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Fiction

Diary of an Old Mad Woman

By Umar Timol
Translated from French by Joyce Fortuné-Pope
Umar Timol gives us an excerpt from his first novel, Journal d’une vieille folle, in which he adopts the perspective of an engaging and wickedly funny “mad woman.”

I am a cliché.

An exotic cliché, indeed, I’ve been living here close to thirty years and like clockwork, I am asked the same questions, the same commentaries. So you come from there, it must be so beautiful so wonderful; why do you live here when your island is so lovely. I just dream of going there, to relax under the beautiful tropical sun, allow me to tell you madam, that you have the charm and kindness of the people from over there. Yes, nice and charming, that’s what I am remembered for. I am the foreigner, the other who comes from somewhere else, but who is more like you than you could ever imagine; and so I am filled with the same shit that festers in the dregs of your aborted dreams. 

Then come the victim-clichés, usually after a few glasses of booze, the hangdog look when you are red in the face and not fully aware of what you’re saying, or perhaps you just want to let out what your real thoughts are. That yes, over there, with the coconut palms, the natives must be really happy, busy merrymaking. That’s the legendary island laziness; it’s the weather, the indolent sun that makes you want to laze around, sleeping and dreaming; thank goodness we succeeded in civilizing them. But being charming and nice, I keep quiet; for a long time now I’ve just been skimming the surface of people and things; whatever you say, think or shit; I can’t care less. 

I don’t even give a fuck actually. 

I am a cliché. Cuz, I am in the average lower class. I live in a small, crummy apartment on the outskirts of the big city. No need to describe it. You just need to know that it exudes the stink of mediocrity. I am neither rich nor poor, neither beautiful nor ugly, intelligent or stupid. I am nothing. But no one would want to say that . We live in a positive era. We should be positive. The world is in bad shape. We have enough bombs to blow us all the way to hell but we should be positive. I am positive. I am nothing but I am positive.  
 
I am a cliché. For I am an old woman, and the old woman is expected to know how to behave in society. You need to hold yourself up, dear. For instance, she can’t be belching forth that she is scared shitless at the prospect of death.  She cannot say that she doesn’t have any desire to play with her grandchildren. Anyway, I don’t have any. She has to make herself small, all gnarled up like a chamber pot, oh so sorry for my rudeness, let’s just say a flower vase, which we would like to get rid of but can’t because we are nostalgic about times past.  Over in my island, we like old people, especially when they have enough land to feed several generations of heirs. Here it’s civilized, so we send them to what is modestly called a retirement home. Strange prudishness when we all know that they spend their days in piss- and shit-filled diapers. 
 
I am a cliché because I hate my husband. Nothing venomous, I need to emphasize, of course, but again, I dislike him. My husband, le seul et unique  (I express myself in French; I am from there you know, the so-called exotic island, a former colony; we speak every language but master none and please don’t think that I’m bashing the sacrosanct French Language). Let me make this clear, he is not a bad man, just mediocre. After all what do you expect after thirty years of cohabitation? Do I need to talk about true love, the kind of love that crosses boundaries of time and space; the love that is fulfilled in the fusion of body and soul? We’ll leave that to the big-hearted and intellectually challenged teenagers. He is just like any other man, neither better nor worse. He watches his porn discreetly and manipulates his dick with the same gentleness as the remote. He is a soccer fan, he follows Liverpool (why Liverpool and not Manchester, I would like you to meditate once more on our colonial history). He watches the games, a can of beer in hand and swaying like the very devil himself. He thinks he is such a great soccer player, he has the gait of a referee and the gawky look of a ball boy. I have never understood, for the life of me, why heterosexual men, at least to all appearances, enjoy watching twenty-two men in briefs chase a ball. We’ll not understand the mystery of the male anytime soon. Let’s move on. No need to evoke poetically the tricks he uses to fuck me, sorry, I mean to make love to me.  Or his stubbornness, his gauche ways or his loud clothes, he tends to lean toward pink and orange.

