“Je veux une vie en forme d’arête (I want a fish bone shaped life)
Sur une assiette bleue (Lying on a blue plate)
Je veux une vie en forme de chose (I want a thingamajig shaped life)
Au fond d’un machin tout seul (In the deep bottom of a contraption)
Je veux une vie en forme de sable dans des mains (A hands-filled-with-sand shaped life)
En forme de pain vert ou de cruche (In form of green loaf or jug)
En forme de savate molle (In form of slabby slipper)
En forme de faridondaine (In form of faridondaine)
De ramoneur ou de lilas (Of chimney sweep or lilac)
De terre pleine de cailloux (Of ground filled with stones)
De coiffeur sauvage ou d’édredon fou (Of wild hairdresser Or besotted eiderdown)
Je veux une vie en forme de toi (I want a life in form of you)
Et je l’ai, mais ça ne me suffit pas encore (And I’ve got it, but it is still not enough)
Je ne suis jamais content (I’m never happy.)”
(“Je veux une vie en forme d’arrête” by Boris Vian, French writer, poet and musician,1920–1959)

Last afternoon I was walking along the Ganges in Varanasi (Benaras) as I wanted to cross the city.
On the way I took a few pictures, I can’t really explain why this poem by Boris Vian came to my mind, I guess I made an analogy with all those lines and colors or maybe there was something which unconsciously connected me to the surrealistic process by which the poet reformed existing patterns…

Boris Vian, Parlem-ne de Miquel Pujadó.

• Data: Diumenge, 29 de novembre
• Lloc: Teatre del Raval
• Adreça: Sant Antoni Abat, 12
• Horari: 19:30 h
• Preu: de 16-18 €

Textul unei melodii de-a lui Boris Vian care făcea furori prin undergroundul jazzistic din Franţa anilor 40-50:

N-aş prea vrea ca s-o mierlesc

N-aş prea vrea ca s-o mierlesc
Făr’ să văd, c-ar fi nasol,
Câini în Mexic soilind
Fără nici un vis câinesc
Şi maimuţe-n fundu’ gol
P-unii tropice halind
Şi păienjeni de argint
În plase pline de bule
N-aş prea vrea ca s-o mierlesc
Făr-să ştiu dacă luna de cleştar
Care pare un biştar
Are corn de staniol
Dacă soarele e rece
Dacă anotimpurile, patru,
Patru sunt cu-adevărat
Fără să fi încercat
Să-mi trag fusta peste-o bucă
Şi să ies pe strada mare
Fără să mă fi uitat
Într-o gură de burlan
Făr’ să trag câte-o maciucă
În locsoare mai bizare
N-aş prea vrea s-o iau la vale
Făr’ să ştiu şi eu ce-i lepra
Da’ şi alea şapte boale
Cu care te pricopseşti pe jos
Nici ce-i bine nici ce-i rău
Să nu mă mai amărască
Dac-aş şti dac-aş şti
C-am sa le fac safteaua
Şi d-azemenea ar fi
Tot ce-n mine zace
Tot ce preţuiesc
Că ştiu eu ce-mi place
Fundul mării de smarald
Unde algele dansează
Pe nisipul ondulat
Iarba-arsă-n iunie
Şi pamântul ce plesneşte
Şi miresmele de brad
Sărutul cui mă iubeşte
Că-i acesta că-i aceea
Ursuleţul meu, Ursula
Tot frumoasă e femeia
N-aş prea vrea ca s-o mierlesc
Înainte de-a uza
Gura ei cu gura mea
Şi cu mâna trupu-i jun
Iar cu ochii ce-a ramas
Mai departe nu mai spun
Îi dau reverentei glas
Nu prea e grozav să mori
Pân’ să se fi inventat
Trandafiri nepieritori
Şi o zi de două ore
Pe la munte câte-o mare
Pe la mare câte-un munte
Dispariţia durerii
Şi ziarele-n culori
Toţi copiii bucuroşi
Şi-alte chestii în domeniu
Care dorm prin minţile
Inginerilor de geniu
Grădinarilor voioşi
Socialiştilor umani
Urbaniştilor urbani
Şi-n vreun gând de gânditori
Sunt atâtea de văzut
De văzut de înteles
Timp destul de cunoscut
Şi din noapte de cules
Iar eu văd moartea rapace
Dă din coate vine-ncoace
Şi cu mutra ei umflată
Îmi întinde labele
De broscuţă cracanată
N-aş prea vrea ca s-o mierlesc
Nu vreau domule, nu doamna
Înainte de-a-ncerca
Acel gust profund al sorţii
De la care ameţesc
N-aş prea vrea ca s-o mierlesc
Înainte de-a gusta
Din adânc savoarea morţii.

