11/21/2013

Wrecking ball

Funny how as soon as I start writing I see myself on a road, walking. The two seem so strongly linked. So, there I am, walking.

My house has stairways like there's no tomorrow. I think it helps my body that it does. Somehow in Paris, with the elevator, I wasn't getting my legs worked. Too lazy to climb the 5 flights. Actually, I did get sad over there.

It could have been fun had I been a cheater. But shit. The one thing I can treasure from all my tribulations is a big fat sack of self respect. There were many sweet occasions. When lil pearl asked if I was being hit on, it made me laugh out loud. Yea, I was. But it ain't me, babe. It ain't me to go off like that. I never once killed a golden bird that wasn't about to eat my heart out. That ain't me.

So now, as it reaches the end, or some kind of end, the fear and the angst are starting to leave my chest at last. I look at the wreckage and I know I'm not going to die with it. Not that I don't feel like noosing my neck off or just pulling some trigger. That I do. It's the fatigue, mainly. And I'm going to do what it takes to avoid going under. I already am looking at some ropes. What the hell.

Who doesn't.
Don't lie.
I need to devolve like I need a brick across the brains.

Vengeance?
There is no more vengeance then there is healing. We just get used to stuff. That's all.  

11/13/2013

Love you still

Freeway. Ô freeway.
Can't stand still. I managed to get imprisoned by your side, in your old cell. Wanted me to jailbreak you, didn'tcha?
We're not free. You never had yours. I gave up mine.
Are we blind?
We're not happy.
Gotta run off. But can you?

Freeway.
I can escape from anywhere. Wanna go? Wanna, now? Baby?
They torture you, in here. You're suffering I can tell.
They gnaw at your body and rot your soul.
Already, you barely know I'm here.
When did you last lay your forehead on my shoulder?
There won't be a we if we stay. Here. Like this.

I love you still but we must break out.
See the sun as it shines and shines on.
And.
I love you still. 

9/05/2013

Syria
Lemme chime in

We all know what shit is. We've all seen it, smelled it, heard it. Some of us have tasted it, and a lot have touched it (parents and can-openers, raise 'em). So.

When a thing smells like shit, looks like shit, sounds like shit, tastes like shit, and absolutely feels like shit, in all likelyhood, it IS shit. It don't take John Lennon, Gandhi and Bobby Marley to figure that one out (fortunate, cuz they ain't here).

That's all folks.
Now off you go again, to war and beyond.

7/27/2013

Summertime and the living is… well…

Passin' through on my cool-off walk, I stumble upon some kind of concert. Kids out of tune, mostly. But it's my friend's terrace and she's about to close shop. So the promise of a cold one makes me veer in. Then the kids change from atrocious wannabe english to pretty darn good french rock. Funny how they play their instruments better when the lyrics are familiar. What an amazing race the Gardois are.

I listen with both ears, but my hands, heart and dick are all cellphone, cause my baby is home fondling her prototype charade godlike fuselage and telling me all about it. I encourage her on. Tzingling. Oooh. Picture. Oooh.

Suddenly, I feel all eyes are on me. The kids have seen me play somewhere, as it were, and are asking me to come and jam. Hell. Before I can think my legs are on stage. Hate myself sometimes. I stash my dripping burning girl into my pocket and take the guitar I'm being handed. I'm adjusting the strap when they hit the first chords. Turns out my B and low E's are quite off. Oops. No tuner in sight.

I manage. Three tunes, then I'm off. But hey, it would seem the crowd is now in a frenzy, clapping, dancing, undressing?… They won't let me sit back down. Hell, I hop back on, all fingers sticky from the sweat and the goo I picked up on these 2 year old strings. I'm still thinking of my fiancee, lying on her parisian bed, waiting for me to comment on her last picture. Fed up with that atrocious guitar I grab the unused bass leaning against the stone wall. The kids in the band are drunk past recognition by now. They jump into a mock tibetan meditation chant. Hey. It's in C. So make it funky, I always tell myself. My lama is JB. And we take it from a two note sparse groove to a full blown sex machine. The kids have no idea what this song is and think we just invented the butter knife. They sing "show me the way to the Jet 27". It's kinda fun. It lasts 30 minutes. The terrace is full, by now. My waitress friends are running to and fro with orders. Pitchers are sweating moonlight. Glasses are clinking. People hug, dance in the gravel, dogs run amok under the stars. We've managed to turn this into another Sauvan miracle.