 I am a cliché. I am  a predictable woman, in predictable surroundings, in an aseptic  society, which eliminated violence and sells prefabricated dreams to the masses, which thinks death can be fooled with a consumption frenzy. We live in the era of triviality. Prosperity made us mawkish. I am a predictable woman in a society of predictability.

I am a comedian in my free time. I made hyprocrisy an artform, I deserve an Oscar for my performance, or, why not, the title of Professor Emeritus at a prestigious university. Well, don’t they confer titles on idiots, for instance, a doctorate to a great soccer player, such a great man who, what an achievement, spent his whole life chasing a ball. I imagine the scene:  the crowd cheering, I am being awarded the title of Doctor in Hypocrisy or better yet, the title of Miss World Hypocrisy, and there I am, choked up, tears in my eyes, thanking everyone who helped and sustained me and, especially, and there’s a lot of them, those who messed up my life. Not only am I crazy but I also possess a great sense of humor. It seems like a lot of talent in one person, don’t you agree!

The tragedy, you see, is that I want to be by myself. I don’t need anyone. But that’s rarely possible for the simple reason that I am married. And my husband, pardon me, my dear husband, an aficionado of fashionable gatherings, is, as I said before, involved in everything, often the most repugnant frivolities such as associations, clubs, unions, and I think I said it already, he—sorry, his wonderful wife—regularly entertains at home. It’s a strange parade of bastards, half-bastards, would-be bastards, complete and utter bastards, neurotic screw-ups and dumb bastards, who think they are superior to others. Makes me think of a zoo, there’s the whole range of human bastardy spread out in all its splendor and diversity. And the lady, that’s me, I pose and play; I’m extremely gracious, I know the welcome protocol specific to each communal group. Depending on who’s the listener, I know how to pose the type of question that charms and disarms (how is your son or daughter the doctor/ accountant?). I’ve read Dale Carnegie, I will open my little mouth only at the right time, everything is well thought through. I know how to exude the poison that enthralls and throws off balance, since I am the demure wife, I try to stay away from the chat of my beloved’s friends; when he makes some insipid comments about me—isn’t she just pretty today—I play coy and simper; oh, honey stop it, you shouldn’t…right here in front of everybody. I am embarrassed and in order to play the part better, I even blush, not too much but just enough. I am in other words a real saint, a noble ethereal soul who sows friendship and brings out the best in everyone. To put the last nail in the coffin, toward the end of the evening, I talk about my charitable work with an association that caters to indigent people. You should see, I nail it down, they look at me flabbergasted and awestruck. Go on, you can applaud, but I really reach the height of my abilities when I entertain my dear husband’s family. Bunch of half-witted fools, they are, from the village-island; you can admire me, I pamper them, spoil them, I am at their every beck and call. I prepare the nice dishes they like, I take them around the city, I give the children gifts, I patiently listen to the old people telling me their problems and it works, they love me, adore me even. They tell my husband that he is very lucky to have such a wonderful wife. I am indisputably, a very gifted actress. 

I play my role so well that sometimes I forget who I really am.

 
I am crazy

I spend all my days riding the subway. I like the dizzying feel of it, losing myself in the crowd, an anonymity that dilutes all feeling of belonging just letting yourself go, dragged along in the flow of bodies and metal. I do this because I am in search of a glance, a lascivious look from a being who would reawaken me, give new meaning to my life. I stay like that, on the trains, for hours on end, I transit from one train to the next, searching for those eyes, only one glance, but it does not come and will never come because no one sees me anymore, I no longer arouse desire in anyone.  

I am invisible 

I am nothing. 

I allow myself a second kind of madness. I sometimes cut my veins with a blade. To be honest with you, there’s nothing to dramatize about, I always stop myself at the right moment. A few drops of blood and soon it’s all over. I am not like those teenagers, stupid and crude, who slash themselves to the bone. I have always hated drama. I am a middle-class lady, even if it doesn’t look that way, and the middle class doesn’t condone cheap acts of provocation. To tell the truth, I’m like a surgeon who can remodel a nose or tits, sorry, I mean breasts, without leaving any scars. High art. 

