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Monthly Archives: décembre 2009

Friday. Dec 11th.

hmm, fridays… oh she knows plenty of people that aren’t home. that are out, having fun. or simply out. even her brother and her dad… well, they’re maybe not having fun, but they’re still not with her. she’s alone okay? she’s wearing a XL Jimi Hendrix tee-shirt. and John Lennon’s round glasses. and she’s singing… She was just seventeen and you know what i mean ♫ and no she’s not crazy. it’s just friday. friday does that. she’s not studying, because she’s totally against saturday school and will never stop saying it and doing stuff to prove that this shit is unnecessary. (let’s be serious,… No one remembers stuff they learned at school on saturday. everybody’s like checking their watch because they can’t wait for class to be done so that they can go HOME. my brain is Saturday.School.Knowledge-Proof. ) blah. bread and mustard is something delicious, especially on fridays. she finally realizes she spent all those years thinking it was « jimmy hendrix »… on fridays, she paints herself with laziness and lives life in slow motion. on fridays, she listens to the beatles. out loud. and she twists like those girls from the 80’s… and she sings… She looked at me and i ♫ … i could see ♫. and she thinks about you. asks herself three hundred thousand million questions about you… are you home? sick? tired? pissed? bored? hungry? are you out? drunk? still bored? high?… but since she can’t answer and that there’s no way for her to know, she gives up and put the music louder and starts to dance again. and sings… And we danced through the night ♫ and we held each other tight ♫ who cares? no one’s here to watch her…on fridays, she thinks about life. and realizes loneliness and boredom are the only two things that will never let you down. And my heart went boom ♫, when i crossed that room ♫ and i held her hand in mine ♫…on fridays, she writes. she types for the fun of it. she smiles. because it’s cool… cool to type stuff and to delete ’em after. no one will ever know. ever. she could write what she feels for you… all the stuff she can’t tell you. and then hit « delete » and everything would suddenly disappear, all these pretty… girly… corny… words, well, they would just fly to wherever. imagine for a second, that every thing we deleted went somewhere specific. along with stuff we forget, desires we lost, stuff that disappointed us, people that weren’t important enough for us to remember them… uh? but whatever,… she’s singing … How could i dance with another? ♫ when i saw her standing there ♫ and it’s incredible how she doesn’t care when there’s no one around. how she dances, yells, jumps… on fridays, she’s crazy. but isn’t she always? oh fridays… lipstick stays on the bread when she bites it… the same way lipstick would stay on your cheek if she kissed you. but whatever.

Saturday, Dec 5th.

Tonight i saw what a brothel looks like – bordello, whorehouse…call it however you want. it’s the same. if you live in haiti or have already spent time in the streets (because yeah, some people live there but only spend time in their car and don’t know shit about what’s happening)… yea, so… if you live in haiti you must’ve already seen how bees react when a machann fresco is around. they invade him, go around the syrup in circles like forever, and try to go away with you once you’ve got your fresco… the boys looked like that. some were just sitting in front, on the side of the street, most of them were standing in a big crowd inside, waiting for their turn or trying to get a shortcut by flirting with the girls that were outside the house: pstt… only money flirts there. i was disgusted when i started spotting the girls, they were all prepped and all but they looked awfully filthy. i wouldn’t know how to explain… something in their eyes, in their look, in their expression, was keeping them from being pretty or even pleasant to stare at. i think you need guts to be able to keep your head up in a situation like that… the situation where someone’s gonna pay you to share you STD (because you wouldn’t be there if you didn’t have one). the situation where you live in such a small town and everyone knows and talk about what you’re doing… where, by day, everyone talks behind your back when you go by… where the only thing people can say about you is « Mezanmi… tifi saa… m te deja wè sa pou li. podyab manman’l… ». you know all that, better than me. but you’re still walking through all these boys or they’re around you like a bee tree… you know all of them, because here, everyone knows everyone… some live in your neighborhood, some have their wives that get their hair done at the same place as you, some even grew up with you… know your name, your parents, your brothers… because let me say it again, hello we live in haiti… and EVERYONE knows EVERYTHING about EVERYONE. 

here, it’s not like in the movies, they’re not pretty. they’re not sexy. they don’t smile at you – they can’t even pretend to be happy just to please you. here, the business does not work like that they’re doing what they’re doing just to be able to pay jeans and tops to keep on doing it until they’re too old for it. the factor beauty is not part of the equation. it’s like a circle, it never ends… so why on earth would they smile? what’s even the point of being pretty? it’s not like you’re gonna take them to the restaurant now, are you? or go introduce them to your parents… but some girls are actually, some really are pretty… but you know what happens to them? when they’re young new and pretty? when no one has touched them yet? … well, they become like this one fresco that has too much syrup. ALL the bees want it. and they fight over it until it falls apart and become like all the other ones. so when your young&pretty&new… you get one or two weeks of full attention, everyone wants you and only you and all the other girls hate you. but then, when everyone knows you, when everyone already had you… you’re now part of this disgusting circle and to survive you can’t go out. 

the dudes i was with told me they would never let me stay in there, not even to look at them couldn’t stay near it too much because, apparently other girls weren’t allowed in there for too long, not to complicate stuff or confuse people. 

reality? sucks….

it’s not narcissism, it’s just reality: you are the center of the world. of your world. you just have to deal with the fact that not everyone sees it the same way as you do. that’s kinda my prob… well, i do not expect to be the center of the universe, but i think i at least deserve to be in people i care for priorities. is that being selfish?… yea, i think it is. but no one’s perfect… specially not me, dig it. and yet it feels so good. then you think photography is so cool just because you like it, just to please you… you think peanut butter smells bad & looks like diarrhea just by you hating it… objectivity is just for dogs. it’s not worth na-da. i have a teacher who says that you get to be objective when you don’t let your feelings influence you opinion… i wonder… what the hell should influence my opinion then? if you can’t deal with what i feel AND what i think …and a tiny little bit of what really is – because everyone can see what really is… if a girl is pretty, me or anyone confirming it won’t change that fact. being subjective is adding your personal touch to reality… that’s exactly why i always thought it was stupid for kids in kindergarten to HAVE to draw inside the lines… or otherwise it just WASN’T good or pretty. we were three years old and they were already trying to teach us conformism. everything that was inside the lines was the same as all the other drawings,…to me, it was always that one line or mark, the one that dared to cross the limit… the one that was gonna make the teacher say « tu as dépassé la ligne, là! », that was what made it MY drawing and not just a clone of the other ones. how can 30 drawings be THE SAME and PRETTY at the same time? wtf? Beauty is originality… (And that’s again what i think… you are free to think what you want but that’s my blogpost so only MY opinion is to be expressed) at least that taught me one thing… what the teacher thinks doesn’t matter… the teacher’s word is the one that counts to others, and will always be. but never will matter enough to make me change my mind or behavior, unless it follows MY rules…  the page’s border was and always will be my only limit… i’ll never stay inside the lines just to please people, just to draw… say… something that everyone else saw… heard, already.  i’m not self-centered, or rebel… or maybe i am, but happen not to care about that at all.