daily life


On ordinary life — 2014/09/30

"I have a very ordinary, even flat life, but I like it." I ask my interlocutor to repeat. We were standing, some friends around us. We started by questioning my novels, the meaning I brought to them, why I was writing. As I am talkative, it lasted a long time. Then, as the subject dried up, I sent the ball back to the one who was asking me all these questions.


The surprise — 2013/11/05

I walk with a steady, confident step. I make the journey in thirty-six minutes, well counted. Autumn is still mild, the sun almost always shines. I walk in a straight line, go up Lajeunesse, fork on De Castelnau to go to Saint-Laurent, then Saint-Urbain.


Youkali — 2013/03/29

Always starting over, the hair, the dust, the days. Still as vaporous, fluid, unalterable as ever, this time which is only one more dimension in our selective memory.


Not seeing the season — 2012/03/26

It's not that I don't have enough words. The word remains voluble in my thoughts. However, it is elsewhere than on the Internet, in the mesh of my novel. Writing bewitches me, almost forbids my other visions as if my mind was ignited by a single doctrine.


The wheel — 2012/02/28

Not all days are equal before eternity even if, like limping waves on a river, they live more or less the same existence. Thoughts do not all have the same value even if, in shaky ripples on an ocean, they die stubbornly on the horizon.


Slow motion — 2012/02/16

The weather is unusually mild in Montreal. All in all, winter has no hold on the city's oily asphalt, which nevertheless continues to run its course.


As if — 2012/02/10

Another day to touch up the Rimmel of everyday life, another day to perfect the varnish of good manners, to scrub tasks, wash homework, extend expectations.


Supreme Soviet — 2012/01/27

My country no longer seems to be this winter that the poet was loudly proclaiming, at least not in the metropolis. It's still raining, and the snow can't resist.


The room of lost souls — 2012/01/04

Twenty-thirty hours, in the lost steps room of Berri-Uqam station. I'm with a friend, waiting for another one of his friends. We're sitting. Coffee is obviously terrible. My friend eats a dry potato flour doughnut. In front of me, the flashy ticket office of the STM and, sitting on the benches, not impatient customers, but haggard beings.


The little dog — 2011/12/31

She's already taking him out on a leash. She stays on her balcony while her little dog, clothed in his sports attire, walks to the snow-covered lawn. It rounds its back, makes its poop by looking at its mistress.


A thousand times the days will pass — 2011/12/19

Sometimes it seems useless to tell every hour; they can all look the same. Passers-by pass, seasons pass, politicians pass. From time to time, the imagination has difficulty getting away from its own habits. Life goes on.


What's up? — 2011/12/09

How are you doing? —It'll pass. —There's a hurry, —It's okay —It's all right.


The grey roads — 2011/12/02

The current season remains grey. The colors are usually artificial or overly vivid. The weather sometimes gives snow, sometimes rain, and especially a sky covered with poorly washed cotton wool.


Random schemes — 2011/11/30

The sun was able to land on objects and people for an hour. However, the rain is not over yet, and the streets will still be filled with a wet rustle. The clouds are coming back for the day. There will be melting snow tonight. It's beautiful outside, sad, but good.


The fuzzy people — 2011/11/29

Fuzzy people live in our daily lives. We meet them, look at them for a time of desire or indifference. Some are happy, others don't know how they will make it through the day. Some will die today while the survivors laugh, work, prepare to live or die tomorrow. More will be born.


Bucolic miasm — 2011/11/20

It's not hot "for the water pump" this morning (French expression to tells that it's cold as to freeze your balls). The cold, like a big elephant, is pushing everything in the porcelain shop. The passers-by are shivering, some are overdressed while others still have their skirts a little too short.


Easily submerged — 2011/11/17

In the morning, the night hastened to get dressed and leave us, vaguely promising us to come back. Our eyes pay little more attention to it, our thoughts gargle, our hands are activated.