The gallimaufry approach to life

Patience  Les genoux écorchés,  Douleur redoublant la frénésie Grimper, glisser, le paroi suintant  Je m'agrippe à la surface,  À me plier les ongles à l envers. Gouttelettes de sang nourrissent la terre de mon ame. J ai cherché en vain des signes, des mots.  Le néant. Tout m'echappe, vol en eclats,  me transperce, laissant trace sur trace. Traquer l absolu, à l infini et finir par quoi ? Pour quoi ? Pour qui? Peux tu sentir le sel de mes larmes ? Patience, j'apprends encore à apprehender mes peurs et mes infaillibles failles  Mes faiblesses et fortitudes. Encore un peu De patience.

Dear soulmate, I know you go through darkness, crippled, crumpled, crucified by the past; what could have been, what is not, what one expected you to be; by a future full of the unknown, eschatological fragments which tear you up, rip you apart, yet you cannot bear that burden alone. I'm afraid of the dark, but i promise to kiss the wounds in your heart, the infinite scars in your soul. I've told you before, I have strength inside me which enables me to go beyond the boundaries. If you take my hand, wholly trust me, I can confront that cliff with you, arms around your waist, head against your trembling back. Face the openness, my arms wrapped around you, while you absorb the beauty of feeling moved by something which is beyond your control. The spray from the waves crashing below send droplets of sea salt upon your skin, a reminder that you feel, that you are. Salt of the earth, salt of the soul. When we are both surrounded by that darkness, we will grip each other, cla...

A house, in the Cantal, there we stood, my brother and I, the two of us, inseparable. Upon visiting our uncle, a man of science and words, ophthalmologist by design, poet by desire, we would make our way to his study, a room where every surface, floors, walls, books, was permeated by the shadows of time. The latter had drawn us here to begin with. Their spines facing outwards, revealing the bare minimum, heightening our curiosity. What would lie within? What stories would unfold, be embedded in the depths of our minds?  Who would we be after we had encountered the words?  We take our seats, as always next to each other, our feet skimming the floor. We wait with bated breath, blinking in the shadows of knowledge. Unhurried, my uncle lays down his fountain pen, the one with which he pens his lines, then, focusing his gaze first upon my brother, then upon me, he bores through irises into my mind and soul. He knows. He rises. He runs his fingers down each spine one after the o...

Far from me to want to deceive anyone into thinking this is based on my life. This is fiction. This little girl exists in my head but represents all those children abused and hurt by adults. I wanted to speak out about it from the child's perspective. Twisting a tuft of hair around my finger, I notice the harsh neon lights are making the burns on my forearm shine. 'Can you tell me more about Jimmy?' Another question. I don't want to answer, but have to, I know. I look down at my feet dangling, shifting my weight. The plastic chair is hard and uncomfortable. 'I remember the day he came to live with us. The doorbell rang. I thought it was the postman. I was wearing my sparkly hairband, the one Jimmy broke into a thousand pieces when I wouldn't put my shoes on. I opened the door. Mummy came running up behind me smiling. He looked friendly. He was holding a bunch of flowers for Mummy and Mr. Nibbles for me.' I pause, tightening my grip on the cuddly toy ...

My mother was a burlesque dancer. I say this with pride. After all, she brought me up in a swirl of sparkly nipple tassels, fringes, music, dancing, instilling in me a sense of whorled wonderment. 'Play Dream a Little Dream' she would say, and my father would literally sweep her off her sequined-slipper clad feet, spinning her round and round. Only my father could make her this dizzy. She would throw her head back, the sequins a blur of starry colour. Sometimes she would fall on the floor melodramatically. 'Again' she would insist. She would stand in front of me, looking down, batting those dark fake eyelashes. 'Dance with me.' she would say. Grabbing my wrists, she would pulled me towards her, my book clasped in my fingertips at arms length. There was never any point resisting her magnetic pull. I would be allowed to place my book open at the page I had reached on the seat of the pink velvet armchair. I would turn towards her and offer a gentlemanly bow. In my...

Tristen pulled out his hip flask and took a swig. Shaking the almost empty canteen, he downed the rest, his Adam's apple rising. The audible gulp rang out in the silence as the liquid gave rise to the familiar warmth. He checked the time yet again on his smart phone, the glow lighting his face. From a carefully chosen position at the end of the darkest part of the alley, a black clad figure stood waiting, watching the spectral head. She was dying for a fag, but that would have to wait. It is time, the walrus said. Pulling her hood lower over her face, determined soundless steps drew her nearer to the meeting point. 'Have you got it?' A whisper so mere that the disembodied voice floated in from the depths of darkness. 'Jeez, you scared the shit out of me.' His voice rang out in the obscurity, filling the air. 'Shh. Here's how we'll proceed...' A buzzing sound and the Star Wars imperial death march drowned out the voice. Tristen fumbled i...

'What do you mean they've cancelled Christmas? They can't do that. What about all the preparations I've made?' 'My mother says it's not her fault if you plan 6 months ahead for something they don't even celebrate.' 'But they said they were coming and then tell you to tell me they're not. On the 24th. That's not fair.' 'It's just that in the Netherlands we don't really celbrate Christmas if there aren't any kids.' I could tell he was running out of patience by the way his nostrils started to flare. 'Well that's sad.' 'It's not sad! It's just that my mother doesn't feel like celebrating twice that's all. After the 5th there's not much point really.' 'Ok I get it. Your mother doesn't like me.' 'I can't believe we're having this conversation again.' Then he stormed off, slamming the door behind him. I took another sip of sherry and got back to forcing...