Boris Vian – Le deserteur

Pentru că nu mai citisem nimic de Boris Vian, am fost surprins de stil. Cine l-a citit deja mă înţelege. Vian e, în cuvinte puţine, diferit de orice altceva. Incomparabil. „Spuma zilelor” e catalogată de mulţi drept o poveste de dragoste tulburătoare. Este. Unii au gustat cu plăcere forţa imaginaţiei. Are. Alţii au apreciat balansul dintre umor şi dramatism. Este din plin.

„Spuma” rămâne în mintea mea pentru ciudăţeniile sale: soneria care se desprinde din perete pentru a-şi anunţa proprietarul, pianul care produce diverse băuturi în funcţie de piesa cântată, şoricelul acela simpatic, cu rol consultativ în viaţa personajelor, nufărul din plămânul lui Chloe, ţiparul care urcă pe ţeava de scurgere a chiuvetei, micşorarea apartamentului în funcţie de suferinţa îndrăgostiţilor, armele care cresc în funcţie de căldura corpului uman etc.

O miză importantă a cărţii este calificarea muncii drept înjositoare pentru om. Muncind, omul se apropie de statutul de maşină. Drept urmare, Colin, soţul lui Chloe, caută de muncă numai atunci când punga i se subţiază atât de mult încât nu-i mai poate cumpăra soţiei florile care o ajută să se simtă mai bine (a observat că nufărul din plămân nu mai creşte la fel de repede atunci când sunt alte flori în preajmă).  

La Vian, totul este bine sedimentat sub un strat de simboluri. Scria efervescent, avea o putere extraordinară de concentrare şi scotea un roman în două săptămâni. Am citit de el şi proza scurtă „Omul-lup”, despre un lup care devine om şi trăieşte o zi în civilizaţie. Ajunge să fie uimit de agitaţia vieţii umane şi, când vine miezul nopţii, se întoarce în pielea lupului, mulţumit că nu e condamnat la rolul de om.

Şi, pentru că mi-am amintit de postarea despre „Maestrul şi Margareta”, aş spune că accept entuziasmat fantasticul suprarealist al lui Vian. În schimb, nu pot uita cum „a urcat-o” Bulgakov pe Margareta pe mătură, ca să zboare ca o vrăjitoare. Aş fi vrut ca partea aia să o scrie Boris Vian.

Boris Vian, „Spuma zilelor”, Editura Pentru Literatură Universală, Bucureşti, 1969  

I’ve watered this blog but for a few weeks. So forgive me if I just found the past days marked in red. In June the world celebrated 50 years of life without Boris Vian. Unfortunately I have to run to the asphalt factory to get my eyelids replaced or I would play a great essay on the keyboard for you all in high honor of Herr Vian. When I was in the hospital – where they remove all of the limbs for transplant – I found this on the floor next to the waste bin:

Am simtit acea stimulare intelectuala, a capacitatii de a deslusi simboluri si acea satisfactie in fata unei imaginatii si originalitati demne de admirat, pe care nu le-am mai simtit de cand am citit “R.E.M” in clasa a noua . Este vorba de cartea “Smulgatorul de inimi” scrisa de Boris Vian. Lecturarea acestei carti te plaseaza intr-o lume fantastica care ascunde fapte concrete ale lumii de astazi, in care umorul (chiar foarte reusit pe alocuri) ascunde realitati tragice.

Mi querida Elisabet Martínez me vino a buscar a mi hotel madrileño para ir al Thyssen a ver la exposición Las lágrimas de Eros. Pasamos instantes maravillosos, gracias, querida Eli.

