Encre de chine / China ink.

Some of yesterday's life drawing.

Deux dessins du cours de nu d'hier soir.

Night time (part 2)

Ok, I’ll have to describe it eventually. Beware, that’s going to be ridiculous. I suppose that’s why I’m delaying it so much, I can’t get myself to face it. I know there’s no reason to be upset about it but I can’t explain it. It’s not about the events, it’s about the overlap between dream world and real world. The same uneasiness you find in A Nightmare on Elm Street. See what I mean? So. Deep inside I don’t know what truly happened or didn’t. I’ll just describe it as I seem to remember it.

I went to bed early yesterday. I was knackered, my house wouldn’t heat up so all I could think off was tucking in in bed with a good book. I love my house by the way, it’s an awesome duplex with the kitchen and living room downstairs and the bedroom and bathroom upstairs. Small terraced house but perfect for a single woman. I don’t need more rooms, it feels like a proper living space since it’s on two floors. I like how even though quite small, it feels like a grown up space, not a student accomodation. The downside is: because up and downstairs communicate, it’s one single space with no doors to block the heat then the living room gets pretty chilly in winter. Well, to put it straight it’s freezing cold when I come back from work in the evening these days. Especially since the open kitchen is an extension which was build as a veranda. It looks fantastic on sunny days or in spring when all the trees blossom but again. Even chillier in winter. So anyway, doing it again, escaping the problem, not getting to the heart of it. I went to be bed early. As it turned I didn’t read much and quickly started to doze off, but I tried to fight it. I didn’t want to wake up all sharp and fresh at five the next morning. Already I got in that strange mood of sleeping and not, reading a sentence and finishing it in a dream, mixing up the story I was reading and the events of the day. I kept on hearing distant clicking sounds, faint scraping or something. It was a windy night, I was confusing dream and reality again. And I even did this thing I hate: the dream within a dream where you dream you woke up. Nothing messes me up with me as much as that.

Eventually I woke up and got up. For real. At least that’s what it felt like. Brrr it was cold outside of the bed so I slipped in my woolen dressing gown, the ugly but warm one. And in my knackered slippers, same style. Yeah baby, that’s the beauty of single life. I had to go downstairs, there was something in the kitchen, I could hear it. I checked around, I needed some kind of weapon. Handbag? useless. Bedside lamp? maybe. Glass of water? I could hurt myself. A pile of books to throw away? I like my books too much. Eventually I opted out for the iron, blunt enough and it’s got a good grip. Perhaps the power cable could also come in handy one way or another. I was trying to retrace my steps mentally and check whether I had closed the door properly. If I had not, one of the neighbourhood cats could have got in and that’s what would be messing about in the kitchen. Like that black and white one, the one which gnawed on my gammon last summer. He knows the way that one.

I soon realized I wouldn’t have to worry about a hissing cat resisting my authority when I saw the shadow of man. Holy crap, there’s a man in my kitchen, what am I going to do? The landline phone is in the living room, if I shout he’ll hear me before the neighbours do, I don’t want to lock myself up in the bathroom like the stupid girl who dies in the movie and my mobile’s in my jacket on the coat stand next to the entrance. Shitshitshitshitshit. My heart was pounding and my skin tingled in waves. Awake or not I can tell that felt real. I went down a few steps to try and catch the man’s face. And then I saw the whole of him. He was wearing an apron. ‘I kiss better than I cook’. And he was making an omelette, visibly trying to beat the eggs as discreetly as he could. He looked agitated, always checking towards the stairs so I had to spy on his reflection instead. He poured the beaten eggs in the preheated frying pan, added salt and pepper and fumbled in my cupboard while it was cooking. By the time the omelette was ready he had laid the table for himself and when he sat down in front of it he suddenly relaxed with a blissful, relieved smile on his face. For a second there he seemed like the happiest man on earth. He quickly ate up, checking around nervously again.

All that time I just sat in the stairs and I couldn’t do a thing. I was fascinated, stunned even. What on earth was it all about? Could I be dreaming of a man preparing his dinner in my kitchen? Once he finished he cleaned the table, did all the dishes and wipe everything dry to put it away in the cupboards, threw all the rubbish in a carrier bag which he put in a backpack along with his eggs and pepper. He then got to the french window, put his shoes back on (yes, he had removed them), sneaked out and kneeled outside the door. He fiddled at the lock which went ‘click’ and vanished in the night.

I can’t remember how I got back to bed. Could that be because I never got up, because this is too silly to be real. Beside that’s so typical of my dreams. A hint of absurdity and large measure of ordinary, it would fit. And yet… As I said there’s that feeling deep inside that it took place for real. If that was to happen again, I need to find something, some way to prove myself it really happened.

Un dessin pour me faire pardonner.

Le Petit Chaperon rouille.

