Once in the futureAgain, I found myself on my bike. Today, I start not very quickly, without any suppleness. Maybe a rest of the day before yesterday, when we practiced snowshoes in a very heavy and wet slush. It is also because I become older. In some years — twenty or fortywho knows? —, I will be an old man. Perhaps surrounded with many grandchildren. They will play around me, probably while I will be half asleep in a big and skinned armchair. Maybe I, fat, flat and flabby. Passive. I know like what: like a big pumpkin. But one which may have been forgotten in a garden during the last months of the year. It is translucent, between Slim®, this colourful toy clay, and green flesh, all the cells’ walls destroyed by the activity of the water beteween freezing and unfreezing. When the Halloween’s fruit from now on looks like a pudding. Maybe that is precisely the grandfather I will be. Maybe the swarm of children will play around me like Indians performing a war dancing around their sacred mountain. Sometimes, they will stop and amuse themselves with my last hairs, these getting out of my ears. Or, worst, with my denture, joking with it, to scare the youngest of them.This untill — still half or completely asleep, or while I feint to dream — I will let escape a big stinky and liquid diarrhoea, accompanied by noises like distant rumbles of thunder. At this time, the children will escape, deeply disgusted. The smaller will call their mother, all around the house. Maybe without obtaining any responses, their parents perhaps being out, either working in a gloomy bank office, making shopping, swimming in the deep humid atmosphere of a pretty hairdresser's, playing tennis or golf, or yet for hours gossiping in a cosy tearoom. With all of that, they would let me lost and dipping in my drying shit. My brave heart will become very quiet, always slower. And, at least, gently, stop. And what will occur after? Nobody knows. On the earth, maybe some shuts and tears, some pontificating sentences, some sighs, those one from light relief too. But in the sky, at the heavens door, I will arrive among all those famous white and candid well dressed people. With my dry shit hanged at my flabby ass. And maybe the hall porter, the great bearded one, won’t let me in. So, I will stay, maybe for a while as long as the eternity, crouched down, on the last edge of a pale and cottonwood cloud. Maybe happy. Olivier Sillig, 8 and 9 January 2008,
on my bike and at home
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Urban chronicleAt the edge of town, there is a midsized street. It slops softly down towards the city centre. On one of it sides, there is a street café. During the day, it is quite crowded. Among the diners, there are old men playing cards, while smoking cigars. There are also old women drinking tea and chatting together. They are telling gossip about one recently deceased. On the other side of the street, right in front of the café, there is a very small park. Without any doubt, it is full of neglected bushes. But its main object, although not at all an attraction, is a public urinal. It is an ancient model (one made in the first hours of the local industrial development). Even if covered with a roof, its circular metallic wall remains open, both at its top and down. When the urinal was still used, one could perceive the lower part of the male user’s legs. Since many years, this urinal is not use anymore, it looks abandoned. Yet some new users have moved in: a complete colony of rats, with many young specimens too. They like to play together. Their parents have to be very vigilant, because there are some dangers or threats around. The main one is the neighbouring presence of a big old male cat. Every early morning, straight after dawn, he comes. To benefit from the new sunshine and the quietness of the still closed café, he settles himself on one of his free chairs. There, he fake to sleep some more, but indeed he keeps a half eye carefully open. This is because of his old familiar enemy. Indeed, in the urinal there is an old rat, a very old rat. Once, he was chief. All the community still shows him respect. Even their most unruly teenagers are sometimes happy to listen to his advice. That is because the old patriarch remained a malicious beastie and a true fierce fighter, not so much because of his acts but because of his ideas and sentiments. Every young rat is happy to know that the war is still on, a war mainly localized on the both sides of the virtual frontier marked by the road.Today, the
ball seems to be in the cat’s hands. Certainly the old cat pretends to
be
asleep. But indeed he keeps on staring at the abandoned hygienic
institution. And
right now, appears a group of five or six young warriors, or careless
playful adolescent
rats as you wish. One behind the other, they are drawing a strange kind
of
ring, now quite outside of the metallic wall.
So, there
is the quiet street, laid for its major part in the light of the new
day. In
the hot sunshine, there is the café’s metallic chair with the
apparently idle tomcat.
The other side of the street stays still in the shadow but clearly
visible in the
brightness of the morning. And, above all, before the wall, you can see
the
strange dance of the young rats. But you can’t observe what happened
between
the external band and the old rat: there is an important exchange of
signs. The
young daring warriors are waiting for a signal, a wink from the old
strategist hidden
in the obscurity, a wink that the last warrior will transmit to the
others.
