinners, drinks, lunches, coffees, exhibitions, foreign film festivals. But for now, it just did not happen. 

She knows that thirty-two is not that old, but she can start to feel her body decaying. Actually, she does not really know if her body was once stable. For as long as she can remember, her body has been changing. Every day of her life, when undressing to take a shower, a bath, or to try on clothes, the shape and contours of her body seem different. Some clothes fit one day, and the next, for some hidden reason, the fabric is too tight or too loose. Hairs grow, pimples appears, skin gets dry, greasy, soft or rough in places that were even and undistinguishable from other parts  twelve hours before.  

Quite often, she makes the changes herself: scissors for the bangs, tweezers for a new brow shape, do-it-you-self hair coloring, - ‘Midnight Ruby’, ‘Chocolate Cherry’, ‘Cool Chestnut Brown’, Midnight Star’ or ‘Crushed Garnet’,  - her favorite hobby. It can also be a new diet, a new of cardio-training, a new perfume. The changes always bring the promise of something new, and for a few hours she truly believes that 'Blowout Burgundy' will break the pattern of her half fulfilling life. 

Sally decides to go out tonight, her and two of her friends are meeting in front of the club where a young and promising band is playing. Judy has to take picture for the webzine she works for, Cece is supposed to accidentally run into her ex. Sally plans on drinking colorful cocktails and feeling dizzy enough to eye languorously some guy she does not know yet. She will laugh about it with her girlfriends in the bathroom, as if they were still twenty seven. 

Things go as planned. The music is good and a little chaotic. The club smells like sweat, beer and leather, but Sally mainly smells her own hair. The scent of her new coloring -"French-Roast"- is not strong enough to cover the greasy, powerful odor of the Japanese Yakitori they all ate for dinner before coming in the club. It disgusted her, so she smoked a lot of cigarettes in the patio before the show started, in vain. 

Later, Judy is taking pictures backstage. Cece is kissing her ex-boyfriend. Sally is eyeing languorously a tall, dark haired man in his late thirties wearing a Joy Division t-shirt, black jeans, and Beatles-boots. He responds to her eyeing by buying her a drink. Soon enough, they are kissing. It’s blurry but efficient. Sally wants to go home with him, but as she exits the bathroom bragging tackily about her plans, Judy tells her that it's better to give him her number, and see him again in a few days. 

"But what if he doesn't call back?"

"Then he's not worth it, Sal." At this exact moment Sally knows she will never understand that game. She wants it now, he wants it now. Why not? Girls are supposed to act in mysterious ways she never gets.

She wants to answer Judy and say that she at least wants to have sex, but she knows how it will sound: like she's lying and what she longs for is what happens after sex. The lunches and the dinners and the exhibitions and the classic film festivals. So, she doesn't lie and is hoping to break the pattern.

Sally orders another drink, and loudly whispers in Mister Joy Divison's ear that she has to go home alone tonight. He asks for her number instantly, which Sally considers as a good sign. He immediately send her a text stating,  "Now you can call me, too," which Sally does not consider as such a good sign because now she will have to decide who's going to call first. 

The next morning, Sally quickly makes the math in her head: Monday she is leading the parent-teacher meeting, Wednesday she's supposed to have a drink with Cece. She's free Tuesday and Thursday and has a family weekend planned out of the city. In the meantime, she has to find a moment to go to get waxed down there, as a basic sign of respect, but mostly for confidence. This should be doable. He just has to call.

At about six on Saturday, Sally starts thinking that maybe she could call him on Monday, just to secure her schedule. She knows it would be better if he calls. She’ll feel better about it. But, if that's him who will take her to dinners, lunches, coffees, foreign film festivals, concerts and regular movie showings, will it really matter who called? 

Sunday night at about seven, Sally decides to text him. She thinks about proposing to meet over coffee, but dates over coffee never get her into bed. She always feels better when a little, or a lot of, alcohol is involved. She is careful to be casual and not to appear needy. At first she wants to say that she is not available on Monday and Wednesday, but she refrains. She'll sound stronger and more independent if he asks to meet her Wednesday and she can't. Or maybe she could cancel that drink with Cece? And also, does she really have to go to this family weekend? In the end, at half past eight, she sends: "What about meeting for drinks this week?"

At ten fifteen, the phone is still silent. Sally leaves the phone on her bed while she goes in the living room, and tries to concentrate on a documentary about the business of automatic shutters. 

During commercial break, and thinking that men like an honest woman, she texts him "BTW, I'm busy Monday and Wednesday, have plans this weekend but I’m flexible." As soon as she sees the green balloon appear on the screen, she feels very stupid, but it’s too late anyway. Maybe he'll think she's being cute. Even sexy.

