Voilà, quoi...
J'ai hâte de voir ce que cela donnera.
~~
J'ai hâte de voir ce que cela donnera.
~~
petrouschka
Je ne connais pas les mots qui guérissent un coeur.... [ Message pour le monde... S'il vous plait, répondez... Est-ce que mon code est correct ? Mon monde tourne-t-il correctement ? System all green. Communications interrompues. ]*
A Dance 'Round The Memory Tree [ The Crying Virgin ]
Vendredi 11 mars 2011 à 1:10
- Nous sommes les enfants damnés de Caïn, maudit pour s'être rendu coupable du premier fratricide de l'Histoire. Mais Dieu nous a aussi protégé, décrétant que quiconque ferait couler le sang de son cher Caïn serait maudit pour sept générations. C'est pour cela que vos semblables, au lieu de nous tuer...
- Vous ont condamnés à l'exil... acheva-t-elle.
Une lueur d'amertume brilla dans le regard de son interlocuteur.
- Je suis ravi de parler à une étrangère qui soit si renseignée.
- Si nous allons au fond des choses, je suis effectivement une étrangère. Mais j'ai appris l'Histoire et me suis cultivée là où vous êtes nés. Il vous serait bon de ne pas l'oublier.
Le visage du prince s'éclaira, et un sourire carnassier se dessina sur ses lèvres.
- Je me garderai bien de l'oublier, Votre Altesse, répondit-il d'un ton étrangement menaçant. Puis il s'inclina un bref instant, se leva et se détourna d'elle, avançant à pas mesurés vers la lourde porte de chêne, et lança :
- Faîtes attention, Très Chère Ouréa. Pour vous aussi, il serait fâcheux d'oublier certains... détails.
Lorsqu'il atteint la porte, il se retourna vers le sofa d'où la Déesse n'avait pas bougé. Elle tenait entre ses mains le verre de vin qu'il lui avait servi au début de leur entretien. Avec désinvolture, elle le porta à ses lèvres et en but une gorgée, sans le quitter des yeux. Il sortit en claquant la porte, elle réprima un frisson.
Acteur~ [Oui, j'ai un oeil sur les Césars en même temps...]
Vendredi 25 février 2011 à 22:00
"Vous savez...
Dans ce métier, on pense être quelqu'un,
et finalement, on découvre qu'on est plusieurs..."
Michael Lonsdale,
CESAR du Meilleur Acteur dans un Second Rôle (pour Des Hommes et des Dieux)
Dans ce métier, on pense être quelqu'un,
et finalement, on découvre qu'on est plusieurs..."
Michael Lonsdale,
CESAR du Meilleur Acteur dans un Second Rôle (pour Des Hommes et des Dieux)
Vendredi 25 février 2011 à 20:28
But my dreaming self refuses to be consoled. It continues to wander, aimless, homeless, alone. It cannot be convinced of its safety by any evidence drawn from my waking life. I know this because I continue to have the same dream, over and over.
I'm in the other place, a place that's familiar to me, although I've never lived in it or even seen it except in this dream. Details vary -the space has many different rooms, mostly bare of furniture, some with only the sub-flooring- but it always contains the steep, narrow straiway of that distant apartment. Somewhere in it, I know -as I open door after door, walk through corridor after corridor- I'll come upon the gold mirror, and also the green satin bedspread, which has taken on a life of its own and is able to morph into cushions, or sofas, or armchairs, or even -once- a hammock.
It's always dusk, in this place; it's always a cool dank summer evening. This is where I'll have to live, I think in the dream. I'll have to be all by myself, forever. I've missed the life that was supposed to be mine. I've shut myself off from it. I don't love anyone. Somewhere, in one of the rooms I haven't yet entered, a small child is imprisoned. It isn't crying or wailing, it stays completely silent, but I can feel its presence there.
Then I wake up, and retrace the steps of my dream, and try to shake off the sad feeling it's left me with. Oh yes, the other place, I say to myself. That again. There was quite a lot of space in it, this time. It wasn't so bad.
I'm in the other place, a place that's familiar to me, although I've never lived in it or even seen it except in this dream. Details vary -the space has many different rooms, mostly bare of furniture, some with only the sub-flooring- but it always contains the steep, narrow straiway of that distant apartment. Somewhere in it, I know -as I open door after door, walk through corridor after corridor- I'll come upon the gold mirror, and also the green satin bedspread, which has taken on a life of its own and is able to morph into cushions, or sofas, or armchairs, or even -once- a hammock.
It's always dusk, in this place; it's always a cool dank summer evening. This is where I'll have to live, I think in the dream. I'll have to be all by myself, forever. I've missed the life that was supposed to be mine. I've shut myself off from it. I don't love anyone. Somewhere, in one of the rooms I haven't yet entered, a small child is imprisoned. It isn't crying or wailing, it stays completely silent, but I can feel its presence there.
Then I wake up, and retrace the steps of my dream, and try to shake off the sad feeling it's left me with. Oh yes, the other place, I say to myself. That again. There was quite a lot of space in it, this time. It wasn't so bad.
Margaret Atwood,
Moral Disorder,
"The Other Place".
Vendredi 25 février 2011 à 19:16
I was not an orphan, I told myself; I was not nearly enough of an orphan. I needed to be more of one, so I could eat food that was bad for me, stay up all night, wear unflattering clothes, and hang out with unsuitable companions without the anxious running commentary this behavior would call forth inside my head. Why are you living in this dump ? What are you doing with your time ? Why are you with that creep ? Why can't you accomplish anything ?
Get enough sleep ! You'll ruin your health ! Wear less black !
Margaret Atwood,
Moral Disorder,
"The Other Place".
Margaret Atwood,
Moral Disorder,
"The Other Place".