I chisel my skin artfully.

This is who I am. A cliché, a comedian, a mad woman.

Or so I think.

Sad spectacle or an ordinary one. It’s up to you.

The essential isn’t here.

I am in love.

I love you.

© Umar Timol. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2012 Joyce Fortuné-Pope. All rights reserved.

English French (Original)

I am a cliché.

An exotic cliché, indeed, I’ve been living here close to thirty years and like clockwork, I am asked the same questions, the same commentaries. So you come from there, it must be so beautiful so wonderful; why do you live here when your island is so lovely. I just dream of going there, to relax under the beautiful tropical sun, allow me to tell you madam, that you have the charm and kindness of the people from over there. Yes, nice and charming, that’s what I am remembered for. I am the foreigner, the other who comes from somewhere else, but who is more like you than you could ever imagine; and so I am filled with the same shit that festers in the dregs of your aborted dreams. 

Then come the victim-clichés, usually after a few glasses of booze, the hangdog look when you are red in the face and not fully aware of what you’re saying, or perhaps you just want to let out what your real thoughts are. That yes, over there, with the coconut palms, the natives must be really happy, busy merrymaking. That’s the legendary island laziness; it’s the weather, the indolent sun that makes you want to laze around, sleeping and dreaming; thank goodness we succeeded in civilizing them. But being charming and nice, I keep quiet; for a long time now I’ve just been skimming the surface of people and things; whatever you say, think or shit; I can’t care less. 

I don’t even give a fuck actually. 

I am a cliché. Cuz, I am in the average lower class. I live in a small, crummy apartment on the outskirts of the big city. No need to describe it. You just need to know that it exudes the stink of mediocrity. I am neither rich nor poor, neither beautiful nor ugly, intelligent or stupid. I am nothing. But no one would want to say that . We live in a positive era. We should be positive. The world is in bad shape. We have enough bombs to blow us all the way to hell but we should be positive. I am positive. I am nothing but I am positive.  
 
I am a cliché. For I am an old woman, and the old woman is expected to know how to behave in society. You need to hold yourself up, dear. For instance, she can’t be belching forth that she is scared shitless at the prospect of death.  She cannot say that she doesn’t have any desire to play with her grandchildren. Anyway, I don’t have any. She has to make herself small, all gnarled up like a chamber pot, oh so sorry for my rudeness, let’s just say a flower vase, which we would like to get rid of but can’t because we are nostalgic about times past.  Over in my island, we like old people, especially when they have enough land to feed several generations of heirs. Here it’s civilized, so we send them to what is modestly called a retirement home. Strange prudishness when we all know that they spend their days in piss- and shit-filled diapers. 
 
I am a cliché because I hate my husband. Nothing venomous, I need to emphasize, of course, but again, I dislike him. My husband, le seul et unique  (I express myself in French; I am from there you know, the so-called exotic island, a former colony; we speak every language but master none and please don’t think that I’m bashing the sacrosanct French Language). Let me make this clear, he is not a bad man, just mediocre. After all what do you expect after thirty years of cohabitation? Do I need to talk about true love, the kind of love that crosses boundaries of time and space; the love that is fulfilled in the fusion of body and soul? We’ll leave that to the big-hearted and intellectually challenged teenagers. He is just like any other man, neither better nor worse. He watches his porn discreetly and manipulates his dick with the same gentleness as the remote. He is a soccer fan, he follows Liverpool (why Liverpool and not Manchester, I would like you to meditate once more on our colonial history). He watches the games, a can of beer in hand and swaying like the very devil himself. He thinks he is such a great soccer player, he has the gait of a referee and the gawky look of a ball boy. I have never understood, for the life of me, why heterosexual men, at least to all appearances, enjoy watching twenty-two men in briefs chase a ball. We’ll not understand the mystery of the male anytime soon. Let’s move on. No need to evoke poetically the tricks he uses to fuck me, sorry, I mean to make love to me.  Or his stubbornness, his gauche ways or his loud clothes, he tends to lean toward pink and orange.

