Siouxsie & the Banshees : Il est né le divine enfant

- "It was the summer of 'seventy-six, back when I first started working for Vinnie. The summer of the bicentennial. A kid came in one morning and started stealing things from the store. He's standing by the rack of paperbacks near the front window stuffing skin magazines under his shirt. It was crowded around the counter just then, so I didn't see him at first.... But once I noticed what he was up to, I started to shout. He took off like a jackrabbit, and by the time I managed to get out from behind the counter, he was already tearing down Seventh Avenue. I chased after him for about half a block, and then I gave up. He'd dropped something along the way, and since I didn't feel like running anymore, I bent down to see what it was. It turned out to be his wallet. There wasn't any money inside, but his driver's license was there, along with three or four snapshots. I suppose I could have called the cops and had him arrested. I had his name and address from the license, but I felt kind of sorry for him. He was just a measly little punk, and once I looked at those pictures in his wallet, I couldn't bring myself to feel very angry at him... Roger Goodwin. That was his name. In one of the pictures, I remember, he was standing next to his mother. In another one, he was holding some trophy he got from school and smiling like he just won the Irish Sweepstakes. I just didn't have the heart. A poor kid from Brooklyn without much going for him, and who cared about a couple of dirty magazines, anyway ?
- And ?
- So I held onto the wallet. Every once in a while I'd get a little urge to send it back to him, but I kept delaying and never did anything about it. Then Christmas rolls around, and I'm stuck with nothing to do. Vinnie was going to invite me over, but his mother got sick, and he and his wife had to go down to Florida at the last minute. So I'm sitting in my apartment that morning, feeling a little sorry for myself, and then I see Roger Goodwin's wallet lying on a shelf in the kitchen. I figure what the hell, why not do something nice for once, and I put on my coat and go out to return the wallet... The address was over in Boerum Hill, somewhere in the projects. It was freezing out that day, and I remember getting lost a few times trying to find the right building. Everything looks the same in that place, and you keep going over the same ground thinking you're somewhere else. Anyway, I finally get to the apartment I'm looking for and ring the bell... Nothing happens. I assume no one's there, but I try again just to make sure. I wait a little longer, and just when I'm about to give up, I hear someone shuffling to the door. An old woman's voice asks, "Who's there ?" and I say I'm looking for Roger Goodwin. "Is that you, Roger ?" the old woman says, and then she undoes about fifteen locks and opens the door... She has to be at least eighty, maybe ninety years old, and the first thing I notice about her is she's blind. "I knew you'd come. Roger," she says. "I knew you wouldn't forget your Granny Ethel on Christmas." And then she opens her arms as if she's about to hug me.I don't have much time to think, you understand. I had to say something real fast, and before I knew what was happening, I could hear the words coming out of my mouth. "That's right, Granny Ethel," I said. "I came back to see you on Christmas." Don't ask me why I did it. I don't have any idea. It just came out that way, and suddenly this old woman's hugging me there in front of the door, and I'm hugging her back. It was like a game we both decided to play - without having to discuss the rules. I mean, that woman knew I wasn't her grandson. She was old and dotty, but she wasn't so far gone that she couldn't tell the difference between a stranger and her own flesh and blood. But it made her happy to pretend, and since I had nothing better to do anyway, I was happy to go along with her...So we went into the apartment and spent the day together. Every time she asked me a question about how I was, I would lie to her. I told her I'd found a good job in a cigar store. I told her I was about to get married. I told her a hundred pretty stories, and she made like she believed every one of them. "That's fine, Roger," she would say, nodding her head and smiling. "I always knew things would work out for you...." After a while, I started getting hungry. There didn't seem to be much food in the house, so I went out to a store in the neighborhood and brought back a mess of stuff. A precooked chicken, vegetable soup, a bucket of potato salad, all kinds of things. Ethel had a couple of bottles of wine stashed in her bedroom, and so between us we managed to put together a fairly decent Christmas dinner... We both got a little tipsy from the wine, I remember, and after the meal was over we went out to sit in the living room where the chairs were more comfortable... I had to take a pee, so I excused myself and went to the bathroom down the hall. That's where things took another turn. It was ditsy enough doing my little jig as Ethel's grandson, but what I did next was positively crazy, and I've never forgiven myself for it... I go into the bathroom, and stacked up against the wall next to the shower, I see a pile of six or seven cameras. Brand-new, thirty-five millimeter cameras, still in their boxes. I figure this is the work of the real Roger, a storage place for one of his recent hauls. I've never taken a picture in my life, and I've certainly never stolen anything, but the moment I see those cameras sitting in the bathroom, I decide I want one of them for myself. Just like that. And without even stopping to think about it, I tuck one of the boxes under my arm and go back to the living room... I couldn't have been gone for more than three minutes, but in that time Granny Ethel had fallen asleep. Too much Chianti, I suppose. I went into the kitchen to wash the dishes, and she slept on through the whole racket, snoring like a baby. There didn't seem to be any point in disturbing her, so I decided to leave. I couldn't even write a note to say good-bye, seeing that she was blind and all, so I just left. I put her grandson's wallet on the table, picked up the camera again, and walked out of the apartment... And that's the end of the story.
- Did you ever go back to see her ?