La obra anterior de Gustave Courbet la vi en París en la retrospectiva que le dedicó el Museo del Jardin du Luxembourg.

¿Quién me iba a decir a mí que tendría un libro colocado junto a uno de Boris Vian en la librería del Thyssen?

La mia amica Viola sta leggendo (o ha appena finito di leggere) La schiuma dei giorni di quel geniaccio che era Boris Vian. Romanziere, poeta, musicista, cantautore, critico musicale e cinematografico, patafisico d’eccellenza, Vian rimane dentro. Quando lessi (il passato remoto è voluto, si parla di più di dieci anni fa…) La schiuma dei giorni , tenerissima e surreale storia d’amore, ero molto innamorato di quell’amore romantico che poi, con gli anni,  lascia il posto a qualcosa di diverso, più tranquillo, e tutte quelle cazzate lì, eccetera eccetera…

Ricordavo di aver scritto una poesia ispirata a lui. L’ho ricercata in vecchi files di sola lettura, l’ho trovata.

Questa poesia è  dedicata a Viola, cha all’epoca non conoscevo, che invidio molto perché, avendo un 7 invece di un 6 nella data di nascita, è indietro di dieci anni di letture e scoperte folgoranti.

La poesia si intitola Boris e fu scritta per il mio amore. A rileggerla mi fa sorridere.

Boris

Amore,

nessun dobloncione

con cui comprarti.

Tutta questa letteratura

ci confonde

e ci fa sentire

piccolini.

Ti porterò così

nella tasca della mia giacca,

come ho sempre voluto.

Starai buona con me?

Le garage désigne étymologiquement l’action de ranger un véhicule dans une gare. L’expression “voie de garage” lui rend hommage : elle est la métaphore d’une situation condamnant à l’immobilité.

Dès lors, comment expliquer les mythologies créatives – très américaines – gravitant autour des garages ?

Historiquement, le garage nous raconte l’histoire de l’urbanisation du 20e siècle et de la société de consommation : l’american way of life fait rentrer dans la légende le pavillon de banlieue, synonyme d’indépendance, de jardin, de confort, de propriété.

Ce mode d’habitation s’est développé parallèlement à la démocratisation de l’automobile (THE transport individualisé). Parce que la nouvelle bourgeoisie habite dans les suburbs (en distinction des centre-villes populaires) grâce à l’auto, elle doit de doter d’un lieu où la ranger. Initialement indépendant de la maison, le garage va progressivement se coller à l’habitation afin de symboliser le lien qui unit les gens à leur voiture.

Au fur et à mesure, on intègre le garage aux maisons. On ajoute une pièce au-dessus du garage. On la loue pour rembourser son crédit, on l’utilise comme grenier où on la prête aux enfants pour les familiariser à l’indépendance.

Le garage devient un lieu à part, une alternative entre le foyer parental et le monde extérieur, une annexe de l’autorité : le sanctuaire de la voiture, outil d’ouverture sur le monde extérieur.

Pas étonnant dès lors que le garage soit autant lié au changement, à la transformation, il est le catalyseur entre l’ordre et le progrès. D’où le nombre fou de mythologies – savamment storytellées – de créations d’entreprises révolutionnaires ayant vu le jour dans un garage : informatique (Apple, Microsoft, HP…), ingéniérie…

Le garage, c’est la déclinaison moderne de l’atelier ou de la dépendance au fond du jardin où tout se créé, façon Géo Trouvetou, Léonard ou Oncles fameux bricoleurs :

Mon oncle un fameux bricoleur faisait en amateur
Des bombes atomiques
Sans avoir jamais rien appris c’était un vrai génie
Question travaux pratiques
Il s’enfermait toute la journée au fond de son atelier
Pour faire des expériences
Et le soir il rentrait chez nous et nous mettait en transe
En nous racontant tout…
Boris Vian, La java des bombes atomiques

On croise également le mythe du garage au cinéma : Doc de Retour vers le futur y invente sa machine, Kevin Spacey dans American Beauty s’y reforge une nouvelle jeunesse et découvre l’homosexualité…

Le garage, c’est un lieu de transgression : on y fait les premières boums (cf. Sophie Marceau ou Franck Dubosc), on y fait les sottises propres à l’adolescence, on y hurle des refrains pré-punks… Un style musical baptisé Garage Rock, caractérisé par un son sale, enregistré en amateur.

