From the mothership and the fatherland

Everything is beyond words. I feel again a bit in pieces inside, very smoothly, very sweetly broken into a thousand pieces. A bit like those tears you are helpless not knowing what to make of. It all makes me speechless out of beauty, appeasement and - homecoming.

The simpleness of Zoé's attachment, firmly grounded, her solid roots in the soil of her mother - her homesickness, my sickness to be at home, our reciprocal understanding and so diametrical opposition, reciprocal overwhelming view, and her final words: "Don't think about coming back as going to Hell..."
I don't know.

Presence

"Tu es une mystique qui s'ignore" - purposefully, did I add.

         
Oh you know well how places keep the souls of hundreds of lives

Back from the island we just collapsed out of this good exhaustion, of having walked all day in the snow. Like little children, like back from the sand dunes back to my childhood, lashed by the wind like the wind turbines, endlessly. There's a saying for that - taking a great bowl of air. The air from the sea. The water so near, tender against the hull, close enough to abandon one's hand into.

I realized that I took photos for my parents. I have been told I improved and I do know why.
The sea.
There are these signs. I've always been offering my father something related to the sea - and the boat. After years and years of complete desolation there is I guess still this mute communication, silent understanding.
I ended up buying porcelaine, just like that, for no occasion. There is a little sailor boy sculpting a small wood ship featured on it. On the other side, he looks out through the window.
According to the latest news, the boat I draw my name from might be about to be sold out of the family. This ship is charged of personal history and symbolises a lot of things, a symbolic central figure. Times of darkest despair as well as a few, blazing moments of joy. Life, all in all. At the time I learnt about it being for sale, I immediately thought this wouldn't be so bad. The last twelve months have seen so many liberations. This would be a point to a chapter. Sometimes things are better left drifting away, are solving like that, and all that remains is luminous memories.

         

There are these signs. I knew she would call it like that when I took the picture.

         

                                                   "Vieux Sage"

I've been lacking so much comprehension and understanding. Should I renounce to the fight... I was about to explode and finally... I have begun to understand Coline, the way she accepts, out of tenderness... I've been spending these years setting standards I was about the only one to be able to follow, refusing compromises out of absoluteness. I will have to accept you're not me and I'm a little bit you. "When she's saying something as silly as a goose, I don't point it out any longer... I just smile "
Accept you're into insects, flowers and plants. A bit simpler than I am.
I smiled when my reproach message crossed yours asking for news. After all it is all about missed intentions in this family... I guess you did not really ever understand my signs of affection, as you still let them pass by. I will have to accept they're only worth for the twinge of tenderness. And smile.
The porcelaine I bought for my mother is rose with a shining sunset, a forest, and is called "Rakkaus".

You can even meet legends there.

The Swan of Tuonela

There is a song I suddenly recalled, as suddenly as I got the compulsion to listen again to old rock songs talking from the sea, the boats, the sailors, harbours - L'autre Finistère

trouverais-tu cruel que le doigt sur la bouche je t'emmène hors des villes, dans un fort, une presqu'île... ces mots qu'on rêvait d'entendre, et qui n'existent pas - qu'entre nous il y a des murs qui jamais ne fissurent
et puis on s'imagine des choses et des choses sans voir que sous la patine du temps il y a des roses
des jardins fertiles

I have to admit I am the child of some ones. There are these desperate signs
And when I'll be back then, to the house I grew up in, I even see the shutter half closed to keep the fresh in and the heavy late summer light from the veranda, the garden at sunset - will I say "I'm back home"...

I've rarely been that honest. It is hard to admit not to be so for someone who's always wished to be born out of the blue. As slight consolation, I hope and guess none of them will read it. It is better like that.
But now that I admit, who will I be? What is left? Who will care for me any longer?

Signs are all around us but never that obvious, are they?
Funnily I saw It there long after I recognized it in the tree.