 I am a cliché. I am  a predictable woman, in predictable surroundings, in an aseptic  society, which eliminated violence and sells prefabricated dreams to the masses, which thinks death can be fooled with a consumption frenzy. We live in the era of triviality. Prosperity made us mawkish. I am a predictable woman in a society of predictability.

I am a comedian in my free time. I made hyprocrisy an artform, I deserve an Oscar for my performance, or, why not, the title of Professor Emeritus at a prestigious university. Well, don’t they confer titles on idiots, for instance, a doctorate to a great soccer player, such a great man who, what an achievement, spent his whole life chasing a ball. I imagine the scene:  the crowd cheering, I am being awarded the title of Doctor in Hypocrisy or better yet, the title of Miss World Hypocrisy, and there I am, choked up, tears in my eyes, thanking everyone who helped and sustained me and, especially, and there’s a lot of them, those who messed up my life. Not only am I crazy but I also possess a great sense of humor. It seems like a lot of talent in one person, don’t you agree!

The tragedy, you see, is that I want to be by myself. I don’t need anyone. But that’s rarely possible for the simple reason that I am married. And my husband, pardon me, my dear husband, an aficionado of fashionable gatherings, is, as I said before, involved in everything, often the most repugnant frivolities such as associations, clubs, unions, and I think I said it already, he—sorry, his wonderful wife—regularly entertains at home. It’s a strange parade of bastards, half-bastards, would-be bastards, complete and utter bastards, neurotic screw-ups and dumb bastards, who think they are superior to others. Makes me think of a zoo, there’s the whole range of human bastardy spread out in all its splendor and diversity. And the lady, that’s me, I pose and play; I’m extremely gracious, I know the welcome protocol specific to each communal group. Depending on who’s the listener, I know how to pose the type of question that charms and disarms (how is your son or daughter the doctor/ accountant?). I’ve read Dale Carnegie, I will open my little mouth only at the right time, everything is well thought through. I know how to exude the poison that enthralls and throws off balance, since I am the demure wife, I try to stay away from the chat of my beloved’s friends; when he makes some insipid comments about me—isn’t she just pretty today—I play coy and simper; oh, honey stop it, you shouldn’t…right here in front of everybody. I am embarrassed and in order to play the part better, I even blush, not too much but just enough. I am in other words a real saint, a noble ethereal soul who sows friendship and brings out the best in everyone. To put the last nail in the coffin, toward the end of the evening, I talk about my charitable work with an association that caters to indigent people. You should see, I nail it down, they look at me flabbergasted and awestruck. Go on, you can applaud, but I really reach the height of my abilities when I entertain my dear husband’s family. Bunch of half-witted fools, they are, from the village-island; you can admire me, I pamper them, spoil them, I am at their every beck and call. I prepare the nice dishes they like, I take them around the city, I give the children gifts, I patiently listen to the old people telling me their problems and it works, they love me, adore me even. They tell my husband that he is very lucky to have such a wonderful wife. I am indisputably, a very gifted actress. 

I play my role so well that sometimes I forget who I really am.

 
I am crazy

I spend all my days riding the subway. I like the dizzying feel of it, losing myself in the crowd, an anonymity that dilutes all feeling of belonging just letting yourself go, dragged along in the flow of bodies and metal. I do this because I am in search of a glance, a lascivious look from a being who would reawaken me, give new meaning to my life. I stay like that, on the trains, for hours on end, I transit from one train to the next, searching for those eyes, only one glance, but it does not come and will never come because no one sees me anymore, I no longer arouse desire in anyone.  

I am invisible 

I am nothing. 