Ce style d’enregistrement subsiste encore de nos jours : le logiciel Garage Band symbolise à lui seul les premiers enregistrements maison.

En bref, le garage témoigne de l’évolution de la société et des cultures adolescentes, il cristallise les alternatives et les idéaux jeunes, il est le lieu de transit vers le monde extérieur…

Tout un programme… Avez-vous d’autres images du garage en tête?

Şimdi hacım… Bu adamın şarkısı var bir kere  (bu adam kim diye mi merak ediyorsunuz ?  Az sonra…). Öncelikle şarkıya yoğunlaşıyorsun (şarkı mı ne ?  Tamam bokunu çıkartmıyorum). Çünkü neden?  Müzik evrenseldir. NAAAH öyle…!! (fazladan ‘’a’’ koyunca çok sinirli görünmüş olabilirim ama bu konuda ölçülüyüm) . İnanır mısınız hiç dinlemediysem en az altmış kere dinledim . Bir bok olacağı yok . O yüzden siz hemen google’a girin . Bildiğiniz bir dilde çevirisini bulun . Sonra da o dilden çevirin .

Şimdi size bir kamu hizmeti yapıyorum ve Boris Vian’ın Le Deserteur adında başbakana yazdığı mektubunu çevireceğim . Ohaaaaa inanır mısınız şimdi internetten arattım Türkçe çevirisini yapmışlar.  Alın işte  burada .  Lan bütün yazma amacım gitti anasını satayım . (Bu cümleden sonra bir buçuk saat facebook’a girdim).

Aman bana ne ki çevirdilerse çevirmişler ben de notalarını çıkarıp sizinle paylaşırım sevgili okur… Ehhhhhhhhh .mına koyayım artık onu da yapmış pzevenkler. Lan bi sktirin gidin yaaa.  Beni amaçsız bırakıp öldüreceksiniz !! AHAHAHAA  aklıma ne geldi.  Ben iş arayan biri olarak özgeçmişime,  potansiyel patronlarıma yalakalık yapmak için seminerlere gidiyorum bu sıralar. Orada eğitmenin biri bir hikaye yapmış,  kendi sordu . Bak anlatayım. Şimdi bir fare var . Bunu besliyoruz ve peynirini filan veriyoruz. Sonra üzerini mukavva kutu ile kapatıyoruz . Fakat açtığımızda fareyi ölü buluyoruz.  Neden ölmüştür sizce? (Azzz sonra Ehehehkekkk… gülerken tükürüğün boğaza kaçıp susulmasını yaptım. Çünkü artık çirkinleştiğimi hissettim. Susmalıydım). Şimdi verilen muhtemel cevapları görelim; öncelikle havasızlıktan denilecek, o değil zaten isterse kemirir çıkar. Yalnızlıktan da ölmemiş. Zehirlenmemiş de. Allah bilir belki denebilir ama bilimde kadere kısmete bağlamak olmaz, günah. İşte beklenen cevap, amaçsızlıktan ölmüş. Evet! Amacı olsaymış hemen bir kenarı kemirip çıkabilirdi. Amaçsız kalınca ölünüyormuş . Ben hareketsiz kalınca kabız olmuştur dedim ama…  Bırakın şimdi. Bu insanlar bana ne yapıyor böyle,  beni amaçsız bırakıp öldürecek misiniz? Skerim lan sizi!!

Alın işte bende orijinal bir şey bulurum o kadar kolay kaçamazsınız benden. Alın yukarıdaki resimde gördüğünüz notalar Harold Berg biladerimin bestesinin notaları. Bakın ne kadar da Fransızca.  Bir de benim yaptığıma bakın aşağıda, ne kadar da Türkçe .  Sözleri anlamıyor olabilirsiniz ama do’yla re’yle işi bitirmişim muhtar.  (yaptığım işin iç huzuruyla yarım saat kestirmişim ).