When she finally goes to sleep, it is one thirty and the phone is still. 

The week starts and Sally takes care of her hair down there on Wednesday anyway. “It’s a matter of pride” she tells herself when she signs the thirty five dollars check. She also remembers all those times when being ready in the hair department had been mysteriously concomitant with a small, half satisfying affair. But the phone remains still. The green popping balloons on the screen keep on waiting for their gray counterparts. Even when she does not look at the screen for four hours in a row. 

When they are at a foreign film festival the following Friday, she declares to Judy and Cece "I should have at least” she exhale slowly the smoke of her Lucky Strike, “gone home with him." 

[whatifeelslikeforagirl-blog]

#metoo

It's something strange, a memory. We often ask, what do you remember? but what we should really ask is, how do you remember? The how does it all. It's easy to remember, easy to gather facts, but it's much more difficult to name how you remember.

She remembers that it was on Christmas day, December 25th. That's easy. She remembers the dark grey of the city under snowy rain, nothing at all like a white Christmas. She remembers her shoes: Ankle-boots with a reasonable yet aggravating heel. She remembers wondering, is it too much? and dismissing the though as she knew they were friends now, and no longer lovers.

She remembers that it was difficult to find his apartment, she walked the street in the wrong direction, trudging back and forth on the uneven sidewalk until her feet hurt in her shoes. Her hair was getting all fuzzy but she remembers that it made her feel confident that he would not be misled in thinking she had made a big effort for him. She remembers looking at her reflection in a window shop. Maybe the dress was too short, the cleavage too inviting. But she remembers telling herself that there was no risk: he had a girlfriend he lived with, he was not interested in their casual relationship anymore. It was Christmas day after all, she could wear her Sunday’s best without sending a message. He would not think she had come for that. But still, she knew how sometimes he got confused with signals. And sometimes, she got confused too.

She remembers the view from the tiny window, all the uniform grey roofs shining sadly with crystalized water. One could imagine that it would be silver, but it was not. The tin roofs looked like they were slimy, viscid, dead. The lights inside the neighborhood windows were not bright, they were not shining in their frame. Everything was dimmed in the city of lights.

The air was quickly filled by their cigarettes smoke and the bottle of wine was opened. She remembers drinking the red pungent liquid in a coffee mug, emptying it quickly so the uneasiness would fade. She remembers hoping to get less conscious about the painted birds on the wall and the paper butterflies on cloth pins, clinging to the purple curtains. She remembers wishing to be less observant of the books neatly put on the shelves, reading some titles sideway: Waiting for Godot, the Diaries of Anais Nin, Pheadra’s Love .

He started to say how much he had liked being her lover for all these years, and how, all in all, they were best friends for eternity. She recalls thinking, as she grew more and more intoxicated, that nothing would happen between them that night. At many occasions in the past, she did not expect them to but they did it anyway. Was it him who wanted it, and she who complied? Had she always wanted it as well, or just accepted it? It was hard to remember if she had always desired him every time.  But tonight, no. She was just all dolled up because it was Christmas, not for him. She was not here about this, and she is sure about this memory.

Still, he told her he was flattered she put on a dress and heels for him. Are you my Christmas present? He said. She laughed but said no. She did say no, didn’t she?

After this, she is not able say what she remembers. The how is stronger than the facts. Her body, however, could remember the facts for days. She does not remember how strongly she said no again and again, or how strongly he forced himself onto her. Did she give up in the end? Didn’t she just try to enjoy the moment? Why can't she remember this one time as any other? She probably can. The story could be told in a different way.

She cannot remember in what state of mind she left the purple cocoon but she remembers staying curled in bed all day on December 26th, as no sun came out from behind the iron of her shutters. How will she remember that? Can she name it? Wouldn’t it be best just to forget?

A few days later, she told the story to a friend. The friend spelled out the word. One could think that the culprit is easily identified once the word is uttered. But the memory is so gray and muddy that the positions get confused. Does A come after R, and E after P? Put the letters together and you get a memory for life. Something a girl can never put behind her, because by saying it, she knows not only what to remember but how to remember. It starts with R but never ends.