I allow myself a second kind of madness. I sometimes cut my veins with a blade. To be honest with you, there’s nothing to dramatize about, I always stop myself at the right moment. A few drops of blood and soon it’s all over. I am not like those teenagers, stupid and crude, who slash themselves to the bone. I have always hated drama. I am a middle-class lady, even if it doesn’t look that way, and the middle class doesn’t condone cheap acts of provocation. To tell the truth, I’m like a surgeon who can remodel a nose or tits, sorry, I mean breasts, without leaving any scars. High art. 

I chisel my skin artfully.

This is who I am. A cliché, a comedian, a mad woman.

Or so I think.

Sad spectacle or an ordinary one. It’s up to you.

The essential isn’t here.

I am in love.

I love you.

Le journal d’une vieille folle

Je suis un cliché. 

Un cliché exotique car après près de trente années passées ici on me sert, avec la régularité d’un métronome, les mêmes questions et les mêmes commentaires. Vous venez donc de là-bas, que ça doit être beau, splendide pourquoi habiter ici alors que votre île est si belle, moi je rêve d’y aller, me reposer sous le beau soleil des tropiques, permettez-moi, madame de vous dire que vous avez le charme et la douceur des gens de là-bas.  Oui c’est ça, gentille et charmante, c’est ce qu’on retient de moi, je suis l’étrangère, celle qui vient d’ailleurs alors que je suis comme vous, bien plus que vous ne le croyez, alors que je suis emplie de cette même merde qui grouille dans les bas-fonds de vos rêves avortés. 
 

Ensuite cliché misérabiliste qui s’exerce généralement après quelques verres d’alcool, quand on est rouge et penaud et qu’on ne sait plus tout à fait ce qu’on dit ou plutôt si quand on se laisse aller à dire ce qu’on pense vraiment, que, oui, là-bas, c’est les cocotiers et qu’est-ce qu’ils sont heureux les indigènes, ils s’amusent à tout bout de champ, c’est ça, la fameuse paresse des îles, c’est le temps, le soleil indolent qui vous donne envie de rêver et de dormir, heureusement qu’on est parvenus à les civiliser. Mais comme je suis gentille et charmante, je me tais, de toute façon, je suis depuis longtemps à la surface des êtres et des choses, ce que vous dites, pensez, ce que vous chiez, ce que vous êtes m’importe peu. 
 
Je m’en fous, à vrai dire, royalement. 
 
Je suis un cliché. Car je suis dans la moyenne de la moyenne. Je vis dans un appartement miteux situé dans les faubourgs de la grande capitale. Il n’est pas utile de le décrire. Il suffit de savoir qu’il répand tous les relents de la médiocrité. Je ne suis ni riche, ni pauvre, ni belle, ni laide, ni intelligente, ni bête. Je ne suis rien. Mais ça il faut éviter de le dire. On vit à l’ère du positif. Il faut positiver. Le monde va mal. On dispose d’assez de bombes pour nous renvoyer aux enfers mais il faut positiver. Je positive alors. Je ne suis rien mais je positive. 
 
Je suis un cliché. Car je suis une vieille femme et la vieille est censée savoir se comporter en société. Il faut se tenir, ma chère. Elle ne doit pas se mettre, par exemple, à éructer qu’elle crève de peur à l’idée de la mort. Elle ne doit pas dire qu’elle n’a nullement envie de jouer avec ses petits-enfants. De toute façon je n’en ai pas. Elle doit se faire toute petite, recroquevillée, comme un pot de chambre, mais, non pardonnez-moi cette impolitesse, on dira donc un vase à fleurs dont on a envie de se débarrasser mais on n’y arrive pas parce qu’on a la nostalgie des vieilleries. Là-bas, dans mon île, on aime bien les vieux surtout quand ils ont assez de terres pour nourrir plusieurs générations d’héritiers. Ici, puisque c’est la civilisation, on les confie à ce qu’on appelle pudiquement une maison de retraite. Etrange pudibonderie quand on sait qu’on y passe ses journées dans des couches bourrées de pisse et de merde. 
 
