Helene Grimaud at the RFH

Yesterday night I went to see HG again. A solo concert as five or six years ago, same auditorium. Then the earth moved. And the skies opened and a new life started. Yesterday, it was also a recital and a good one. But nothing moved much apart from Helene's swift hands on the keyboard. I found that Mozart was not for her at all. She gave him
a military ardour and brilliance way too OTT for the nuanced Amadeus, here travestied as a thunderous god. Then during the deconstructed second bit ( Berg ?) I fell asleep. Oh dear. Was very tired. Then more rushing of hands on keyboard, and it was over. The 'encore' was the best. An hungarian dance with colour, rythm and flavour. All three missing rather from the previous two pieces. It was odd that Helene, so intense, lyrical and melodic chose to play bits that felt rather dull and dry. And why Mozart ? But why no Bach
at all when she recorded a whole beautiful CD of his music ? On the whole a lovely evening but nowhere near as tremendous as the one, a few years back, when her walking on stage changed my life.

Let me in, the film.

'Let me in' is a film that leaves a deep impression on you. Long after you have seen it, you will still carry its haunting effect. This might be the one time in film history, when the remake is way better than the initial film, because 'Let the right one in' was good but left one totally cold and indifferent. It was quaint, arty, very 'small film' and very likeable in its unpretentiousness. But with 'Let me in' now we are talking total cinema. Everything is better : the acting of the two superb young actors ( especially Chloe Moretz, utterly charismatic ) the direction, the music, everything. Right from the great opening scene, you are gripped by a masterly hand that you know wont let you go till the very end and after. The result is even more incredible given that most of us know the 'story' and that the surprise effect could have been therefore spoiled. Yet the movie managed supremely to top it all effortlessly. You gap, you stare, you wince at it all, as if for the very first time because really, it is the First time you see such a great, powerful story being told. This version also is not only powerful but subtle and very moving. It breaks the boundary of the one story, and become an all meaningful allergory. The fascination for Evil. The beauty and seduction of the Devil. The flame that humanity will always carry for evil-doing in spite of being destroyed in the process. There had been a very long time since a film made such a deep impression on me. And from talking to everyone around, we all agree : Superb.

Iceland

Josephine got lost on own island so we'll leave her there and carry on just like that. Just me talking. Recently I have been to Iceland and experienced the best trip ever. This is The Place. The feel of the nearby North Pole is incredible. The mountains loom large and mysterious. The whole land is a Mystery. I long to go back, deeper into the wild and lose myself into total space and emptiness. The landscape is like a perfect meditation. From the minute you land, it's like landing on the moon. Iceland is another planet. Then you drive into the landscape and the deep, spooky quiet get to you. You go into that odd, peaceful, silent state that here would be called 'meditation' but there just happens naturally to your mind.
I think I fell in love with the North Pole. Cold ,silent, ultimate, perfect. And long to be back.

Meteorite

What if one day a meteorite were to crash unto l'Etat-D'ame ? For it is such a small island spinning in the void in spiralling crescendo and decrescendo, it could well be sent off course by the slightest hit from spacial dust....already the winds and frequent raging seas threaten its sheer existence... Josephine hold on to a very thin lifeline there. She should just go, build a raft, defy the ocean and sail to whatever harbour there is beyond the horizon. The problem though, is that it's all rhetoric and mere superstition. Because for now, strictly nothing is happening and the lull of comfort is too sweet to be abandonned...To be continued. Or not.

Prisoner.

Josephine sits alone in the big blue wooden house. Alone among the antique furnitures, an outmoded but charming decors. There was maybe, at some point in the past a large family leaving here. Or a lonely refined ancestor. Who knows. Now remains only Josephine, among the grand, desolate but lovely house. Wistful she stares in the distance. The sky is grey. The sea is grey. The day is sad. Her mood is sad. When will she leave ? How ? Trapped on her beautiful but desert island, her life is often a prison, a scealed bubble. Eternity is unfathomable and weight heavily on her soul. To die and to live again ! Should she build a raft and challenge the waves ? Defy the circle of the ocean and rejoin the world of the living ? So much efforts... She does not believe she could ever muster the will. Oh that longing, yes... Die Sehnsucht... Aber der Will nein. So, idle, thoughtful, passive, she sits and wait. And wishes. And prays. But hopes not.