Bir de şimdi şunu düşündüm bak. Bu mektubu ben Mösyö Tayyibe versem halim nice olurdu monşer ? Şimdi diyeceksiniz ki mektup mu kaldı mail atsana da bakalım ne olacak, bizde merak ettik . Anaaa doğru valla . Bir internet kafeden atıp kaçabilirim. Müziğini de hanımın çiftliğinden koyarım ki duygulansın. (Harold Berg biladerim alınmak yok ama o da müzik şimdi) Bu işi yapacağım sanırım. OHAA! iki dakikada aklımı çeldim kendi kendime! Olum ne yapıyorsunuz bana. Akıllı olun!

El otro día, viendo un spot de bebés protagonizado por una amiga, me acordé de una de mis primeras y torpes experiencias como padre: recién llegados a casa de la clínica, tras el nacimiento de nuestra hija, me dirigí a la farmacia a comprar leche en polvo para su primer biberón; la leche en cuestión creo recordar se llamaba Conformil, y en todos los botes suministran una cuchara medidora para las dosis necesarias; en todos los envases menos en este primero: el resultado, que un padre amateur provocó en su hija una sobredosis de leche que le llevó a vomitar sin parar. Ella ya me ha perdonado porque no se acuerda. Hay que reconocer que la situación es de antihéroe, pero también mola serlo de vez en cuando, no? Y hablando de antihéroes y mundos perfectos, recordemos la obra de Boris Vian, “Que se mueran los feos”, dónde un loco doctor pretende mejorar la humanidad convirtiendo a todos los habitantes del planeta en guapos y atléticos individuos. Vivan los bebés y los antihéroes!!!

“As Formigas” de Boris Vian
mise en scène | Rogério de Carvalho
acteurs | Meirinho Mendes et Dulce Baptista

O ultimo livro de Lázaro Covadlo, editado pela Livros de Areia, andava-me a perseguir desde o momento em que saiu. Naquela tarde disse “chega”, sentei-me e resolvi o assunto. É, sem qualquer dúvida, o melhor conjunto de contos que li nos últimos tempos. O negrume, a secura e a ironia do autor de Buracos Negros transportam-nos para um mundo burtoniano, onde as personagens estão pintadas de preto e tudo parece triste – irresistível, portanto. Franz Kafka, Boris Vian, Edgar Allen Poe e Lewis Carroll são alguns autores que estão presentes nos contos de Covadlo.

O conto Mundosonho, por exemplo, está povoado de personagens de Alice no País das Maravilhas. A estrutura de Ninguém Desaparece Completamente remete-nos imediatamente para O Processo de Franz Kafka e por aí poderíamos continuar. Em Herren Krisna, Fisher Kampf, Golden Raviolli, Covadlo serve-nos uma estória de canibalismo: os membros de uma família comem-se uns aos outros. É macabro. E, por isso, lê-se com um prazer acrescido.

Lázaro Covadlo nasceu na Argentina em 1937 e vive em Espanha desde 1975. No mercado português podem encontrar mais um título deste autor – Criaturas da Noite -  com a chancela da Livros de Areia.

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      La lectura de La hierba roja me había dejado un poso de un cierto escepticismo respecto al interés que podría tener la obra de Boris Vian; pero decidí continuar indagando en su personalidad literaria, leyendo La espuma de los días. Empecé con cierta desgana, pero hacia la mitad del libro, empezó a engancharme  y este interés se mantuvo hasta el final. En él se narra, si es que en los libros de Vian se puede hablar de narrar,  la historia de amor de dos de su protagonistas, Colin y  Chloé, y sobre este nudo central se nos cuentan las andanzas de otros cuatro personajes, la pareja formada por Chick y Alesis y la integrada por Nicolás e Isis.

       Como es usual en Vian el relato está plagado de escenas surrealistas, absurdas, simbólicas,  …. y todo lo que ustedes quieran. Pero lo que parece a primera vista un caos y un sinsentido, no es tal. Indagando, observando y releyendo, todo adquiere su coherencia interna. 

