I am so vaguely her; yet somewhere in my swamps I still keep a crystal clear recognition of her kind. This is something constructed such a long time ago, when I was still struggling to form somehow, trying on masks. Eventually the masks stuck to my skin, some less, some more and from that collection of remains, I have emerged. Me - a fractured creature, as everyday layers. The core I save for final justification of myself.
It is almost June and June makes me like this; it acts like Proust’s madeleine. Duras, de Beauvoir, Millet – these queer & terrible French mothers that have taught me things I never wanted to know, by initial pure construction. Too late. I have learned detachment, ennui, analysis-dissection-philosophy of a love performed for intellectual reasons first and only then for everything else. The frighteningly lucid female mind and her magnifying glass on him, the lover. No male cruelty, no male intelligence can conquer that, because essentially, they fear this particular woman paradigm. Her dark whims originating from the beginning of time, exhaling red earth and tied to his instrument - reason. A monstruous combination which should have not been allowed. He cannot split himself - he loves her as if she were purely woman, purely instinct. Yet she picks up a pen, she is not a blind priestess, she analyses and becomes a source of pain. Like so many monsters, she is mostly concerned with herself and that creates such heartbreaking women. Mademoiselle Horror.
L’Amant by Duras is what I love best from my French mothers. A beautiful red mud for my sparkling heart. It is a book to be read in June and an Annaud movie to be seen in June. I turn away from L’Amant with a clever love demon in my head, a taste for odd details and the Caucasian curiosity to bodies of Asian races, to skin and habits that are not mine. The pile of new essential books next to my bed, bought at the summer fair with sun decomposing perfume on my neck, breaking it to its first parts, mutating them. Dior’s Dune still smells the same, still decomposes and dies into the same thing each summer since I was 17. Night wind breathing in my room, filling my bed with wet jasmine, honeyed linden bloom. Cherries and coffee in the morning, while air is still cool and touches my breasts like a lover. Dust mixing with sweetness on my legs in the afternoon. Irresponsible, perception-twisting summer lethargy. Viens.
