TranslatingRitaSophie

Just another WordPress.com site

Archive for the month “March, 2014”

WWBT10 – why amoebae don’t go to CF and what Mercedes and cheese have in common

My living room is warmed up by a beautiful carpet – it’s white, with a huge red flower spreading its petals towards all four corners. It’s warm and alive, because if you’re patient, sometimes, you can feel the red flower sighing.
I rolled the carpet and put it in a corner, it needs to be cleaned, and now my living room seems distant, cold, the French window gets reflected in the shiny tiles of the floor, and it’s as if I can open that reflected French window and walk down in an alternative reality, where there has never been Luca and his leaving me.
Yesterday I managed to go back to CF. After almost more than three months. Of course today I can barely flex my legs or sit down. And it was scary. My going back. I can see myself paralyzed in a corner, waiting for the class to start, barely breathing, prepared for that moment when my heart, tired of all the madness, would give up and stop. And yes, I was there, and I met old friends, and we hugged, and I was happy to see them, but I’m not sure I’ll be going back, though. I mean not as much as I used to go, regularly. I feel tired, as if my body is taking some kind of revenge, making me lie motionless in my/his leather armchair for hours. As if I’m trying to melt in the black leather, disintegrate into millions of cells, looking for his epithelial that must have remained prisoners there, and absorb them, like an amoeba… This amoeba can’t find that passion that used to wake me up at 5 a.m. Not anymore. It’s a void which has become my routine, a lack of vitality which seems to govern my every day counting of hours.
‘Ok, this amoeba will get dressed in a minute and go out! Now!’
Rona looks over my shoulders and sniffs.
‘Let’s go for that breakfast! It’s getting late!’
She’s on a crusade to get me out of my low moods, and most of the time I would crawl in a corner, in a fetus position, and close my eyes and phase her out until she would give up and leave me alone.
But this weekend I don’t want to be an amoeba anymore.
We drive downtown and have a French breakfast on a terrace of a nice restaurant, by the lake. There’s so much light I could use two pairs of sunglasses.
We chitchat for a while, but then she gets a phone call and I get to look at the other people on the terrace. It’s a healthy habit, if you ask me. The young blond woman carefully picking up crumbs from the white table cloth, the annoying curly toddler who keeps kicking the table with his feet till the water in the glass spills and spatters on his father’s nice, Saturday suit. The French guy, luminous and full of life, reading Camus and keeping his latte cup in his left hand, with his little finger pointing up, like a precious primadonna. I had heard him ordering his ‘omelette’, that’s how I knew he was French.
This is a very nice place, and it feels literally far away from the city, though it’s not, as if the towers, and the traffic, and the noise, and the dust had vanished, and there’s nothing else but the bright lake, the blue sky, the French guy and his ‘omelette’, my cheese and Rona’s telephone conversation.
‘So, how’s your cheese?’
It seems she has ended her phone call. Her words reach me in slow motion, as if travelling through a high density liquid, like honey. Would they taste sweet to my ears if so? Is cheese a sweet word? I wonder what my left ear thinks. The right one is a little impaired, so it cannot be a reliable witness.
I don’t utter anything; I just cut another small piece with my fork, and put it in my mouth. It tastes a little sour, but it has an interesting consistency, almost aristocratic. Now, that’s an interesting thought.
‘Do you remember how I always say that Mercedes have that aristocratic…. attitude?’
Of course I can understand her bewilderment; she looks at me as if I’m eating a Mercedes.
‘That’s how this cheese tastes like. I mean, I don’t know how an aristocratic taste should taste like, it’s just a feeling.’
She finally swallows her bite, thank God she hasn’t choked, I saw the Heimlich maneuver only in the movies. On the other hand, it would have been a very pertinent reason to address a few words to the French guy, wouldn’t it? Asking for help… Shall I bewilder her one more time? I’m like the thunder here, cannot be as spontaneous and witty two times in a row.

Advertisements

The Sumida

Icebox

River, river, river (lifelong familiarity with a language lures us into hearing onomatopoeia). We look out on the Sumida River where it goes past the southern end of Tokyo’s Taito ward, and are just a couple of hundred meters upstream from the confluence with the Kanda (which I once lived alongside in Nakano ward).

A river—or any body of water for that matter—is a view that you can wholly rely on to be different every day. The color, texture, play of light on, speed of flow, traffic on, even the apparent width of a river change like the weather, like the mood of a creature you’ve been staring at for too long. In other words, a river is one of the most iron-bound promises against boredom, a lifetime guarantee of (at least) subtle surprises.

Windless
the grasses
bend forward

In anticipation
the gulls bob and wheel
at the mouth of…

View original post 14 more words

ALICE AND THE FRESH RAIN

I miss the smell of fresh rain

Which would blue your eyes and soften your lips.

I miss the words you used to whisper

And would pour into my ears like crazy drops of rain which forgot how to fly.

I miss the silence in between the smiles

Which would light up the days and turn nights into a riddle for the Hatter.

I miss being Alice

When chasing white rabbits was like a brunch with soft roses turning into music.

Post Navigation