Je suis un cliché car je déteste mon mari. Rien de bien fielleux, il faut le souligner, mais je le déteste. Mon mari, the one and only ( je m’exprime  en anglais car je suis de là-bas, la soi-disant île exotique, ancienne colonie, on y parle toutes les langues sans en maîtriser aucune et il ne faut surtout pas croire que c’est une agression contre la sacro-sainte langue française ). Je précise qu’il n’est pas un méchant homme mais il est tout simplement médiocre. Mais que peut-on espérer, après tout, après trente années de vie commune ? Faut-il que je parle du grand amour, de l’amour qui franchit les frontières de l’espace-temps, de l’amour qui se réalise dans la fusion des corps et des âmes ? Allons laissons ca aux adolescents au grand cœur et à l’intelligence microscopique. Il est homme comme tous les hommes, ni mieux, ni pire. Il regarde son porno avec discrétion, il manie sa queue et la télécommande avec la même délicatesse. Il est amateur de foot, fan inconditionnel de Liverpool ( pourquoi Liverpool et pas Manchester, je vous prie une fois de plus de méditer notre histoire coloniale ). Il regarde ses matchs, une bière à la main et se déhanche comme un beau diable. Il croit qu’il est un grand joueur de foot alors qu’il a la tête d’un arbitre et la dégaine d’un ramasseur de ballons. Je n’ai, par ailleurs, jamais compris pourquoi des hommes, parfaitement hétérosexuels, du moins selon les apparences, s’amusent à regarder vingt-deux hommes en caleçon courir derrière un ballon. On ne va pas résoudre le mystère masculin de sitôt. Mais passons. Pas lieu ici de procéder à l’évocation poétique de ses méthodes pour me baiser, pardon, pour me faire l’amour ou encore son esprit buté ou encore son côté kitsch, ses nombreux vêtements très colorés, il penche pour le rose et l’orange.  
 
Je suis un cliché. Une femme prévisible dans un corps prévisible, dans un lieu prévisible, dans une société aseptisée, qui a évacué la violence, qui vend des rêves préfabriqués aux masses, qui croit tromper la mort avec ses frénésies de consommation. Nous vivons à l’ère de la banalité. La prospérité nous a rendus mièvres. Je suis une femme prévisible dans une société du prévisible. 

Je suis aussi comédienne, à mes heures perdues. J’ai fait de l’hypocrisie un art, je crois bien je mérite un Oscar pour mes exploits ou pourquoi pas, un titre de professeur émérite dans une grande université. On décerne, après tout, des titres à des idiots, un doctorat, par exemple, à un grand joueur de football, à un homme, le bel exploit, qui a consacré sa vie à courir après un ballon. J’imagine la scène, sous les applaudissements de la foule en délire, on m’octroie le titre de doctoresse es hypocrisie ou plutôt, de miss monde hypocrisie et moi, émue, des larmes aux yeux, je remercie ceux qui m’ont aidée et soutenue, notamment ceux, et ils sont nombreux, qui m’ont bousillée la vie. Comme quoi je ne suis non seulement folle mais j’ai aussi un sens très prononcé de l’humour. Ça fait quand même, vous en conviendrez, beaucoup de talents réunis chez une seule personne.