      En La espuma de los días hay humor, amor, desamor, celos, amistad, filias, fobias, ternura, dolor, enfermedad y muerte.

      Vian se ríe con ternura de su amigo Sartre a cuya vida y obra se refiere en la novela identificándolo como  Jean Sol Patre (Sol/sole/ lenguado en francés/ pez de mirada asimétrica/ en alusión al estrabismo de Sartre) y Sartre se rió de Vian en la vida real poniéndole los cuernos con su primera esposa Michele. Que Jodía es la vida …  

      Vian plasma a través de las andanzas de Colin y de Chick su filosofía contraria a la noción de “trabajo”. A este respecto queda clara su postura puesta de manifiesto en la siguiente declaración: “El trabajo es probablemente lo más bajo y lo más innoble de lo que hay sobre la Tierra. No es posible mirar a un trabajador sin maldecir lo que ha hecho que este hombre trabaje, mientras que hubiera podido nadar, dormir sobre la hierba o simplemente leer o hacer el amor con su mujer“.

      Vian expresa en la novela su escala de valores: “Sólo dos cosas son importantes: el amor, en todas sus formas, con chicas bonitas, y la música de Nueva Orleáns o de Duke Ellington. El resto debería desaparecer, pues el resto es feo“

A year ago today, I found out that I was, in fact, happy.

Not that I suddenly became happy. It’s just that, at that moment, I realized that I had reverted back to my happy self. After about twelve years of forgetting how to be happy.

Here’s the backstory before the story itself…

In the summer of 1987 began the first period of intense happiness. At age 15, I became happy. Not joyous, pleased, chirpy… Profoundly happy. Happiness as a process in which I was able to cope with almost anything. Every second of my life, I felt good. Even when I was sad or hurt. There was an underlying feeling of well-being. Serenity. Then.

It started very simply, but the start of that process was the end of another one. For a few years prior to that moment, I was having something that others might have considered a somewhat typical “adolescence crisis” but which was, in my mind, a full-fledged existential crisis. I was literally digging into existential issues through tools like philosophy classics and existentialist literature. As I was reading, say, de Beauvoir, Heidegger, Vian, Maupassant, Camus, Descartes, Sartre, Nietzsche, and Freud, my own approach to Life, the Universe, and Everything began to emerge. It may seem that my reading was necessarily naïve and superficial, since I was a teen at the time. But, to this day, I feel awed at how profound the process was. Nowadays, I can’t read as deeply as I did then. I understand most of what I read, of course, and it’s much easier for me to read stuff which is deemed difficult. But my “comprehension” isn’t nearly as thorough as it was then.

I didn’t necessarily feel unhappy, at the time. But I was going through a specific kind of crisis. I felt troubled by the fact that I was unable to make sense of the many things about which I cared, including such “trivial” things as the meaning of life.

Then, things changed rather radically. It all made sense. In the sense that life not making sense suddenly made a lot of sense.

This, to me, was a lesson from one of the least-acknowledged existentialists: Boris Vian. Vian, who died almost fifty years ago, isn’t usually considered a philosopher. But I read him as one. I gained as much insight through Vian’s work as others might through Foucault’s œuvre. To me, there was (and still is) deep wisdom in quotes like this one, my favourite:

«Doué d’une naïveté maladive, il vivait plus que les autres.»

“Compulsively naive, he was living more than others were.”

Not sure I read this quote before or after that 1987 moment, but Vian was clearly at the back of my mind as I first found out my happiness, on that fateful day.

Here’s how it happened.

I had been spending some time in Switzerland with my father, his companion, and her daughter. The first part of that trip was mostly devoted to social activities which were somewhat dismissed as «mondanités» (“fashionable gatherings,” “niceties”…). To me, these were a period of fascinating discovery, especially in terms of food and drinks. As a proto-hedonist, I was “tasting” life in a new way. We were also having an intense social life, which suited my sense of social well-being. As a child, I was often ostracized, despite my sociocentrism. This period, during the summer of 1987, was an occasion for me to feel accepted.

The second phase of our Swiss stay was devoted to hard work. My father and I were collaborating on setting up some things for my grandmother. My father’s mother is one of my rolemodels and the notion that I was contributing to her well-being certainly played a part.

