Take Apart Chair Wheels

The Poet and Love

Today, I drive to work (or rather to pretend, because I sorely lack motivation, especially in front of my computer) when I opened my inbox. An email Kamma Thordarson, a friend who is now her internship in New York. Since reading Milan Kundera, she spoke of poets

" The loyalty of women to dead hero was part of the sacred myths of Jaromil; she gave him the assurance that the absolute love invention was not only a poet but it existed and made life worth living . "

Milan Kundera, Life Is Elsewhere

I then found an email from Florian Audureau, friend who is studying in Lyon. He wrote me this email guide commentary.

He, she, who? Basically it's always the same, always the same, a face, a smile, a light.

"Above all, do not lose myself, had I said. I am easily loseable. "And she laughed at my childishness. However, it lost me somewhere. Where was it? I forgot ... there was old ruined temples and sun on the close. I remember a field of white flowers, tall Corinthian columns. I vaguely remember the warmth and blue sky over the colonnades. And a large boulder-strewn shelf collapsed. There were no cliffs, no mountains. In the distance, the ocean was dark blue shimmering waters. And many pine trees that sheltered us from the sun. That's it. There were no cicadas, lavender or Mediterranean. I think it was in Agrigento. I forgot to see if Sicily was like the postcards ... I walked out to conquer the ancient monuments, with your smile behind me. "Do especially not get lost! ". I turned around to see if you were always there but you had disappeared. Yet this was not the god who commanded you to bottom recalled, but you were gone. I searched behind the temples and behind the thick woods, but I did not find, I did not find our trail that winds had already covered. The southern light shining in all its splendor on the ruins forever. It was noon. I looked at the sun without blinking, dreaming that my eyes flew to him. But it took away my eyes burning and dropping my dream solar its rays pierce me. As usual. How long before the years have ruined my heart? ... "Do not get lost!" Did I say ...

(I fell by accident your blog. He inspired me. I wanted to leave this comment like my stone to work but the internet does not want me to comment then I'll send him. For you to judge what you will do. Let us not lose!)

Florian Audureau


I found an intrinsic link between these two texts. In the first, it is question of the poet who is supposed be "the inventor of love", although this statement appears a bit like a denial. In that article, we have a poet who writes about love, which creates poetically of love. There is a strong link between the Poet and Love. Love is something that is floating, unstable, powerful, sometimes low, sometimes close to hate, sometimes with a delicious fleurtant indifference, sometimes contradictory, multiple and who tries to be a constantly stirred by experience, it comes and goes, forgotten, shared. Love thinks only of himself. The poet is much the same thing, and it exploded everywhere, and it is up to him. His ego is constantly seeking its expression in his surroundings, trying to both hide and reveal itself. But the poet has a gun. The poet has a pen that captures in words and things on the leaves. The poem can lock love and give it a texture and consistency. It is a reflection, a paradigm for others to admire, with the stars in the eyes of the dream.

Maybe a little "blue flowers" and romantic, but I think the poet embodies love, or rather, by which love takes its most adequate. It was beautiful enclose it in logical reasoning as Socio-biology or sociology of love and sexuality. Nothing beats the logic of the poem and the poet, nothing beats this irrationality controlled and regulated by its own power and his only joy.

I do not judge a poet. However I try to write poetry. This is for my friends, my loves, my joys and sorrows, I write. Why I write? Because I like having control over my life. I like to give some color to events that were too fast to be accurately pick one's food colors. Because sometimes say things that make them exist as desired. And then if we sum to stop because we indulge with illusions, then we will answer:

"And you, do you, you have the courage to dream your life as I do it? "

How Do Italians Do For Baby Showers

Under the Mirabeau Bridge Japanese version

" Good evening, I would consider a beautiful poem by Guillaume Apollinaire. It is called the Pont Mirabeau ."

I received a phone call from Riuji last night. Ruijs is my Japanese students. Student, yes. Here it is, I am holy French teacher for over a month. Finally, it is not a paid job. Call it an exchange: half an hour in French, half an hour in Japanese. But our exchange quickly turned into a weekly meal, where a lovely lady with us, as fascinated by the grotesque linguistic hubbub that is played between any new wrestlers of the language of Molière.

Under the Mirabeau bridge flows the Seine And our loves

Should he can remember
Joy always came after the death

Let night time The days go
I remain

Riuji is really different from Japanese that I met up Maitena. He studied French, and for once, not because he spent a week in Paris for micro vacation of his dear parents. The French, he liked to share literature and classical music. Somewhere, someone that makes him a little elitist, but someone demanding. Parrait I see a strange passion for Japanese culture in my own country. On the one hand, perhaps they would find it strange if I started to Kabuki and if I told them I wanted to go to Japan in Mishima reading rather than Naruto. The Japanese, at least, the sample that I can see Sophia, have a good bunch of happy lunatics. During the festival by Sophia example, I attended a concert of Brazilian percussion, where the leader was literally rolling on the floor. Maybe he suffered a sudden pruritus? Maybe the flour in its nostrils was no flour? Maybe he just found his way in a mad passion for the arts -gaijins. In any case what is certain is that when you decide to rave in Japan, delirium through. No quarter.