Le drame, voyez-vous, c’est que j’aimerais vivre seule. Je n’ai besoin de personne. Mais cela n’est guère possible, pour la simple et bonne raison, que je suis mariée. Et mon mari, pardon mon cher mari, cet aficionado des mondanités est, je crois vous l’avoir dit, mêlé à toutes les sauces, souvent les plus répugnantes, – associations, club, syndicats – et on, pardon, l’épouse admirable, reçoit, souvent à la maison. C’est un étrange défilé, défilé de cons, de demi-cons, de cons en devenir, de cons irrécupérables, de cons complexés et de cons qui se croient supérieurs. On se croirait dans un zoo, on y retrouve la connerie humaine dans toute sa diversité et  sa richesse. Et donc, madame, c’est-à-dire, moi, joue, je suis d’une extrême politesse, je sais toutes les formules de salutations, selon les communautés, je sais poser, selon l’auditeur, la question qui tue et qui charme ( comment va votre fils / fille le médecin / comptable ), j’ai lu mon Carnegie, moi, je n’ouvre ma petite bouche qu’aux moments propices, tout est calculé, je sais distiller ce poison qui envoûte et déroute, comme je suis l’épouse pudique j’évite aussi de me mêler aux conversations des amis du très cher et quand il énonce un quelconque insipide commentaire à mon propos, qu’elle est jolie aujourd’hui alors je minaude, je fais la timide, comment oses-tu chéri, devant tout le monde, j’ai honte et pour parfaire la comédie je rougis un peu, juste ce qu’il faut, je suis, en d’autres mots, un véritable saint, un être éthéré qui sème l’amitié et glane ce qu’il y a de meilleur chez l’autre, et pour clouer le cercueil, je me mets à évoquer, en fin de soirée, mon travail de bénévole auprès d’une association qui aide les pauvres et là, je peux vous assurer, clou qui cloue le bec, qu’on me regarde d’un air ébahi et émerveillé, je crois qu’il faut là m’applaudir, n’hésitez-pas, allez-y, mais je suis vraiment au sommet de mon art quand je reçois la famille de mon cher mari, pauvres demeurés qui débarquent de l’île-village et il faut m’admirer, je les chouchoute, je les câline, je suis aux petits soins, je leur concocte des plats comme ils les aiment, je leur fait découvrir la belle capitale, j’offre des cadeaux aux enfants et j’écoute patiemment les déboires des vieux et des vieilles et ça marche à merveille, ils m’aiment, ils m’adorent, et disent à mon cher mari qu’il a vraiment de la chance d’avoir une épouse aussi merveilleuse, je suis donc, sans conteste, une comédienne surdouée. 

Parfois  je joue si bien qu’il m’arrive d’oublier ce que je suis vraiment. 

 
Je suis aussi folle.

Ainsi  je consacre toutes mes journées à des tournées dans le métro. J’aime les vertiges de la mécanique, me perdre dans la foule, cet anonymat qui dilue tout sentiment d’appartenance, ainsi se laisser emporter par ces traînées de métal et de chair mêles. Et j’y vais parce que je suis en quête d’un regard, du désir d’un être qui, un instant, m’éveillera à nouveau à la vie, qui lui assignera un sens. Et je demeure ainsi, pendant des heures, dans les trains, je transite d’un train à l’autre, à la recherche d’un regard, d’un seul, mais ce regard ne survient pas, ne surviendra pas car on ne me voit plus, on ne m’observe plus, je ne suscite plus le désir. 
 
Je suis invisible. 
 
Je ne suis rien. 
 
Je m’autorise aussi une deuxième folie. Je m’incise parfois les veines avec une lame. Rien de bien dramatique, il est vrai, car je m’arrête toujours au bon moment. Quelques gouttes de sang et puis s’en vont. Je ne suis pas comme ces adolescents, stupides et vulgaires, qui se tailladent la chair jusqu’à l’os. J’ai toujours détesté le spectacle. Je suis une bourgeoise, même s’il n’y parait pas, et les bourgeoises n’aiment pas la provocation gratuite. Je suis, à vrai dire, comme ces chirurgiens qui parviennent à vous refaire le nez ou les nichons, pardon, les seins sans laisser de cicatrices. Du grand art. 

Je cisèle ma peau avec art. 

Voilà donc ce que je suis. Cliché, comédienne et folle. 

Ou du moins ce que je crois être. 

Spectacle affligeant ou spectacle de l’ordinaire. Je vous laisse choisir. 

Mais le plus important est ailleurs. 

J’aime. 

Je t’aime. 

 

 

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