So is the fact that I discovered coffee at that time. This one may seem, again, trivial. But it clearly had an impact on my life. I can live without coffee (I’ve done so, for extended periods of time), but being a coffee lover is an important part of my life. That summer, coffee was a way to get a “boost” so that we could work efficiently after waking up at dawn, my father and I. But it also became a part of me: my hedonism, my social life, my intellectual stimulation, my personality.

Something I haven’t thought about much until today but which was probably significant as the onset of my first happy phase is the fact that I was able to spend some quality time with my father. In the US, the stereotypical equivalent would be the father-son baseball session. In a Swiss context, it’s fitting that it had to do with work.

So, the time I spent in Switzerland had prepared me for something. I didn’t fully realize it at the time, but it was there.

Switzerland helped me be happy. And I have the t-shirt to prove it.

What’s funny is that, at the time, I was suffering from a series of ailments which were later diagnosed as hepatitis A. A few years prior to this, I got mononucleosis. My memories from that time have more to do with the comfort of sleeping all the time than with any malaise. My hepatitis was fairly similar.

And, as I got back from Switzerland, I got what I tend to call an “airplane cold,” a common cold which comes from the closed environment associated with air travel. Though I know it makes no sense in terms of epidemiology, I tend to think of “airplane cold” as if it were a specific type of virus.

But I digress…

I got back to Laval, Qc, with this benign cold. And I felt, generally, really tired. Possibly because of the hepatitis, jetlag, and the hard work I had been doing over the latter part of my Swiss summer.

So I slept for something like 28 hours over the course of two days. Seriously. I don’t remember the specifics but I remember waking up after something like 16 hours to do a few things before going back to sleep for another twelve hours or so.

When I finally got up, I felt very rested, obviously. But I still had that cold.

While I was in Switzerland, my mother was in Greece. From there, she had brought back a blue and white striped cotton sweater that I tend to associate with mariners. It’s quite possible that those sweaters aren’t typically worn by mariners, in Greece. But it was my «pull de marin grec».

This was during the dog days of summer and I had a cold. Based on an idea that sweating is a way to get rid of some symptoms of the cold, I decided to wear my sweater as I went out of the house to run a few errands in downtown Montreal. Though it was made out of cotton, that sweater looked much warmer than it actually was.

So, there I was, in downtown Montreal, wearing a sweater on a very hot day. As I was walking on Crescent toward St. Catherine, I remember thinking that others might find it strange to see someone in this attire. Maybe someone even looked at me in a strange way. That, I don’t remember.

But I do remember my realization: I simply didn’t care about people thinking about me as strange. After all, this notion wasn’t hurtful to them. The only their opinion might affect me is if I let it affect me. And I really didn’t mind it if their opinion of me were based on how strange I looked. My empathy for humankind was even enhanced in this whole notion that I was allowed to be strange. I wouldn’t try very actively to be as strange as possible, but it was then possible for me to take people’s opinion of me with “philosophy.”

Which made me realize that I was happy. I felt “good in my skin” («bien dans ma peau»).

And I remained happy until the summer of 1996.

This 1987-1996 backstory I’ve been telling on several occasions. In a way, this is almost the “canonical” version, even though I don’t care for canons.

But there’s more.

Briefly on the 1996-2008 period….

I didn’t really become unhappy. At least, it didn’t feel as if I were unhappy because I was “too busy being happy all the time.” But I forgot how to be happy. For twelve years. From the period surrounding my 24th birthday to a few months after my 36th.

Which gets us back to September 23rd, 2008, at 10:24. The point at which I broadcast the fact that I got my groove back.

What’s the story for that one? Come to think of it, I’m not sure this is the right time to expand on it much. But it does involve a sense of purpose, despite all signs to the contrary. It also involves coffee. And a set of social relations. Contrary to the “Greek sweater” episode, the triggering event wasn’t that straightforward. It was actually a set of circumstances including a colloquium on intersubjectivity in ethnographic disciplines, contacts at Café Myriade and at Brasserie Benelux, the Podcamp Montreal unconference,  a teaching workshop, and a bunch of amazing people.

