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On my balcony

Modifié le : 2019/08/05

I bought myself a deckchair. That and the pur­chase of my iron­ing board two weeks ago seems to be the sig­nal that I’m real­ly start­ing to set­tle in my house, after four and a half years…

Although I live near the met­ro­pol­i­tan high­way and my neigh­bor­hood is not the most rus­tic, I am still for­tu­nate to have co-own­ers in the gar­den, and I enjoy the shade of a giant ash tree. Birds are over­flow­ing (my neigh­bors have set up a foun­tain in their yard where birds swim and drink). I thus hear and see a nature that is well estab­lished in urban areas.

My ren­o­va­tion work is going slow­ly, but sure­ly. It is still hot, I have a few dol­lars in front of me, just enough to allow me a lit­tle more com­fort, some mad­ness and hope to be able to fin­ish, pre­cise­ly, this third phase of DIY.

This chaise longue comes at the moment when Les Années-rebours comes online. An elec­tron­ic renais­sance since this nov­el, and the two pre­vi­ous ones are out of print. I am reread­ing L’Ef­fet Casimir, which I promise to offer also in an elec­tron­ic for­mat very soon. I cor­rect the typos, remove a few sen­tences here and there, but don’t add any more. The begin­ning of this text moves me, I find these sym­pa­thet­ic char­ac­ters who are, come to think of it, the mul­ti­ple facets of my life : the skinned lover, the bon vivant, the fear­ful, the writer strug­gling against his lack of inspi­ra­tion, the unfaith­ful artist, and also the man who found his nest, who has sur­round­ed him­self with peo­ple who calm him, feed him. I feel loved, and more than you might think. I dream of a place like the one inhab­it­ed by this old Marthe, at the edge of a riv­er that is already lost in the sea.

Ten years sep­a­rate L’Ef­fet Casimir from Les Mailles san­guines. When I reread the first one, I saw the same tics, the same themes. We are like those trees that take root and are con­tent with this life to which they seek to give all their amplitude.

I like this deckchair. I spent two or three hours a day there this week­end. I am final­ly tak­ing the time, I am enjoy­ing the lux­u­ry of the work done. I can­not sleep on this thin lay­er of lau­rels, but at the moment I watch the ash tree danc­ing, motion­less like a hap­py drug addict, birds with­out col­ors on its branch­es, while, through the anten­nas of my lap­top, ner­vous let­ters try to enter my dream.

I’m dream­ing, aren’t I ?

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