My Body is a Cage

[winstonsamsa]

When we arrive at Anna’s with Aldwin and Youn there already and Salvador offers us some chorizo. He is slow going about it and so I ask him when the chorizo will arrive. To which he laughs and says, one day. And having some coke I decide that I haven’t eaten sufficiently, and I’m going to make an omelet so all those who want some raise your hands. There is no casserole and how to make an omelet without a casserole. The eggs didn’t turn out too good as a result, but they weren’t that bad. There are limited supplies chez Anna. And we had to use one plate and eat off a communal plate. To which I remarked c’est vraiment n’importe quoi ce soir and began laughing almost deliriously. And we sat around the plate, each of us and ate off of it, bits of runny eggs saying putain, c’est belle la vie communiste. Our plat communiste. With a bit of rosé to top it off. And translating things into Spanish. Originally I was a little ticked off that I had to come out when I was about ready to go to bed, but then once we got back to Anna’s, woke up Youn, and put on some music I realized that it was sympa to start an evening like this so late and being so tired. Where typically the day’s interactions are underscored by a single thread of conversation, unfolding naturally from subject to subject, the background of a late-night soirée like this is silence, so that the conversation consists of bits and pieces of information and jokes and stories and feelings and things we’ve memorized and pieces of the day-all of which can be called upon seemingly apropos of nothing, but relying heavily on a semi-dream state that we have almost all adopted by now, and which forces us to think, all of which is excusable even though it has no context. Anna and I attempting to recite, for instance, the first few sentences of Lolita by memory, her in Italian and French and me in English. Or does the word “post office” mean anything to you? Yes, le bureau de poste, normalement? Non, post office, Po-stof-fice, postes ta face. Or how do you say Egypt (in spanish) without really saying it ? And that you shouldn’t speak french in france, about the french: il faut les faire chier jusqu’au bout. And these fill in the gaps of silence rather than vice versa and we laugh earnestly and deliriously and drink rosé wine.

The night has its own sounds

Et alors en traversant le pont au-dessus les chemins de fer je me disais, putain c’est belle la jeunesse. C’est magnifique que je l’ai toujours. Et que je ne échangerais rien pour ma jeunesse. Et je me disais qu’est-ce que la jeunesse signifie, qu’est-ce que ça sert, quand il n’existe plus ? Que sert-il la jeunesse de ma mère, disons, ou la jeunesse de mon père ou celle de ma grand-mère ou mon grand-père même. A quoi bon la jeunesse qui n’existe plus ? Est-ce que la vie n’est qu’important quand on est au présent ? C’est pour ça, je me suis dit, j’ai décidé, qu’il faut enregistrer, qu’il faut écrire tous ce qui se passe, tous ce que je vois, que je me sens, que je pense. Il faut le faire jusqu’au bout pour la jeunesse, pour tous, sert quelque chose.