The awesome thing is that I found my soulmate almost exactly four months after finding my personal happiness. Which means that, in the same week, I get to celebrate our eight months “anniversary” (I call it “mensuversary,” because it’s in months) and my happiness anniversary.

Who could ask for anything more?

Tutto è stato detto cento volte
E molto meglio che da me
Sicché quando scrivo versi
È che ciò mi diverte
È che ciò mi diverte
È che ciò mi diverte e vi cago sul naso.

Boris Vian

“Je voudrais pas crever
Avant d’avoir usé
Sa bouche avec ma bouche,
Son corps avec mes mains,
Le reste avec mes yeux.”

He wouldn’t have liked to die before wearing out her mouth with his mouth, her body with his hands, the rest with his eyes. Nor before tasting the flavour of death. Unfortunately, Boris Vian died at the age of 39, still not before giving us some of the greatest pieces of literature of all times. The motto of this post was an excerpt from the poem “Je Voudrais pas crever”. By reading it, time drifted away ten times faster than usual and I was actually able to realise that. We all have dreams and we hope to live just long enough to see them fulfilled. Probably, just like the author, we wouldn’t like to die before getting to meet the black dogs of Mexico that sleep without dreaming, or without knowing if the four seasons are four indeed, without trying to wear a dress on the big boulevards (being a man) or before the invention of eternal roses, the two-hour days or the end of the pain. As I read it in its original language (French), I could feel the beginning of a latent pain, the pain of knowing that time passes by incredibly fast and that I will never again come across the moments that just passed as I wrote the title here.

There still hasn’t been invented a cure for death, nor a method of bringing back to life a dead person. Us humans, we still find confort in reading the miracles in the Bible or in directing science-fiction or fantasy movies in which a magic wand or a robot heart could bring back vital functions. The tricks that sleep in the heads of “thinking thinkers” or “social socialists” are still to come out and Vian would have definitely loved to live to see them, but the truth is that no matter what we dream about, reality is here to stay, dim as it is.
Many imagination exercises can come out after reading this poem. Imagine that one day you wake up and find yourself all alone on the planet. Yes, “I Am Legend” was inspiring, but in this case, where will everybody be, those “everybody” who would invent brand new things or who would use the old ones to keep the modern world spinning? Imagine youself living with no doctors around, no farmers to grow crops, no shops from where to buy things from and no employers to hire you. Or on the contrary, imagine yourself immortal in a world of mortals. Everybody dying around you, sooner or later, including the ones you love and would die for. Imagine wanting to die but not being able to. And even worse in my opinion, imagine being immortal in a world of immortals. No one dying, but everybody giving birth to others. A little bit overcrowded, I dare say.

Out of these three premises, I don’t know which one I would choose. I’d probably go for the last one, maybe I’d be able to find a little corner just for me and the ones I care about, probably on another planet. But there is something about death that I know for sure: I would certainly prefer to die before the one I love would. It would be too much for me to continue my life alone, without the one I shared it with. I may seem selfish for thinking only about how to avoid the pain of losing someone and passing it to the other, but it is just something that I would choose, had I got the opportunity to.
There are many things I wouldn’t like to die before doing and seeing, just like Boris Vian. Too many to count them or list them, but not too many as to sum them up and say that they could be on everybody’s mind. Such as not dying before seeing if the world will end in 2012, not dying before visiting Paris or before bathing in the Atlantic, not dying before walking on the salt desert of Bolivia or on the icebergs of the North Pole. Not dying before sharing my life with the one I love, not dying before asking to be forgived for mistakes I don’t know about or for fighting over things I don’t know about either, not dying before actually living.
…The skin feels time passing by. It feels the silk of a beautiful scarf in spring or of a woolen sweater in winter, it feels the gentle touch of loving fingers as well as the melting flow of tears down the cheeks. It gets wrinkles due to laughing or on the contrary, due to frowning. It gets warm in the arms of someone who loves you, it shivers when nervous and even trembles when cold. Nothing feels time passing by better than your own skin, and in the end, it’s the skin that covers the remains of what a man once was.