[whatifeelslikeforagirl-blog]

The Things We Carried

“We are a whole entity. The three of us represents a generation of girls that is neither lost nor found. We speak among ourselves as if the outside world was a private joke: ‘bad taste and beauty’ is our manifesto. We like cats in space, double rainbows, Berlin, London, Amsterdam and Paris. We like natural soap, nail polish, 1977 British punk rock, headbands, revolutions and bad TV.  We like to smoke, drink, eat, talk, dream, sleep and make love. All along the way, things happen”

When she learned that she was sick, Emily carried many things in her cheap oversized H&M purse. She had three note-books: one for lists of things she wanted, one for lists of things she had to do and one for secret lists. She also carried her organizer: like all cases of strong procrastinators, she liked to plan ahead, satisfied with the idea that there was always a tomorrow. She carried a pair of flat shoes, for when the heels would hurt. She carried make up: MAC pressed powder Studio Pro B012, Clinique Mascara Extra Black, MAC lipstick Super Matte Russian Red, Bobby Brown Extreme Concealer 02. She carried her keys, her Metro Card, her phone, a few tampons, several crumpled political leaflets, a Gossip CD, and the UK edition of Glamour. When the doctor told her she has skin cancer, she changed her shoes and called Martha.

When Martha learned that her aggressor was going to walk free because of lack of evidence, she was carrying almost nothing. She had gone to the police station in a frenzy and not really thinking about the aftermath. Nobody was taking her on the phone when she called, so she decided to check for herself what was the status of her complain. She found herself in the street at 9 pm, her ring keys around her thumb, wearing flip flops, sweat pants and a t-shirt of a wolf howling to the moon. She didn’t have her ID, but the lady at the front desk remembered her. She thought about her purse at home, with two packs of cigarettes, her phone with probably worried text answers from Emily, Kate and July. Martha always carried her phone with her, something was wrong when she did not respond. In her purse was also a pepper spray, a knife, five different OPI nail polish bottles, three or four candy bars and a paperback edition of Martin Eden.

When July heard that she was sterile, she was on her way to class. She had an early doctor’s appointment to discuss test results. In her bag, she had her German vocabulary textbook “Technical and Economic Vocabulary of Modern German”, her French translation workbook “Traduction Grammaticale Française Niveau 3”, a note pad with mostly drawing of fairies on it, a note pad with serious notes about European politics, and a note-book with song lyrics. She was also carrying a huge set of keys – her apartment’s, her boyfriend’s, her mother’s, her father’s – with a Napoleon Dynamite key chain, her phone, her cigarettes, her Metro Card, gloves, an MP3 player and a pack of gum. She was also carrying a small glittery pouch in which were hastily put together a survival make up and first aid kit: Ibuprofen, alcohol, Band-Aids, a nail clipper, tweezers, MAC compressed powder Studio Pro 010, Benefit Brow Pencil Amazing 03, three Clinique lip glosses and a mini spray of her perfume L’Eau D’Issey Miyake. She got out of the hospital, she put her bag down because it felt very heavy, and she called Emily.

[whatifeelslikeforagirl-blog]

The Cat in the Microwave

I waited until we all went in the gift shop, and I just took off. How crazy is Le Chateau de Versailles with ATMs all over, Banque Populaire, my ass. Tourists like us are sure the ones to be fooled, be gift-shopped, you idiots! I’m a pretty ruthless kid, you know that, and I have a good sense of orientation, north and south and where the RER thingy was. So I just went. Putting the ticket in the machine where you’re supposed to put the ticket, I was feeling super good. The turnstile turned, and I was on the platform, ready for an adventure.

A train arrived, and I made my way in among all the stupid tourist sheep getting down, highly recognizable with maps and shorts. Can somebody tell me why Americans tourists like to wear shorts all the time? Come on. Nobody wears shorts in Paris. Go to the beach and have an ice cream instead. Me? My American-ness was not detectable: a short dress from when I was 11 or so –vintage, kinda blueish with a white V neck, it was very tight and really looked bad ass. Bare legs and basic tennis shoes from H&M. I know you were going to ask me anyway.

So, I was on this train but I didn’t really know where it was going. Not that I had a particular destination in mind, though. I wanted to wander around, you know, get lost a bit. So I decided to get down at whatever station would ring a bell.  I sat on a yellowish leathery seat next to a window and even turned my Blackberry off. I was looking outside and feeling cool. Nothing to see, really, wasteland surrounded by looking alike houses, huge aluminum boxes-like buildings that were factories or offices of some sort. Three or four stations from Versailles, this guy came and sat in front of me. I really don’t remember his face, but he was fat and sweaty. Yeah, like super fat, and maybe he had glasses, I don’t know. A big fat dirty cat. Well, he was looking at me in a, like, insistent way. I kept looking at the window. Really, not through it, but, like, at it. At the engravings I deciphered - 9-3 en force, Nike la police, the dirt and the bird shit. I was probably squinting a little bit. I didn’t want to look at him, but I knew he was still staring. I really wasn’t risking anything in terms of rape possibilities because there were plenty of people around. But still, I held my backpack closer to me and my body closer to the window, trying to hide my chest area from his sight. I remembered that my mom told me- when I was like 10 and a half - that men were not only excited by breasts, but also by legs and belly buttons. I felt kinda naked.

