01 juillet 2007
Texte de Simone Molina - GB
three words. yes, three words, two short, another is longer, three words that should dance on the page. yet remain static, like lead soldiers. at attention. what are they guarding, and how, how can we look at them so that they will start dancing, start living, so. look at them. then, listen to them. separately at first. and then together. Line, place, Process. ….plAce … liNE…….. Capitals, or small letters, words mixed, upset, out of line, strangled.
finally they ring, and resound. the line of the horizon, or the dividing line, the strong place or else: the place of death.
but Process… … that drips, whistles, oozes sweat, that hold both sex and law. that runs down the chin like an over ripe, or over squeezed fruit. that throws you forward or forces you to slow down, to slow down so that time does its work to be patient another day, week, year. nine months, sometimes.
Process that means maturation and inevitable days and nights, and heartbeat, and feet, and arms so little with fingers at the end of palms still closed. Which speak of dreams, and sounds within, sounds within, cavernous and outside, chopped up, intimate, sounds of a romantic voice of a love song or a lamentation, and deep sounds that anSwer, deny, resPond, Argument. and the horizon that fades away: the one of dreams achieved longing waits, incandescent, secret desires in the mixture of days. over there, by the bar. one sees him leaning on his elbow, one turns his head. right before the kiss, one turns the head. one runs away. with a rounded belly. one runs away one catches the line of the horizon. one runs away he goes down the stairs. one dreams of before
frozen, here. in this place, here, overwhelmed by worrisome time buying fearful bursts, possessions that one is denied.
three words, yes, three words, two short, another is longer, the length of time to wait for the end of the kiss, or for him to leave, and leave you to dream of the abdomen that becomes rounder, in the warm place inside, in the cup of what soon, once the attachment is cut, will dig inside the void and marks all at once the separate
slowly, he goes down the stairs,
he hardly turns, hardly, listens, holding his breath, whimpering bitter tears, stopping sighs on the verge of nausea, holding back, the forbidden sob, he hardly turns around. She, looks at him, she, stares at her round abdomen all soft inside, the waves that filter through viper-like partitions, worries provoked by pleasure.
he hardly turns around, hardly listens, but notices the shiver and then the calm
so, he crosses a threshold another threshold, and says he says, to her, and to the other too in the abdomen that becomes round « don't forget, no, don't forget you are mine, you are entirely mine ! »