Of the cicada and the ant

I spent part of the afternoon singing, trying, at least, to sing. I feel like I’m moving forward as much as I’m moving back. Sometimes the high notes seem to me to be well placed, sometimes they sound like whale song moaning. As for the low notes, I seem to lose them suddenly. And if my teacher were at my side, he would probably only see sounds and no music.

This tension on my shoulders... paradoxically, I stiffen my arms to undo the knots that block I don’t know which vertebrae where I have skin problems! (my skin is very dry and poorly irrigated). This unlearning work is difficult, but it seems healthy even if I look like a Pinocchio with too short back strings.

I have nothing more beautiful to do, the work will not resume for a few days. I’m starting to like this holiday, which will, unfortunately, be only too short (whereas just two days ago, I was complaining that I no longer have a future...)

I also received a note from this publisher who showed an interest in Les Mailles sanguines. He urges me to be patient, because, he says, beyond the quality of the work, there are other realities to consider. A mysterious sentence, which gives as much hope as a ruler blow on the fingers. In short, as with singing, I move forward and backward, then forward and back again.

Within a month, I should be fixed. By then, I’ll fake the cicada. In an hour, I’m taking the subway to go... to sing!

I wish I weren’t an ant anymore.