"Quand vous commencez à écrire une histoire, vous êtes comme un voyageur qui a vu de très loin un château. Dans l'espoir de l'atteindre, vous suivez un petit chemin qui descend au flanc d'une colline vers une vallée couverte de forêt. Le chemin se rétrécit et devient un sentier qui s'efface par endroits, et vous ne savez plus très bien où vous êtes rendus; vous avez l'impression de tourner en rond.
De temps en temps, vous traversez une clairière inondée de soleil, ou vous franchissez une rivière à la nage. Au sortir de la forêt, vous escaladez une petite montagne. Parvenu au sommet, vous apercevez le château, mais c'est sur la colline suivante qu'il se trouve, et il est moins beau que vous ne l'aviez cru: il fait penser à manoir ou à une grande villa.
Sans perdre courage, vous descendez encore une fois dans une vallée, vous traversez une forêt obscure en suivant un sentier presque invisible, puis vous grimpez au sommet de la colline et, à bout de force, vous arrivez enfin devant le château.
En réalité ce n'est pas un château, ni un manoir, ni même une villa: c'est plutôt une vieille maison délabrée et, curieusement, elle ressemble beaucoup à celle où vous avez passé votre enfance."
Jacques Poulin, Le Vieux Chagrin
.
21.2.11
Once again, he had wandered around his neighborhood. It was no accident. It was never an accident. He has a “wandering mode”, places he can go, walk through, safely, while his mind is thousands miles away.
The Earth is round. Sometimes, thousands miles away is just around the corner.
On that corner, there was an office. It’s a small agency. A talent agency. His talent agency. Somewhere in the agency, there was a small brown envelope with a check in it. His check. A small one. His checks were always small. This one was probably on the receptionist’s desk. This brought a smile to his face.
He’s not the smiling type. He thought that if you smile when you’re neutral you’d have to do jumping jack flashes when you’re happy. That’s too exhausting.
Now, back to that check; zoom out to the brown envelope, the receptionist’s desk, the receptionist office, the agency… Wait! Zoom back in. Closer. Closer.
Here it is! The receptionist.
Warmth. Maybe this time she won’t be that busy. Maybe. He always liked her. He likes how her cheeks always turn red when she makes eye contact. He likes how she keeps working and making conversation at the same time, and caring for both. He likes her wit. And her questions. Yes, she was asking questions ; he always liked that in women. Maybe this time he will ask her out.
She had a singular beauty. The type that all her imperfections made an harmonious ensemble. He never liked the girls on the cover of magazines. Well, the regular girls on regular magazines. They were always too perfect. And there was too many of them. He thought perfection was either boring or suspicious. That made him suspicious for most people. Even his friends thought he was weird. It’s okay, he likes weird. Like it was a color. His color. He always wondered why weird wasn’t more popular. After all , for him, weird was normal.
Who are we kidding? His mind isn’t as disconnected as he thought. He was already walking in the direction of the agency. This whole “wandering mode” thing is a sham.
He’s getting pretty good at debunking himself.
There was the corner. He was standing in front of the optician boutique right beside the agency. He thought “How come there are so many optician boutiques? How many pair of glasses can you wear at the same time? Do some people change glasses every month? Week? Day? How come there are much much fewer underwear stores than optician boutiques?”
He’s stalling. Drowning the fish, like his French mind always say. Oh yes, I forgot, he ‘s French. But it’s not his fault, he was born that way.
He finally walks by the boutique, climbs the three steps to the agency – a beautiful two stories high building, yellow bricks, not gold, yellow like a school bus , in countries with yellow school buses, and brown wooden doors (the agency, not the countries) – he’s not suppose to ring but he does anyway. It’s more an act of contradiction than provocation.
He enters. She’s right there. Busy. Busy. Busy.
Okay.
The Earth is round. Sometimes, thousands miles away is just around the corner.
On that corner, there was an office. It’s a small agency. A talent agency. His talent agency. Somewhere in the agency, there was a small brown envelope with a check in it. His check. A small one. His checks were always small. This one was probably on the receptionist’s desk. This brought a smile to his face.
He’s not the smiling type. He thought that if you smile when you’re neutral you’d have to do jumping jack flashes when you’re happy. That’s too exhausting.
Now, back to that check; zoom out to the brown envelope, the receptionist’s desk, the receptionist office, the agency… Wait! Zoom back in. Closer. Closer.
Here it is! The receptionist.
Warmth. Maybe this time she won’t be that busy. Maybe. He always liked her. He likes how her cheeks always turn red when she makes eye contact. He likes how she keeps working and making conversation at the same time, and caring for both. He likes her wit. And her questions. Yes, she was asking questions ; he always liked that in women. Maybe this time he will ask her out.
She had a singular beauty. The type that all her imperfections made an harmonious ensemble. He never liked the girls on the cover of magazines. Well, the regular girls on regular magazines. They were always too perfect. And there was too many of them. He thought perfection was either boring or suspicious. That made him suspicious for most people. Even his friends thought he was weird. It’s okay, he likes weird. Like it was a color. His color. He always wondered why weird wasn’t more popular. After all , for him, weird was normal.
Who are we kidding? His mind isn’t as disconnected as he thought. He was already walking in the direction of the agency. This whole “wandering mode” thing is a sham.
He’s getting pretty good at debunking himself.
There was the corner. He was standing in front of the optician boutique right beside the agency. He thought “How come there are so many optician boutiques? How many pair of glasses can you wear at the same time? Do some people change glasses every month? Week? Day? How come there are much much fewer underwear stores than optician boutiques?”
He’s stalling. Drowning the fish, like his French mind always say. Oh yes, I forgot, he ‘s French. But it’s not his fault, he was born that way.
He finally walks by the boutique, climbs the three steps to the agency – a beautiful two stories high building, yellow bricks, not gold, yellow like a school bus , in countries with yellow school buses, and brown wooden doors (the agency, not the countries) – he’s not suppose to ring but he does anyway. It’s more an act of contradiction than provocation.
He enters. She’s right there. Busy. Busy. Busy.
Okay.
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