Le cimetiere des idoles

It's early morning and Josephine walks in large strides accross the country on the island. Going across fields, forests and waste lands, the only noises are the crunching of the dry autumn leaves under her steps. Birds chirp sometimes in the distance and you can perceive the faint rush of the ocean all around. After hours of such intense hiking, Josephine arrives at the Cemetery of Idols, tired of limbs but clear of spirit. The place is a forlorn area, where lies in chaos the broken statues of past idols. Some made of glass or marble, one or two of gold. Some of plain earth. Or of salt gathered from tears. All broken and in pieces, as it should be. Nobody wants to see the Idols standing again. Ruling over your heart and life. The cemetery of idols is a good place to visit.

The Island's birthday.

A year later.
The Island has reemerged from the sea. Intact, wild and beautiful. Its secret location : high up in the North, cloaked in grey mists and deep fog. It rains, the winds howl often yet there is no more blissful place where to be : a place of precious solitude, of space and silence. Solitude, space and silence. The three essentials S so bitterly missing anywhere else.
After so many months spent in dry countries, Josephine is back on the 'Etat-Dame'.
A few days ago, it was the island's birthday. She hanged garlands accross the trees, put the flag up the mast, lit the lantern at the top of the lighthouse and light up torches everywhere, candles and incense along the sandy paths. Brightly illuminated, the Island could have been seen from far away in the deep dark sea. But no one was there.
When all was ready, Josephine took her picnic basket and went to the shore for a midnight feast. Many a kindly ghosts looked on and smiled, reminiscing about their own time of special happenings and secret delights....
When the food was gone and the wine drunk, Josephine sat there a long time, dreaming in the distance. With only the soft rush of the waves nearby and shadows of spirits and animals around, it felt eerie perhaps, but also tranquil and perfect.
Josephine was back. And not ready to leave ever again.

Just once. To stop.

We think big of ourselves. But we are no different than ants in size and importance. We are born, we breathe, live, laugh. And suddenly die. And what in between ? I Must Stop and think. I must stop and meditate on the state of things. I must stop and take time. I must stop and look back at the void open ahead. I must sit still and ponder and stop thinking and just be. And exist more deeply. And feel more deeply. And love more deeply. Yet I dont. Never. Stop and sit. I run and rush and talk rubbish and watch rubbish and let precious time flows wasted, on nothing, on rubbish and precious time given to me to try and Understand is simply gone. Wasted. Frittered away in pettiness. In nothingness, on daily mondanity and tiny concerns. Life happens to us just once. But again and again, we forget and live unconscious. Happily unconscious ? Or stupidly so ? Is the man asleep happy or simply ...asleep ?

Untitled

Walk, keep walking and try not slip unto the moving discs of your mind in motion, walk to edge and kneel on the edge, face the void, the great wide void where your mind and the universe meet, the finite and infinite on the edge

Escape

You could say Josephine's left the building. Or abandonned her 'blog'. But she hasn't really. She sometimes goes 'undercover'. Lives under a bush literally. Disappears. Vanished. Evaporates. Does not everyone, at some point ? Life can be So burdensome. So heavy. To dissolve into thin air seems really like a reasonnable wish. An island. Desert. Just wind and sand. And stars above. Waters around. Perfect setting for the perfect getaway. Working on it. It's all about escape. Nothing else.

The leaves

The leaves, green, lush, luminous
Sated of sun, filled with light
Breath life into the garden
Shadow to the birds
Trampoline to the squirrels
Landing pads to the bees, butterflies and dragonflies
Anchors to the spiders'webs
Humble bearers of discrete scents
The leaves are substance to all
Gracious, generous extravagance of trees,
Bushes and branches
The leaves abond in the garden like a sea
Of green, murmuring waves
Gently brushed by the summer breeze,
They are the peaceful and deep welcome
That softly embrace you
When you step in the garden
They caress your face and refresh your mind
They whisper lovely secrets of comfort
And brush off all the weariness in one note
Of vibrant green played at infinitum,
The leaves are the one and only architecture
In the garden, an orderly chaos from another realm,
A balm to the eyes and an ointment to the soul.
To the leaves : thank you.

Tapestry

The living texture of life,
organic web spun of thousand millions
delicate, intricate, complex
designs, points and patterns
bright, supple, light
yet so resistant
woven into infinity
each microscopic creature, a breathing stitch
into the larger fabric of life
a breathing textile made of so many varied fibers
all the same yet each different
sparkling everywhere into the tapestry of the world
as stars in the night sky
reflecting the great magnificence of creation
with, at its center,
death, awaiting.

