In my bubbles
Last night, the body still in the water, creating nebulae with soap bubbles. I didn’t see the storm pass by that I couldn’t get through the walls. The house this morning is silent like a church in which no one prays anymore.
There was Yves, my downstairs neighbor, who came to have breakfast with me. Its vitality is contagious. He’s a man who can’t hold his place, a beautiful living ember. His daily presence is of great richness to me. As usual, since he can’t keep his position, he went shopping and then did his sport. For my part, I am getting ready to work, to take over the tasks that have been loosely left out for a few days. For a self-employed worker, calendars are more liquid. Holidays only exist occasionally. I sometimes want to work schedules instituted by others, to put on the employee’s gloves again. Living as I do carries its dangers, but in the end, aren’t times precarious for everyone?
Around me, I know the planet is changing with great agitation as if we were all upset by the full moon. Scientists keep telling us that we live on a powder keg, political scientists and journalists no longer have enough ink to describe this bubbling and contradictory world, people are screaming famine, economies are running out of oil, yet people in the north seem to want to continue the celebration while those in the south invite themselves into lounges that are already too crowded. As one artist said in Le Devoir, this morning, in 2012, there were many revolts, but no revolution. Everything is going badly, and if this speech is obsolete, it is still valid.
And I’m in my bubbles. After reading a little, last night, I sat up straight in the bath, not in the sense of length, but in the spirit of width, crossed my legs like an Indian, closed my eyes, put my arms on my knees, breathed, lengthened the spine, inhaled slowly through my nose. The chest swelled. I left a few notes of a melody I learned during my singing lesson. Simple, happy, and above within a privileged peace.
It is said that happiness must be lived in this way, by appreciating every moment, by thanking life for being what it is. By enjoying the honey of this fragile existence. You can be in pain, you can be alone, you can be hungry. We may be dying, coming. We may not know what the next hour will be made of. What’s the point of wanting to know? If we do not understand what the material of our road is made of, how can we hope to use it?
Princely meditation. I can hear the snowplows outside splitting the streets.
