Heart matters.

It all started after a rather disappointing trip to London. You were supposed to excitedly spend a few days with that man you then thought would be the father of your children and have a few meetings with some producers about some films you so longed to get made and that ironically echo scenes from your life.

 

As you walked alone in the crowded Heathrow airport that morning, memories of moments you wished to live didn’t however allow your tears to stream. It didn’t matter.

 

Time passed emptily, as it often does, and you occupied yourself by dancing your way through the days. Your dance teacher’s mom was at the hospital awaiting an open-heart surgery; and as if life wanted to remind you of its sarcastic synchronicity, your friend’s father too.

 

After vainly trying to evade the regular Friday traffic that afternoon, you got home to find your mother silently contemplating a tray of untouched food. One look from her was enough to assess the extent of the situation. A puny explanation: a friend died; a heart attack. She went to bed for her daily nap –as if she’d actually sleep- as you found yourself staring at the huge pile of DVDs against your bedroom wall. You’d probably have stared at an empty wall if there were one. 

 

Your father arrived the next day, gave you a kiss on the forehead and headed to the south for the funeral with the gone friend’s wife and two kids. Trying senselessly to make sense of what life throws at you-as in anyone since you wouldn’t pretend to be the main protagonist here-, you remembered the time when your dentist gave you a too strong anesthetic and you couldn’t feel the whole right side of your face for an entire day. Oddly enough it felt the same. The lack of feeling did. But it extended way beyond. And it hit you suddenly what he once said, that man you left in London, about your incapacity to feel. It wasn’t true then. You tried to tell him that a momentary though unintentional lack of expression did not imply a lack of feelings. Considering the following sequence of events, he obviously dismissed your flawed logic. But still, since London, not a tear.

 

Now that you look back with hardly enough distance, you’ve come to realize the common denominator in that frozen lapse of time. Frozen because two hearts were, in different ways. And two were trapped in transition. 

Et elle s'est remise a danser

Et elle s’est remise à danser. Je ne sais si c’est l’effet du vin ou le mien… Les détails de ces moments parfaits sont inexprimables parfois. Je me sens soudain colle a la chaise inconfortable que j’ai choisie par manque de choix, par le simple fait que la chaise n’a en fait pas d’importance. La musique muette de son corps me met en sourdine. J’entends les mots crier plus fort que mes pensées qui se bousculent, que ses souffles qu’elle ne souffle pas. Elle me regarde. Je crois. Elle avance aussi lentement que mon cœur bat fort. Pourtant je ne bouge pas. Ses cheveux couvrent son visage mais elle sourit. Quand elle ferme les yeux et pose sa main sur sa nuque nue je me rends compte de l’opposition qui la caractérise. Sa main plus mature que son corps et bien plus vieille que son visage témoigne qu’elle a vécu. Qu’elle a senti. Au moins autant que je sens maintenant.

C’est presque un crime de résister cette passion. C’est comme si je refusais de vivre. D’exploiter les infimes possibilités de son corps, de ma vie. De la sienne. Elle dansera toujours. Plus pour moi. Pour l’autre que je ne connais pas et que j’envie déjà. Je continuerais le chemin de mes amours au singulier avec un sentiment continu de désir inassouvi. D’un semblant de passion qui ferait mieux de n’avoir jamais existe.

 

                                                                                                            WCH, 12-10-07