The history of others does not belong to us. During their journey, these incarnate souls dock, beached, escape, sail, break, form flotillas, sail alone or gregarious on oceans whose memory will be recorded or vanish into the interstellar or other flesh when the time comes to die.
I wrote the following text more than two years ago. It was a request for a 'forum-of-ideas' to be created on the Internet. I was paid to write it. The theme: family. The angle asked: my vision of it as a homosexual. I was allowed 800 words (in French).
Yesterday, on New Year's Day, my sister France gave me an electronic copy of the documentaries made by my uncle Serge Giguère. Serge had passed on these films to his brothers and sisters and, in keeping with modernism, my sister transposed them so that our mother could watch them in her living room or on her computer.
The cold doesn't seem to want to let go any longer. The little snow that fell during the night looks like opaque ice, the objects no longer move (they were already not running), the houses look like old ladies. The walk will have been short for me, the work calls me, but I still got some air.