Dear Riuji therefore, decided to get to French, and after three months of practice, we are already in Balzac, Rimbaud and Apollinaire. A when Marcel Proust? They are crazy Japanese, seems Obelix the Gaul.

hands in the hands remain face to face
While under
; the bridge of our arms passes
of eternal eyes so weary wave

Let night time
The days go I remain

" hands." Riuji is a fan of classical music and classical piano. So, today, to escape the routine of court, we went all three at the piano room on campus. Hands on the piano while I played a bit for the first time in two months now. Relief. It is indeed strange to experience this feeling there for a beast piano after a stupid song. Music as a universal language: I was happy to be cheered by a Japanese! "Music is a universal language my son" (Thanks Dad - - ")

" the eternal gaze. "Viewpoints:" Oh my God, a Gaijin! ". It happens more often in the subway and Sophia, vol very international. But there is still a gaijin, whatever you do. Sometimes I feel the distance with my student. And then I wonder: is not only that a language problem? Because even if the culture is different, would it not easier to explain in the same language?

Our courses take place as follows. I take my suit prof severe organized, I decides to ban English. The Japanese opposite then starts to turn pale and immediately said "Sorry I Have to aim" go to the toilet ". I laugh inwardly: "It will not escape me, MOUHAHAHA. Generally, I do talk, then corrects it. I make him read the texts, we discuss all poems he likes. Still the question "Why?" every time he does that a yes or no. The child mumbles and stammers but does understand. And the child you out phrases like "Water represents love and time, flowing under a bridge." After half an hour of toil and sweat, the child said: "Let's speak in Japanese for now." Aha, and I say, 'Sorry I Have to Go to The Toilet "..." oh my god oh my god, you must speak Japanese! " (Chuckle). We spent the first session to repeat 50 times "watashi wa". As a wrestler, I watched my executioner with a serious desire to murder mixed with guilt for not having his mouth formed to recite his stupid Japanese syllables (well it's the emotion, forgive).

I like talking with Riuji especially because he has the gift of making fun of my mouth brilliantly every time I say something stupid. It is generally rare for a Japanese mocks you when you make mistakes in Japanese. But hey, I like the franchise, even if it is cruel. "Watashi wa ...." and automatically "Hihihihihihihihi" (take the demonic laughter of the wicked Chinese in Hollywood movies and you have the script)

Love goes like this running water
L'amour s'en va
As life is slow
And Hope is violent

When I reread the Pont Mirabeau before class, I was seized with a small ironic smile happily mingled with sadness. I did not really love that poem before. I do not understand. It is funny not understand things at a time and give it back later, finding himself stupid for not having granted the right chord at the right time. The poem came to a funny moment. As if I was on the Pont Mirabeau. You may object identification and stupid teenager. Maybe, but Apollinaire Tokyo, I know not why, it resonates, it shines. The poem took me: who would have thought that a commonplace of French literature would have fascinated in Japan? Like what is going away from home than you realize some things. Finally, the personal context lends itself too. Riuji thank you!

"And Hope is violent." My mood is elegiac sinusoidal and first found a source of drama impressive. After when you take a step back, we reflect on the hope and we find ridiculous. The hope is it nonsense? I do not know. But what is certain is that it propels us toward something that does not exist, and we Allien in our understanding of this. Some will object that this does not exist. I do not know, sometimes when I doubt the possibility of present happiness. However, the reality is only now, a succession of presents. Anyway, the gossip verbose and spiritual stuff. Between what the heart and mind, there is a world (Make yourself against dualism!). The feeling is always the strongest, the feeling and experience as well. Hope is violent? But is it the spirit? When will overwhelm the feeling that hope?

Spend the days and weeks pass time

Ni Ni loves return
Under the Mirabeau bridge flows the Seine

Let night time
The days go I remain

It's been almost two months that I am in Tokyo. Time passes a speed that it is possible to imagine. It is sometimes hard to find a place in that particular year. Year with no real purpose, year off before entering the life a little more active, I admit I had a little trouble getting used to the great Tokyo, the recent and painful changes in my life, and especially currently empty future projects looming. The number of beers I have not really gone yet shown the path of wisdom in the Land of Ants. It does not feel good. We do not feel bad. It is one between two, as everywhere. Do not want to return to France, no desire to go back either, even if sometimes a bit of nostalgia watching.

We're nowhere. We are in a year where being lost is not a luxury but a slogan. Some fall quickly on their feet and find something to guide a little chaos of bewilderment. Sometimes it takes a little longer. And all thanks to this advance. Which, I must admit, makes him look good at that bastard!

Let night time
The days go I remain