Il était une fois une petite fille de village. Son père, ancien ferrailleur reconverti dans l'alcoolisme et la violence domestique, était mort depuis déjà bien longtemps. La jeune enfant n’avait que très peu de souvenirs de cet homme. Seules perduraient de vagues sensations : une ombre large et menaçante, les relents d’une haleine chargée et d’une hygiène négligée, ainsi que de récurrents cauchemars que jamais elle n’évoquait. Sa jeune enfance lui avait conféré une personnalité pour le moins singulière. Avant de mourir, l’homme avait dilapidé les maigres ressources du ménage si bien que chaque jour pour la mère comme pour l’enfant était une lutte contre l’adversité. Les manières de chacune avait été fortement infléchies par ces rudes années : la mère, douce de caractère, avait été réduite à néant. Elle était devenue faible et craintive, incertaine, souvent absente. Elle savait pourtant parfois se montrer aimante, comme par des réflexes d’une vie passée. La fillette au contraire, n’ayant toujours connu que la violence et le manque, avait développé un caractère inflexible et un sens pratique sans pareille. Elle n’avait nulle notion du bien ou du mal car pour elle seule importait la subsistance. Elle était imprévisible, sauvage et sournoise, ne montrant une compassion épisodique que pour sa mère à demi folle.

Leur maison, située à l'écart du village, se discernait depuis les villages voisins. Le terrain était encombré de pièces variées : tôles, herses, charrues, roues, têtes de pioche et rambardes qui  rouillaient aux quatre vents. Lorsque le soir tombait, le contre jour découpait à l’habitation une silhouette menaçante qui terrifiait les enfants du village. Et quand le ciel se faisait lourd et qu’un vent puissant s’engouffrait entre les pièces qui s’entrechoquaient, du monticule s’élevait une plainte hurlante. Tremblant et chargé de coups résonnants, il semblait prêt à s’ébranler. Nul ne s’en approchait, mis à part la fillette qui fouinait toujours dans ce dédale métallique quand elle ne braconnait ou ne chapardait. L‘enfant portait toujours le même vêtement: un chaperon qui avait sans doute appartenu à sa mère dans sa jeunesse. Au fil des heures passées au coeur de la ferraille, la poussière de rouille avait pénétré le tissu du chaperon dont on n’aurait pu déceler la couleur originelle. C’est ainsi que partout on l’appelait le Petit Chaperon rouille.

Un jour, sa mère, ayant cuit et fait des galettes, lui dit : Va voir comme se porte ta mère-grand, car on m’a dit qu’elle était malade. Porte-lui une galette et ce petit pot de beurre. Surprise par cet accès de lucidité, le Petit Chaperon rouille parti aussitôt pour aller chez sa mère-grand, qui demeurait dans un autre village. En passant dans un bois, elle rencontra compère le Loup. Ayant perçu l'arôme métallique de ses vêtements, il avait traversé le bois avec empressement, et se trouva fort déçu à la vue de cette fillette bien vivante. Rendu fou par ce parfum puissant que son instinct de bête lui faisait passer pour du sang, il aurait bien aimé la dévorer dans l’instant. Craignant cependant la présence des bûcherons que l’on entendait travailler non loin de là, il se contint et s’approcha simplement de l’enfant. Doucereusement, lui demanda où elle allait. Le Petit Chaperon rouille reconnu aussitôt le Loup mais n’en eut aucune crainte. Elle sentait bien son affolement ainsi que son anxiété causée par les bûcherons qui le rendaient vulnérable. Elle sut qu’elle aurait à profiter de la situation. Oh, bonjour gentil chaton. Ma foi jamais je n’ai croisé de si bel animal. Veux-tu m’accompagner ? lui demanda-t-elle. Je vais porter cette galette à ma mère-grand, qui habite au delà de ce bois. La pauvre vieille femme est seule et malade et habite en des lieux si désolés que personne à moins de deux lieues ne pourrait lui porter secours. Enchanté par la perspective d’un double repas, le loup accepta naïvement.

