• mariemiles

Biography of another

Updated: Jan 20

Hello, hello. You. You are here, among a few words I chose. What do I mean by that? I don't know. I never say anything, really. I write, I talk. I smile, shut up. I am elsewhere. I am smiling. Where is she? I hover around meaning, barely touching it, because it overwhelms me too quickly and deeply. I keep it in, like a black hole. Outside I float, I cannot stay here, a light breeze makes me change universe. Nothing matters.

Sometimes I borrow seriousness, to believe in what I do (rarely, really), but when I do, I become a normal, joyful, practical, problem-solving monster. People ask: Why can't you be that, every morning at 7am, after showering and putting clothes on, like everyone else?

Ah, yes, yes, surely I should. But the sky... the evening sky. You see, it is so long and sad, and it weighs delicately over my poor skull. I love it so, I can barely look at it, I wouldn't dare disturb its eternal slumber by trying to rearranging the order of the world. No. Just seeing a piece of its vast idleness, its terrifying silence at night, through my window, and I get lost beyond our earthly worries. The sky you see, unlike the grids of our existence, lacks direction; it is indifferent to our norths and our ups and our sides and our lefts. So in the sky, in the early morning sky, in that piece of it that is given to me, that I hold with my eyelashes, I fall still, I hover, I disappear even sometimes, when the weather allows drifting or melting. I'm sorry. The world has no direction and it's not my role to give it some. It is my work, my labour, to show as clearly and obviously as possible, by simply being who I am, the trillions of very fine, translucent threads that flow in the empty waltz of time, relentlessly changing directions, thus unwillingly weaving the ungraspable fabric of the world. It is my labour to be that point of anything about to fall, so that our exquisite briefness is shown.

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"I think of myself as somebody not at home, I suppose. Not at home anywhere, not at home ever. But I think of that as a definition of a writer: somebody not at home, not comfortable in themselves in t

The visual field

One can't write directly about the soul. Looked at, it vanishes. --- Virginia Woolf That's because the act of looking is the soul.

©2019 Marie Deschênes

Semi-retired dancer now living in New York

French poet and snob, with vaguely misanthropic moods yet, to her great despair, an undying hope

in what tomorrow may bring.