I sit finally and my girl is fast asleep. I'm asked if I want a drink. I'm asked to massage some (durn perdy) feet. I'm offered food. It's 1 am. Sure. Food. I'm offered another drink. I stumble to my sandals around 2. Gotta work at 6. The heat. The deadlines. I just walk inside to kiss my friend good night.

— Hold on, she says. And she turns around.

For a terrible second I think she'll spread the cards out for me, force me to poison the planet with one of those sadistic cliché lines. But no. Eternal pretentious that I am. It's not that she wants me to carry her up the village. It's something completely different.

— Here you go, she smirks. 15 € and 20 centimes.

I can feel the weight of my old skin dropping heavy on my skull. Can't pick it up. It just hangs low. My smile must be flapping about my shoulders by now. 15 €. That's not remotely possible, even if you erase six thousand years of bar owner pays the entertainer's drinks.

She notices I'm reacting in a sub festive mood.

— Oh, your friend, you know, the violin player? She left without paying.

— My… friend?

— Well she sat with you… at the beginning.

— Oh.

— And your two drinks.

By this point I want to pay real bad. Every cent. And be out on the bridge, breeze on my legs and arms. Away from people. All of them. Semi-tuned kids with built up torsos, half naked miniskirt teenagers hoping for their first orgasm, drunken violinists, sexy waitresses nonplussed about their bankruptcy, old ladies sleeping in their drool, odd weirdos parking their trucks in the middle of the night, ex-girlfriends barely able to walk, driving off to Anduze… All of it… I need air. Air and silence.

I reach the other side of the river. Tzingling. Oooh. My girlfriend's taken another pic. The moon is huge as it swims about on the Vidourle's thin black current.

Where did that happy whistling come from? My entrails?


6/28/2013

Between soundcheck and showtime

Between soundcheck and showtime, I took a nap. I slept really well and had a dream that you were on your way to the south of France, to surprise me, to see our gig. I spent all night trying to see your face in the crowd. Then I walked the three kilometers to my house with my two guitars, one strapped on my back, the other by the handle.

6/26/2013

Let's get it on

Paradoxes. They're so paradoxical some times. Such as coming from North America to live in a small country side village in deep deep France, only to speak more english there than I ever did in Montréal.

Am I really turning my back on the french language? I guess not. I've published several dozen rock tunes in french, some of which have reached public ears. Three novels. Short stories.
Why the switch? I don't really know. Maybe the second half of my life will work like this. French intimacy; anglo creativity. I dunno. Actually, I've got enough french novels piled up in there to keep 'em coming for quite a while. Only, no true serious publisher on the horizon.

Like a river. I mean, it seems almost easy, everytime I give english a little shove some kind of happy reward drops on my lap. Why not, eh? I'll have to get used not to insert spaces between words and punctuation. I'll have to start a toolbox all over again. I mean, I did write an english novel back in the days, but it was so badly crafted at the language level and I mastered literary level french so much better, it just seemed like a no-brainer. Also, back then, french speaking publishers were banging at my door. So, any fool would… They don't anymore. I guess I've earned a "difficult" reputation. Maybe just "cult", which is just as bad. I just really can't stand mediocrity. To me, if something sucks, you either chuck it or work at it. There's no point sitting there arguing. Action, action, action. Yeah. So I'm difficult. All I ask is that everyone do their work as best they can. Don't "I only work here" me. That's all.

So here goes. Let's get this started.
Let's get it on