Dignity

No matter how I turn over things, I find it so hard to see any beauty in lack of dignity. Only when facing the cynical it can eventually add a twist of humanity. For the rest, for those whom humanity is naturally implicit, it can only reduce.

Did we eat olives in the canapé?

Eyes a little tired, it's definitely too early. The cocks compete here and there down the hill, that's all. The man has fallen asleep again, the child sleeps. I get up softly. The dog is happy. It will have its breakfast soon. I open the doors, a lazy breeze fills the house for a moment. I take a look at the jumble. It's a wonderful jumble. Empty glasses, cups with yesterday's last and now greyish coffee, pieces of wrapping paper, clothes left where it was taken off, my bracelet and two olives between the cushions. Did we eat olives in the canapé? The ring on the table, we did blow out the candle but it's like we never really slept. I make coffee, take out a couple of glasses, wash them, I look at the ring, one day it will suit me, today we will pinch a moment more of youth. The coffee is as good as ever.

To turn love into love to be made

You reminded me of the cactus flower recently, blossomed that very night, still just a night, the moon still a moon for millions upon millions, the boat a boat out of so many, now the one where you took me and turned love into love to be made, so much beauty in such a little space, such a short time, a decision was made, we didn't even need the word decision, we asked nothing, we left the boat, the moon is the moon for millions, we smile and know it is ours, the moon, the boat, the rare blossom of a cactus.

My moons

I'm not a young girl and you're not a married, much older lover. We know how the meaning can slip away the minute we turn around and we've got nothing but the frogs, the cicadas, the awful music from bars for young girls and young boys. You point out Saturn. I'm closer to Jupiter because you once showed me her four moons. When we hold each other tight we hang on to the yes once given, to a meaning we need for the morning to come. We know too much. That we know as well. Yet your kiss is still one of my moons.

The married and much older lover

They would say, it's her youth. It's not. Her youth is disturbing, sometimes he avoids her immature breasts because they are immature and she will not let him avoid anything. He is ashamed. It's not her youth. It's her devotion, she is free, all the time free to leave him. She wants nothing in return but the moment. He realizes that's the only place he ever wanted to be, there, where man meets woman, in that very moment. She says it would not exist with a much younger, not-married man.

The young girl

Margurite Duras knew the young girl and let her walk through the crowd in Saigon full of purpose. I knew her and saw her tread hard on the pedals in her desire to see the lover. She is the one I'm interested in, the hummingbird, it leaves the empty flower and moves on to the next, with grace. Like it never expected to find any nectar. Yet it knows nectar is to be found because it has wings and wings will bring it to the flower full of nectar. It is this immense freedom I'm interested in.

Women

It exists in her now, the desire, the lust. He created it, the man in front of her, wineglasses and candles between them. She can let him talk, let him drink, let him forget and be careless, and have his revenges, she can keep her sadness for herself and share her happiness with the moon, bury her disappointmens, learn a language without his knowing. She can even complain and accuse and judge him. Yet he illuminated her sexuality, moulded it, made it visible for her. She thinks, it wouldn't exist without him. The dinner will end. She knows that.

She doesn't pay attention to the woman next to her. It's her birthday. The man has invited her here. She wouldn't say no, she couldn't either. It's part of the agreement. He has bought her a present. She wears it around her neck. She talks, he eats, he talks, she eats. There will always be an uncle, a niece, a neighbour's dog to share informations about. And the fact will always be there that sharing useless information feels safe in a fundamental way. Her sex belongs to another. The other accepts that she is not with him on her birthday.

A young girl passes the restaurant. She is on her way. No one reserved table for her and her much older and married lover. She doesn't even know she passes a restaurant where she and the lover could have dinner together, she only knows she passes a restaurant and she is not hungry. Thursday is theirs. She might eat again friday or later that night she'll open the door to her mother's fridge very silently and the bread and the cheese will taste so good. She smiles. I envy her that smile.

Men

I look at the man with a woman by his side. She keeps him company. It's settled. Her presence is about giving him access to his identity. On that terrasse, sat in the soft furniture, drinks on the table, she has none. She entertains him by giving him her full attention, not by sharing her thoughts. They both gave something up. They are bored, awaiting another erection.

I look at another man. He is by the side of a woman. He keeps her company. He serves somebody. He is a parasite. Parasites are not bored. The erection is free of faces. He produces it by himself.

The third man is newly married, he is younger. His wife has got something in her eye, he is in front of her, with two fingers he opens her eye, he looks into it, she shakes her head, and leaves. He doesn't know yet who is with whom. It's not decided, or what is decided is not fully accepted. Soon she'll be pregnant.

Revenge

Other centuries, forgotten novels, yellow pictures of great-grandparents, post-war conditions, psychological analyses of sadistic murderers, musketeers, mafia methods and some pretty bad films I've forgotten, that's what I associate with Revenge. Not only old-fashioned as notion but primitive, and I'm not primitive, neither are my beloved ones, so we're not vengeful. Judgements can have this wonderful opposite effect: it makes us "not-guilty". If we find it primitive to revenge ouselves and we know we are not primitive, then we can't be vengeful, can we?
It took me ages to understand revenge as part of a daily exchange. Not big, bloody ones, but more like a sentence, a tone of voice, a little hesitation in responding, a little well controlled indifference in the gesture, subtleties let off with exactness and punctuality.
I think it does actually cheer, relieve, alleviate, ease, solace, comfort us. And balance something that was about to tilt within us. It might keep us on our feet and it may give us back a little, lost worth. What we really want is to be relieved from the pain by the one who caused us pain. Fairly often revenge leads to the opposite but that's another story.

Revenge has other aspects. It is not necessarily something we take or get, it might as well be something we give. An expression, a remark we make, in order to get something back. A reaction, an apology, the kiss we long for. All love stories had a beginning. Scientists talk about the first three months. I find that dispiriting. At the other hand: how long does a conception take, and how long does it last, a second with lifelong consequenses, I get dizzy knowing I'll never rise to that occasion. Whatever is true, I can well imagine that for a long time and maybe forever any deviance from the initial melting together is so painful that it must require some kind of reaction. That could be revenge. On the assumption of course that we weren't so civilized that any such thing was unthinkable.
Then revenge would be meant and used as an instrument for returning to conditions where no revenge was ever an issue.