- Once, about three or four months later. I felt so bad about stealing the camera, I hadn't even used it yet. I finally made up my mind to return it, but Granny Ethel wasn't there anymore. Someone else had moved into the apartment, and he couldn't tell me where she was.

- She probably died.

- Yeah, probably.

- Which means that she spent her last Christmas with you.
- I guess so. I never thought of it that way.
- It was a good deed, Auggie. It was a nice thing you did for her.
- I lied to her, and then I stole from her. I don't see how you can call that a good deed.

- You made her happy. And the camera was stolen anyway. It's not as if the person you took it from really owned it.

- Anything for art, eh, Paul ?
- I wouldn't say that. But at least you've put the camera to good use.
- And now you've got your Christmas story, don't you ?
- Yes, I suppose I do.
- Bullshit is a real talent, Auggie. To make up a good story, a person has to know how to push all the right buttons.

- I'd say you're up there among the masters.
What do you mean ?
- I mean, it's a good story.
- Shit. If you can't share your secrets with your friends, what kind of friend are you ?
- Exactly. Life just wouldn't be worth living, would it ?"

La réponse est oui

Interpol : Untitled

"One day indistinguishable from the next, a long continuous chain, then suddenly : there is a change"

Travis Bickle

The smiths : Please, please, please

"Dernière ligne droite. Plus rien ne me sépare de l'arrivée. Soudain, mes écrans de contrôle s'affolent. je passe en manuel. Mais l'ordinateur a perdu les pédales et refuse de passe la main. Je l'encourage. Il me décroche une pluie d'escarbilles brûlantes pour m'aveugler. c'est moi le maître à présent : ça me plait. Alors l'avant décide de partir dans le mauvais sens. Je devine la suite. J'ai moins de deux secondes pour tout arrêter et me mettre hors course. Le moteur est furieux, il me donne son opinion. La ligne d'arrivée est tout près, hurle-t-il, trop près. La roue avant-gauche me lâche et file de son côté. Je l'ignore en ricanant et braque à fond vers la droite. Le pare-chocs arrache un morceau d'asphalte. Je le regarde voler et plonge dans l'oeil du soleil..."

Frank Miller,
Dark knight returns

Jennifer. Superbe. Ouvrant la marche. Marianne. Elle-même. Quelque part - carrément Madeleine. Il est là, aussi : de pied en cape. La cuisine est ici. Un tomahawk. Déterré. Prêt à servir & protéger. Et bien sûr, Katie. Depuis son empire. De tout son poids. Le Ministre. Depuis son ministère. A vérifier, revérifier. Sceller le tout au tout. Mary. L'Agent & son chiffre indépassable, le Général & son grade insupportable : programmé en mode seize. Un souffle au coeur : c'est tout. Les mains jointes - unique ; cette session extraordinaire - les multiples, leurs figures tutélaires : tous au rendez-vous. L'oubli boulotté par lui-même : le truc de fou... Si c'est là le prix à payer, d'accord. Parce qu'il y a le pourquoi, la permanente permanence quand vous êtes là, je vous aime ; quand vous n'êtes pas là, je vous aime quand même & les figures libres : alors la folie on s'en fout. Parce que tout ça libère la mélodie écoutée à l'instant possédante, possédé, depuis juin, juillet moquant les contingences au départ les conditions, incertaines, d'en ajouter une autre ou pas comme à l'arrivée la manière dont ; qui me ; par enchainement & cohésion : Six - qu'importe que tu sois à l'étranger. Qu'importe que tu ignores le doublé on est, pour la deuxième fois, en mono ; on est, au-delà & totalement total, deux fois en mono qui se joue. Qui est en train de se jouer.

