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Sunday afternoon

Today, although I have been active, includ­ing in domes­tic affairs, I have rest­ed. Iron­ing shirts kills his man, espe­cial­ly since for three days I had been suf­fer­ing from angi­na that kept me awake because I was hyper­sali­vat­ing and after a while, I was chok­ing on my water. Try­ing to swal­low, eat, drink, take even a drop of alco­hol instant­ly cuts off your appetite.

I lost 2.5 kilos, took Buck­ley cap­sules, antacids, Vicks-coat­ed cap­sules to ster­il­ize the atmos­phere, took three baths with euca­lyp­tus essen­tial oil. In the last bath, I over­did it. The moss, also with euca­lyp­tus (fan­cy the guy), burned my legs and testicles.

Poor lit­tle me.

I got out of the bath, took a show­er to chase away the dis­com­fort and then, stand­ing in front of the large mir­ror in the cor­ri­dor in front of the bath­room (I still don’t have a door to it), naked like a sick worm, I took up old yoga exer­cis­es learned well over fif­teen years ago and which have always remained in my memory.

Make a U with your arms, bend your legs slight­ly and tilt your back, keep­ing your butt in a promi­nent posi­tion until you reach the ground with your hands, as slow­ly and ele­gant­ly as pos­si­ble. Then go up by bend­ing the spine con­cave­ly, still with the butt in heat, return to the ini­tial posi­tion. Three, four times. On the fifth floor, all bent over, the taste of vom­it­ing. I rushed to the sink and spit out a large amount of translu­cent mucus.

For­tu­nate­ly, no blood, no col­or, just thick, nasty liq­uid. Let’s start again to see. Same feel­ing, same burp. After about ten times, I had noth­ing left to evac­u­ate, even if my throat still had a sore throat. Come on, two more Buck­leys, it was time for bed, telling me that drugs were enough and that I would have to go to the doctor.

I woke up at 4:00 in the morn­ing real­iz­ing that the pain was gone. Yoga or the nor­mal course of the dis­ease ? Cer­tain­ly not the Buck­leys who only serve to ease the pain and make your life eas­i­er, sort of.

At 8:00 a.m., I got up and start­ed my usu­al Sun­day day alone. Cor­rect­ed, as a good code obsessed, some stuff at a clien­t’s project. Then, the shirts, a two-hour nap, pre­ced­ed by a short dis­cus­sion with a Brazil­ian friend who said he feared the worst for his coun­try with the rise of the despot.

Peo­ple are thirsty, it seems, for heavy hands on their des­tiny. I don’t under­stand that. I don’t under­stand this ongo­ing igno­rance. I told my friend that a new employ­ee was arriv­ing at my com­pa­ny and that she would be sit­ting at the office next to mine. I know she’s twen­ty-eight years old and she’s Brazilian.

This coun­try seems to be stick­ing to me. I will prob­a­bly be able to prac­tice the lit­tle Por­tuguese I know with her. I have the fan­ta­sy of end­ing my days, desert­ed but near a Brazil­ian beach to pull the tarot or the sky charts to tourists, as I wrote in my last novel.

Sun­day after­noon, there­fore, in the com­fort of my bed, watch­ing the light of autumn that final­ly shows its col­ors. A strange world with such abrupt mix­tures of col­ors, pains, and wonders.

Comments

  • Jean-Philippe

    Jean-Philippe 2018/10/16 19:44 0

    J'aime tellement te lire!

  • admin

    admin 2018/10/16 19:52 0

    Un grand merci, Jean-Philippe!

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