Writing

Boxes

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Look at those people
Look at them like they are different from you
Like they will never belong where you will
Put some distance
More distance
Put up barriers and then walls
And don’t forget the shards of glass on top

Tell them how they are supposed to behave, dress and talk
Tell them who they are
And remind them everyday how different they are
And by different you mean inferior
Because everything has its box
Neatly labelled
And the mount of boxes HAS to be in order
Otherwise it’s chaos, you know?

So maybe their box is on the bottom
Weighed down by all the other boxes
But that’s not your fault
It’s just how the world is
And when they move around the box a little bit
It jostles and the boxes on top
Stumble and fall to the ground
You call for order
You are scared
They ruin everything
It’s their fault
You are scared because this box you put there
Could make the whole order collapse
If it moved just a little bit to the left

So you build more walls
You put more shards of glass on top
To protect your precious order
You tell them to behave
To fit in their box and stop moving
You are scared
It’s all their fault

The truth is
The chaos is in your head

Phnom Penh

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Sur la route, juste avant Phnom Penh et les usines de textile dont se déverse toute la population du monde à 5h du soir. Il y a des maisons de pêcheurs au bord du lac. En saison sèche il n’y a pas de lac, seulement des rizières d’un vert profond en contre-bas des étangs d’élevage, et des maisons très très haut perchées sur leur pilotis.

Il y a les grandes villas en béton qui dominent les cabanes en bois et en tôle ondulée, des perches de bois si fines qu’on se dit que le Grand Méchant Loup n’aurait qu’à pêter un coup pour les faire s’envoler.

Ils construisent une autoroute à la lisière des maisons. La route à été remplacée par… rien. Les baraques sont isolées dans de grands monceaux de terre, recouvertes de poussière rouge. Certaines ont déjà été abandonnées et se tiennent à moitié éventrées, solitaires et misérables comme l’antre d’un ogre.

Les grands pans de route dammée sont bourrés d’enfants qui jouent au foot. Ils dévalent les pentes de terre à toute vitesse sur des vélos précaires. Les familles se rassemblent autour d’un feu sur un amas boueux plus ou moins plat pour le dîner. Il faut traverser la rizière et escalader 4 à 5 mètres de pilotis pour rentrer dormir chez soi. Parfois il est plus simple de vivre dehors.

On passe une mosquée ensevelie sous les caillous de la route. Le soleil couchant se reflète rouge sur les rizières grises. Tout est étrangement ralenti, presque figé, alors que nous frôlons les motos à toute allure.

Plus loin le gros ventre grouillant de la ville nous attend.

Romanticizing Brussels in the spring

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There’s something in the air, in the late afternoon of my sweet countryside town, something that brings me back to walks in the early spring of secluded Belgian parks. Something about the softness of the sun, a certain crisp chill in the air, the smell of trees breathing in and out.

Brussels is amazing in the spring. When the sun is up before you and keeps you company all the way to work. When trees seem to come out of hibernation and suddenly the grey streets burgeon with bright spots of green and soft blue. People everywhere on lawns and monument steps. Cafes sprout terraces benevolently lit up by a stray ray of sunlight.

Street musicians dust their accordions and get off the subway to play in the cramped shopping streets or the deserted square in front of the Opera. There’s probably not a lot of money to make there, but the acoustics are amazing.

If you’re really quiet and the tram isn’t passing by, sometimes you can even hear birds. Or run and chase pigeons off the Grand Place if it pleases you. It’s still a bit cold so you go and get a waffle from the ice cream truck and you eat it at a bus stop, lulled to satisfaction by the sun reflecting off the plastic ads.

Soon it will be time to trade jackets and scarves for… lighter jackets and scarves. Soon it will be May and the streets around the Square Jourdan market will smell like lilies.

There’s something in the air, maybe you’re in love, a little bit.

Maybe you’re in love with the city.

Rainy morning

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I’m perched on this high stool, computer on the wooden bar. I’m waiting for lunch break to come and lead me to a heavenly, greasy burger. My friends are sprawled out on wicker chairs behind me, in various states of hungover disarray. They’re watching Seven Years in Tibet on a computer.

A window’s cut in the wooden wall, from where I’m sitting I can see the main lawn of Phare, the music school and the entrance of the circus school. I see Cambodian life, kids splashing around in huge puddles on the lawn, which now looks like a dirty swimming pool. It’s still raining, but it’s not the monsoon type downpour, more like this evergoing, annoyingly thin, icy prickle you have to endure. Closer to Belgian rain. I does not make me homesick.

A yeiy protects the baby she’s holding from the rain with her krama. A passing tuk tuk’s stuck in the mud, half a dozen strong guys from the circus school watching from their perch as bong Xavi and a fifteen year old kid push it off the muddy lawn. Bunthet, ever the cool guy, rolls up his jeans and discards his shoes before jumping into a puddle to annoy passing school girls in their pristine black and white uniform.

Sometimes I have my doubts, but I know that deep down I want to be here, I want to be the witness of this simple, beautiful life playing out in front of me. I know now that I can’t really be part of it. But I still love to see it happen.

Petite Princesse Alice

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Petite Princesse Alice
Tourne entre ses dix doigts
Ses trois sous de malice
Remue au fond de moi
La tendresse qui s’attriste
La gaieté qui se noie