And now, listen!
It’s possible to hear the distant rumour of a motor. Now, look! After a
last glance
at the old rat, the band ventures on to the road. And what was waited
or hoped
occurs: the tomcat leaps. But he do it exactly when the car we have
just heard
arrives. It is a luxurious car, a little out of fashion. Its four tyres
show white
strips. Up to now, the old tomcat was also striped. But he is no longer
striped, because the tyres striped him, undress him. His hairy coat lay
on the
macadam, stained with red splashes.
The
old rat
makes something that he makes only very seldom. He gets out of the
protective
metallic shed. Prudently, with counted steps, he walks up to his dear
enemy’s bloody
remains. He looks respectfully at them, without caring about the
triumphal
young warrior’s dance. With a trembling paw, he wipes away the edge of
his own
left eye. At his age, every victory contains a part of defeat. It has
been a
too easy thing. Maybe his old enemy, the first one, has foreseen that
in every defeat
there is a kind of victory, too.
Olivier Sillig, from 17 to 26 December 2007, home
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The fisherman is not a fisherA man settled comfortably on a campstool. He is watching over his fishing bamboo rod without caring about the copyus paddling around, although he looks like these ugly beasties. But, basically, this man is not the fisher his actual activity makes you think off. He is the death’s soul, the soul of death. And the soul of death is here spending its holidays, incognito and ignored. This strange soul is especially ignored because, indeed, no one can imagine that death has a soul. And worst, to imagine that this soul has holidays.Olivier Sillig, from 20 to 26 December 2007, home
Freely inspired by a
fragment of note:
23.11.2007 (Au réveil, avec des résurgences des Landes le 7.6.04) |
Your_rewriting_suggestion: |
On my bikeLet me
summarize, especially for you, what happened to me this last hour.
At least fifty times a year I ride my beloved bike. Many years ago, set on my bike, I created a “one man show” which I first performed at a friend’s party. And after that, in various theatres all around my district. I have created it all while riding! Likewise my first short stories. The beginning of my first novel, called Bzjeurd, too. In these past times, my bicycle was the best place space to expand my imaginary. Listen ! Today it was a bit like that, but, instead of creating a new story, I decided to work my English. First I described what I was seeing. For example, people walking. At that point, mainly old persons. A couple, the man first, wearing big glasses. His wife behind, closing their small grey metallic gate. Also a young boy running, maybe because he had a private lesson during the Wednesday school free afternoon. A bit further, I described the woods which looked grey, because of their bared trees, surrounded by the still green fields. The whole, under a beautiful light blue sky. And so on. Then, later, the way became a bit sloping. At the top of the hill, not exactly at the top but at the highest point of the country’s little road, there was a small village, just above nine hundred habitants. It is the birth place of one of our local heroes. I don’t like very much the heroes, especially the national ones, ever less the war heroes, though this is not the question. This guy was called Adjutant Davel, I suppose because this was exactly what he was. At that time, our district was military occupied by ours neighbours, the Bernois. So, this decent adjutant decided to free the land of them. In order to do that, he came to the castle’s place and captured the occupation government. Unfortunately, the people didn’t follow him in this adventurous venture. He was caught and thrown into a jail (maybe the jail was just for the legend, maybe I have just invented it too. Maybe, in fact, he was just locked in a usual bedroom with a real bed, a mattress and some cushions as for all the officers of every time!). After a brief trial, he was found guilty and sentenced to death, poor little heroe! One fine day, he was brought to the lakeside and executed, beheaded. There were many people to look at the sad show. Among the onlookers, there were two middle-aged farmers who chattered during all the execution. They walked (of course they have not cars neither horses nor ox!) back home together. One said: — That was sad, but fortunately, the weather was nice! And he insisted on the word fortunately. Thanks to this little example, you came perhaps to realise how our mentality is, I mean we, from French Switzerland, from the district of Vaud. $$ I wouldn’t summarize all what I sad during my trip, to myself but with a clear and strong voice. That would be too long and a bit boring. Moreover, my fingers are tired. But I am very glad and proud of having done all of this. And even more, to believe that I have been able to write it! May be it looks like something not completely far-of from a rough English! Olivier Sillig, from 5 to 28 December 2007, first
on my bike then at home
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© texts and illustrations: CinÉthique, Olivier Sillig.