Yael Naim : Flashdance [what a feeling]

Les filles contre les garçons. Les filles contre les garçons. Départagés par Alan Vega qui déclamerait une tragédie rien de grecque sur les marches du 77, Barton street. Pour autant, hauts les coeurs - "seule la musique", habitée, les personnes, la personne, ok mais je n'ai aucun goût pour l'hagiographie très "il s'en ait fallu de peu qu'il ne marchât sur l'eau" et tout ce qui s'en suit... N'importe comment, la réponse est oui : "like a bright light on the horizon, shining so bright, he'll get you flying, he'll drive you away, he'll drive you insane, but then he'll remove all of your pain"...

Un livre, les pages tournées d'une langue anglaise balbutiante, chercheuse, hésitante. Un enregistrement pirate, fort fort même pas en jouant du volume sonore parce que l'appel, live, aurait pu contenir un empire. La chanson, live, c.o.n.t.e.n.a.i.t. un empire... Blanc & noir : totalement total, l'idoine exutoire. Vaudou 100% derviche électrique. C'était hier, tu sais... Seulement hier, c'est danser, samedi dernier quand nous aurions du être radicalement tous couchés, heureux & heureux aujourd'hui.

Une coupe de cheveux fixée au gel de l'année 1995 : une sorte de - permanente. La réponse est oui : parce qu'hier c'est encore nanani aujourd'hui... Le GIGN, en formation hoplitique : et moi difficile d'accès, même pour appelons-là August ou, pourquoi pas : la femme-crocodile alors qu'elle avait les pleins pouvoirs sauf celui de me déverrouiller ce soir-là émoi... Jusqu'à ce que le maître de Cérémonie, toujours partant pour la sorcellerie, se lève, décapsule le disque qui tournait et trouve à briser en quelques trois minutes la herse dressée par mon humeur : remixée d'un sourire, pour de bon, grâce aux filles contre les garçons*.

Les journées nationales de l'épylepsie ont eu lieu du 17 au 23 novembre.

* Quelque chose - audible et, surtout, ici, visuel - qui les rend singulièrement singuliers... Un putain de Christ de système A.B.S.

The nightblooms : One weak moment

C'était juste une question, ouverte. Ce jour, ce biais - comblé par un pain de C4. Ce n'est pas - vrai... La tête qui branle, indépendante, hébété par un risque de tengeante. On est en novembre mais les mois d'avril ne sont pas seuls à tuer, Robin alors on est, en l'occurence, fermé par la dernière fois, courant février, parce qu'à l'arrivée, c'était plus qu'une réponse, fermée.

S'allonger ou changer de pays, coupé par la vallée, versatile & menaçé - alors qu'il y avait du mieux, tu sais. Parce qu'il est - trop tard. Parce qu'il n'y a - "rien à gagner ici" sauf, pieds à pieds, se travailler le taux d'alcoolémie. N'importe comment, ne pas voler. N.e. pas voler. N.e.p.a.s. voler. N.e.p.a.s.v.o.l.e.r. Marcher publiquement, sur la lançée, par appel, par seuil, de façon négociée, au dialogue, la seule manière de continuer à décomposer ce passé imposé en lui opposant un incassable j.a.m.a.i.s. en pensant c'est aussi pour toi, Michel, que je le fais.

Il en existe un...
Qui peut.
Qui doit.
Qui peut être.
Qui doit être.
Qui peut & qui doit être aimé.

Nine inch nails : Dead souls

"I wasn't allowed to bother Mr. Carson's guitar. I would wait until he feel asleep at my house, then I would slip his guitar into my room and try to play. There I learned to play the guitar at the age of nine years old. After that, my mother bought me a second hand guitar at the price of $1.50 ! 1 can tell you there was no beautiful sound than my own guitar music. I was playing for country dances at the same time working very hard on a farm new Avalon Mississippi."

John Hurt

Queen : It's a kind of magic

"Logique qui échappe aux comptables
De l'ordre du frisson, de l'impalpable"

Traquer la fièvre