Drops

From a tiny liquid cell
Poked from oblivion into existence
Our watery birth leaves its seal
In our eyes
Where the light of the seas
Shines doubly in our tears
Wether in joy or in sadness
Our eyes fill up like a glass
And a tear is the watery grave
Of our hopes
The drop that contains
The end of the story
The salty secret of regrets
And the rain falling tonight
Soothes my soul
With its whispered ecchoes
Of watery beginnings
And oceanic beyond...

The 6am bird

6am. the bird sings its poem
Loud and clear
For all to hear
6am. the bird throws away its poem
Will a little female catch it ?

6am. no poem in my head
Heavy thoughts lacking charm
6am. I could throw away
My head
And catch the bird's song instead.

8am. The sun rising, glorious over the hills
Calling me out, out
This very instant.
Birds in concert, now
Inviting for a grand walk.

Do beautiful places lead to beautiful thoughts ?
Will the murky air of the city be left behind,
With all its torments and agonies ?
A beautiful scenery,
A healing balm for a suffering heart.

9am. Sitting at my desk
Birds still chirping
But the mind gone quiet
No one chirping there
Just silence
And the day lying in wait.

Curse

Dieu rend fou ceux qu'il veut perdre.
L'Amour rend fou ceux qui le perdent.

La sirene brisee

Josephine est une sirene brisee
Son coeur a ete arrache
Son flanc saigne et elle ne peut plus nager
Elle ne peut que pleurer,
Mais que valent des larmes dans un ocean sale,
Un ocean de larmes,
Un ocean noir de douleur....
Josephine est une sirene brisee
Et elle s'enfonce loin, tres loin dans les grands fonds,
Ou il n'y a plus que vide et silence.
La doucement elle peut enfin s'etendre
Sur le sable fin, gris des fonds marins
Et la, attendre immobile, apprivoiser sa peine,
Si grande qu'elle ne peut plus ni pleurer,
Ni bouger.
Sa peine si grande,
que l'ocean meme ne peut la contenir
Sa peine si grande,
Qu'elle menace de l'ensevelir.
Sa peine, qui va oui, la faire mourir,
Doucement, tranquillement,
Au fond de l'ocean,
Pendant que le Coeur de Josephine reste a battre et a hurler dans des cieux sans pitie.

The two angels

In a land of deep fog
Two angels strayed and lost their way
The mist, the wind and the cold,
Took hold of their slight ethereal bodies,
And kept them lost, in a land of deep fog.
They cried and tried their utmost to be brave
And to take flight again
But the adverse conditions, contrary elements,
Won : they never found their way home.
Instead they took abode on Earth
In a land of deep fog and ghosts.

There, the two angels met.
Only one recognised the other
'You are my soul'
Said one to the other
He was not heard
'You are my world'
Said one to the other
He was not heard

Thus, one angel lost the other
And in a land of deep fog and despair
Each went sadly their own way
Unrecognised, in disguise,
For ever unreunited
For ever separated
Till the day
They died.

Koyaanitsqatsi

Koyaanitsqatsi or the music of the End.
A music you would like to die listening to.
A music of finality and absolute.
A music when you have given everything and lost everything.
A music to transgress to other worlds and forget the Earth.
A music to blast your ears and mind with.
A music to blow yourself up into uncomprising dust.
When you have seen Death in the mirror and know : this is it.
A music of acute completion and utter non-retour.
A music of depression and redemption.
A music to ascend to other realms beyond humanity.
The icy music of the spheres where we do not exist, where we do not matter,
where all is light and dust.
Listen and die slowly from the maddening torment.
The Music of the End.

Blank slate

21g is the weight of the soul,
21g we lose at the end of our fight,
and 21g I send now flying towards you.
I see the face of the baby before it is born,
and its soul nothing but a blank slate,
on which so much is yet to be written.
A blank slate I search for to start afresh,
free from my faults and failings.
Will you forgive me seventy times seventy ?

Le monde desert

La route est seule
Et sans amour
Dans les pierres du desert
Dans le sable sec
Dans l'aride destine
Qui est la mienne
La route est seule
Et sans amour
Sous le soleil dur
Et sans pitie
De l'aridite
Pierres, desert et ciel
Pour toute amitie.
La Mort sera une grande douceur.