Le Petit Chaperon rouille connaissait le moindre recoin de ces bois où elle braconnait quotidiennement. Tout en prétendant bavarder innocemment pour maintenir le loup en confiance, l’esprit perfide de cet enfant échaudait des plans machiavéliques. Bien qu’un peu maigre, le loup leur procurerait de la viande pour deux bonnes semaines et ses os parfumeraient encore quelques bouillons. Elle salivait à cette idée. Dans sa peau râpée, elle voyait déjà une chaude couverture pour l’hiver, et ses yeux feraient de bons appâts. Elle le mena jusqu’à l’orée d’un passage étroit le long d’une cabane de chasseur abandonnée. Gentil chaton, s’exclama-t-elle, veux-tu bien me précéder ? J’ai si peur dans ce chemin sombre. Qui sait quelle vilaine bête pourrait m’attaquer ? Le loup y vit une certaine ironie, ainsi qu’une bonne aubaine : ils étaient enfin arrivés dans un coin reculé de la forêt. Passé le mur, il aurait juste le temps de se poster dans un recoin pour surprendre la fillette et enfin la dévorer. Un rictus se dessina sur sa face poilue alors qu’il dépassait le Petit Chaperon rouille. Il eut bien déchanté en la voyant se munir d’une barre de fer qu’elle avait sorti de derrière un buisson. En se glissant dans le chemin étroit, le loup bouscula un branchage dans lequel était coincé un arbrisseau vigoureux qui se détendit brusquement. En deux pas, le loup fut pris dans un collet de barbelé épais. Le Petit Chaperon rouille le contempla quelques instants d’un regard froid, tandis qu’il luttait et s’en étranglait de plus belle, pour enfin l’assommer définitivement d’un grand coup de barre de fer sur le museau. Détachant délicatement le collet afin de le remettre en place par la suite, elle libéra le loup et le traîna dans la cabane. Elle fouilla dans son panier, sorti de dessous le tissu un petit poignard et égorga le loup derechef au dessus d’un baquet. Sang de loup ne saurait être gâché.

Plus tard, le Petit Chaperon rouille se rendit enfin chez sa mère-grand pour lui porter une galette, un petit pot de beurre, et un cuissot de loup qui ravirent la bonne femme.

Night time (part 1)

Night time is a strange time. It’s too… fuzzy. Anything happening overnight becomes very unsure in the morning. Did it actually happen or have I dreamt it? Often it lays somewhere in between. Say you are very thirsty. You sort of wake up, think that you should get up and go to the bathroom. Can’t because it’s way too comfy and nice and warm and there you go: you’re asleep again. But your nose is blocked so you’re breathing through your mouth and you are seriously thirsty. You can barely swallow, it feels like the inside of your mouth is turning solid and is going to shatter if you try and close it. As you’re thinking that, you realize with terror this is truly happening. Well it’s not shattering per se but when you closed your mouth your inside cheeks started flaking off. Your try to spit out the flakes but your mouth is too dry and it feels numb. You can’t control your muscles anymore. You try and try again but cannot spit. You’re actually making it worse and your mouth is filling up with more and more flakes. You can feel your cheeks wearing thin. Perhaps it will be better in a second: as your cheeks tear out all the flakes might take off through the gaps. Instead, in a moment of panic you have breathed in too heavily, gasping for air and a cluster of flakes got stuck in your throat.

You wake up coughing. Something feels indeed stuck in your throat but it’s just you being ill and congested. You are really thirsty though, your dreams too are telling you you really should go have some water. Ok this time you will get up. In a second. The bathroom tiling is going to feel so cold under the bare sole of your feet, and the bed sheets will have lost all their warmth when you come back. You know you will have no choice but to go at some point, though. The more you wait the worse you will feel, so you might as well go now. As you gather your will and strength and are just about to drag yourself out of bed, you mum walks in with a pint of water on a tray. ‘You’re ok honey? I heard you cough I thought you might need some water’. She sits down on the edge of your bed and starts stroking your hair. You sit down sleepily and start drinking but the thirst remains. You keep on gulping but no water gets swallowed. Your throat remains thick and dry. You feel like an owl unable to regurgitate its pellets. The glass seems not to empty out, the water remains level. You want to ask your mum what’s going on but your bed lays between dunes and she’s nowhere to be seen. You get out of bed and start sinking through the sand. Slowly it engulfs you. Swallows you. As your head is just about to sink in you wake up in choc. Of course. You fell asleep again.

That’s the time when you were thirsty. There’s the one when foxes fought in the street, the one when you felt too exhausted to brush your teeth before going to bed, the one when you needed to go grab some tissues and woke up set out to blow your nose in your bed sheets. And there’s last night.

I’ve been thinking about it all day. It’s bound to be a dream, it just doesn’t make sense. Yet... It feels so real, it feels so much like it did happened. My mind is playing tricks on me I don’t know what to believe. My instincts are adamant it happened, no doubts, not for a second. But it can’t be real, I know it can’t and it’s distressing as hell. The feeling of this dream reality is so potent it has leaked through my awake life and I’ve been restless since this morning. It feels like I’m losing my mind a bit. I’m going slightly mad. I had the song in mind all day. Oh dear.

Yet the dream wasn’t so horrifying, it was very mundane actually. I had dreams before of a tyrannosaurus devouring me in a swimming pool, of chasing nazi communists who wanted to murder me, of that girl in the girls dorms and showers who was slicing everyone’s wrists. That one was two nights ago actually and it didn’t affect me for a second. I happened to remember bits of it, random sensations while I was having breakfast and simply went ‘blimey, I just had the most horrible dream’. But last night’s... It was unremarkable but it still feels too real.