But anyway, at one point I figured that we were entering Paris. The train was now underground and more and more people came on and off. I focused to gather a little strength and I stood up very naturally, like I knew where I was and what I was doing here. Not disturbed at all because his look had burnt my insides and my legs were really cold. He whispered something like:

“mmmmmmmmmmmm, tehh boann saalop”

It sounded sexual and gluey, probably a compliment like ‘Hum, pretty kitty, I wanna eat you with gravy’, but like, dirtier. Passing him, I saw his hand between his legs. So I looked away and just took off.

I felt itchy-gloomy at first, but then I saw the name of the station and it was Saint Michel, which I had saw of in the travel books Mom had packed for me before I went to this stupid trip with my class. After following the ‘Sortie Place Saint Michel’ sign for what seemed like billions of hallways, I climbed some stairs and stepped into the light. It was crowded, like mad. People came and went like a massive jelly-fish, so I couldn’t really move around and see what was there. A girl with dreadlocks and a stinky smell bumped into me and I stumbled on a bike, doing a very inelegant somersault. I scratched my knees just enough to see a little blood. Naked legs with blood, pretty bad ass.  I got up swallowing some tears - from the pain of falling down, obviously, not because the whole world had seen my panties, and I felt like a goofy stray kitty-cat. But anyway, I was finally able to cross the street and take a look around. There was this fountain in the middle of a big square made triangular by big avenues joining at the tip. Water came out of dragons’ mouths and above there was an angel with huge wings that seemed to watch over all the people coming, going, standing, smoking, looking good, looking terrible, reading, talking, taking pictures, biting their nails, eating and putting lipstick on. Too many people there, I’m telling you. I crossed the Place and sit on a door step in a tiny street just behind. It was quiet, compared to the over-populated situation on Place Saint Michel. I thought I would rest for a bit before exploring some more without further humiliation.

From a distance, I saw a girl and a man at the end of the street. I say a girl because she mustn’t have been much older than me, like 16 or something. I say man because he looked older, like, old enough to be her dad, but he wasn’t. They were arguing and they were holding hands too.  As they were approaching, he said something that sounded mean, like spitting in her face. She started running in my direction, fleeing, like a lunatic, if you ask me. I pressed my back against the stone wall behind me. He caught up with her. He was tall and looked strong with short, almost white, blond hair. She was kinda chubby. I saw that she was crying, or had cried, because her mascara was all over her cheeks, like some odd goth kid. So he was next to her again, holding her arm pretty firmly, as far as I could tell. She said something that could have meant that she loved him, or that she was going to die, or that she forgot to feed the cat and that the cat now was dead. He stroked her hair and kissed her on the mouth. I was watching them trying to look invisible. I think it kinda worked, because she started to lower her free hand from his chest to his pants. I couldn’t see very well, but she probably unzipped him. I know French people have sex all the time in the streets, it’s part of the culture, so I was ok when she took his thing out. I was not surprised either to see her get on her knees. I know about this stuff, you see.

Just before she was about to start what she was about to start, she told him something, smiling, sounding like “I know you love your kitty anyway.”  He did not smile back. Instead, he grabbed her hair and pulled her up. I jumped at her scream and bang my head against the wall. She started crying again. Loudly this time, like the cat had died in the microwave. He started screaming at her, like she had intentionally put the cat there. He kept his hand in her hair and all she did was cry. It was really bad, her crying. Nobody on Place Saint Michel seemed to hear or pay attention to her creepy weeping. Finally he let her go, she stumbled back a few steps, silent for a moment. I wanted to go away but it was too much of a cliff hanger I guess, so I couldn’t move. I stopped looking, though. I could hear her talking, begging, like a teeny baby girl, like she was four or something. That’s when I heard a slapping sound, a scream, and then muffled unidentifiable sounds and sobs. The man wasn’t saying anything, only the girl was crying. I heard footsteps going the other way, slow, then fast, then slow again while fading. I waited a minute or two and then I got up. I couldn’t help but looking over my shoulder. The girl was like, sitting on the edge of the sidewalk, her nose was bleeding badly, and her white t shirt was covered with blood and dirt. She wasn’t crying anymore, but she was patting her cheek with her mouth twisted. Seeing me, she lit up the cigarette she had in her hand and waved with a sad grin that could have meant something like “how fun it is to put the cat in the microwave”. I didn’t know what to think so I just took off.