The Room

The room will never change.
The sky outside, will,
from heavy clouds
to dark rain, to light blossom.
But the room will remain
clear and calm and quiet
serene beyond belief
as nirvana reached
comme la plenitude du coeur
qui ne bat plus que le rythme de l'harmonie
comme la palme de la main
qui recele le bonheur
dans son creux
et le garde la, secret.
The room will always be there
for you to go and sit
and humbly watch heaven unrols its tragedy,
God and its antics
but - you- will always be at peace
quiet and serene
in the room facing
the sea of infinite possibilities.

a Room

There will be a wide open room,
Full of sun, overlooking the sea,
There will be a place of light and peace,
A place of quiet and serenity,
Where silence is knowledge,
Where space is beauty,
Where Love rests in eternity,
In that place beyond time
Beyond errors and enemity,
Beyond struggle and adversity
I will always be there
I will always love you.

Statue of salt

If heaven breaks
if thunder rolls
if fire spreads
My arms will stretch
And stretch but will never reach
And the cock will crow three times
In the garden of sorrow
In the garden of evil
Midnight on the anvil
Clouds gathering, storm brewing
Christ rising and Love betrayed
Arms will stretch and stretch but will never reach,
Love forlorn, love amiss,
Judas the friend was but a kiss.

Le coeur -horloge

Les battements de mon coeur
Comme une horloge qui marche
A contretemps, a l'envers du monde
A l'envers de tout
Mon coeur qui bat envers et contre tous
Vers toi, vers toi, surtout
Quand il faudrait qu'il s'arrete,
qu'il se cache,
Qu'il stoppe sa course
Stoppe son elan fou,
et arrete son battement
En remontant la pente
Du temps qui mord au coeur
Et nous envoies vers la Mort
Seul, triste, unrepentant,
Mais triomphant.

Amour

Etre en etat d'amour est un etrange phenomene. So much has been written on it, yet, when it happens to you, you cannot resist to try and fathom this 'etat d'ame' as if it was suddenly felt for the first time.
To be in love is to be under unfluence. Drug or alcohol would be the obvious comparison but with Love, the miracle is : where does it come from ?
What strange, sublime chemistry suddenly set it off when meeting that one person ?
Yes up to a point the effects are very comparable to drug or alcohol. But only up to a point. Love is a self sourced feeling. It oblirates everything else.
It is a Tyrant, a despote, nothing else matters, nothing else quite exists.
What is not the object of love regress into a dull, boring, grey background, to be dealt with the least possible. Only our love brings colours and life around.
It is a condition. an illness. An 'etat de grace' et d'agonie. A torment and a folly. Bliss and misery. Yet it is a magic rebirth.
When in love suddenly, one perceives life in a new way, deeper meanings are reached easily. Inner doors are re-opened. The blood runs quicker, the heart beats faster, and the mind races to the essence of things.
One becomes a living flame. Passing through the sacred fire of love , one is bleached and exalted like a transfigured Christ. One ressuscitates into a new life. All at once beautiful and terrifying. A life of extremes, excesses and absoluteness.
Nothing can compare to that most unique experience.
No other madness, no other passion can come close to the passion one can feel for another human being.
Yet, one day, it breaks like a fragile crystal glass, it breaks into a milion little pieces and is reduced to dust. Vanished from the world in a whisper. Why ? no explanation, if God moves in mysterious ways, then Love moves even more mysteriously.
When one loves one is wounded.
One becomes open, cracked, and very frail. A slight movement can be perceived as a blow.
To be in love is to be in a state of permanent prayer, kneeling at the altar of the Beloved.
Not a good position to be in. Not to be wished for.
Yet without this inner wound, one would never understand anything and would remain at the surface of the world. One would stay blind, deaf and mute.
To love is to know why flowers bloom, why the planets whirl in space, why the wind in spring feels so fresh, why the rushing water changes into a torrent at the top of mountains, why wild horses galllop at full speed for no reason in the plain of their freedom, pour rien, pour le geste, pour la beaute de l'instant. And to know why a smile can save the world. To be in love is the Beauty we are all destined for, but avoid carefully because of its twin : suffering.
There is no happy love. There is only the most intrepid experience.
Love is always doomed from the start. A beautiful animal soon entrapped.
A butterfly soon caught in the net of reality.