I’m reviewing Les Mailles sanguines in small steps, in short words. Despite a neck pain close to a stiff neck, despite tired eyes, despite the boredom of a Saturday, I dive into my mind, probably for the last time.
The journey may have taken too long. A friend kindly suggested that I do not fixate on it, that I move on. I understand what he’s telling me. As an artist himself, he knows that the best creation is the one to come. But Les Mailles sanguines still deserves this honor. I do it for myself first and foremost, just as I wrote it for myself. I have been writing since childhood, I open my mouth and swallow my water, gills ready for syntax.
It’s a messed-up mystery. I’m getting older. A little disappointed or discouraged. That won’t stop me from continuing. The flame persists and signs.