Crappy & Cute

1st attempt : Frog monsterdoll.

I'm So Crafty

Radiohead-inspired monsterdoll:

if you want me to create something, send me a request including a picture of the model. I'll do my best.

Fake Haiku

Loser loner
This way you're much safer.

Haiku

Sueur
Ligne de Mire
Le monde m'appartiendra.

Blob

circa 2005

Can You Keep it a Secret ?

I'm an illegitimate child.

Being denied the right to have my father's name makes me feel like it's a supreme privilege to obtain a guy's attention.
No need to say that this specific status has disastrous consequences on my personnal life.
I always feel like I don't belong anywhere. That people are not really interested in me, that they don't really enjoy my company. I feel like I'm a burden. And this situation itself is a burden on my own life.

I'm not so much of a Freud person, but this, and my inability to deal with guys, certainly come from the day my father refused to acknowledge my existence.

Bingo! I know what's wrong with me, I don't need a therapy.
...but knowing this (and I've known for quite a long time now) still does not help.

My father refused to give me his name and by doing this, he put my whole life into brackets.

My Heart Is An Idiot

What is your heart made of?
Blood, meat and beat?
Mine is concrete.
Sometimes hard as a rock, most of the time mild and half-baked.
Always crumbly.

Open Letter

Just take the time to say Yes and we'll make you lie.


*Artwork : Ivan*

I'm Unable to Listen to "All You Need Is Love"

When I came back from school, music was always filling the house. It was like a ritual. The kind of music resounding at home was the best way to know how Daddy was feeling : when he was in a good mood, we could expect him to put pop songs on, whereas rock was a sign of angst. When Daddy welcomed me, playing an instrument, it revelead sadness and vulnerability. It was like a game for me to guess what the music would be, and Daddy himself was not aware of this : it was my own little secret, my attempt to understand him. Him and the world of adults.

I remember this day. I was very excited about my little game. For two weeks, we hadn't heard of Mozart or The Clash, and dust was recovering my dad's violin. Daddy was really peaceful, and relaxed; and my mother was of course very happy. I didn't know what was going on, but it sounded great. Later, I knew that Daddy had finally found a real good job which would improve our way of life : my mother had been waiting for this for years.

But at this moment, I was still this little girl bursting with excitement : I had been wishing all day long that Daddy would play this Beatles song I loved. It was happy and joyful and it was a sign of a marvellous event happening - I hadn't heard it for months. Considering the relaxed atmosphere at home, it could well be possible to hear it that night, I thought.
When the bell eventually rang after a long day at school, my excitement had reached its peake. I ran all the way back home without any fear of being disappointed : it could simply not be. Daddy was an artist and I had inherited from him this capacity of feeling people and atmosphere.
So I stood rooted to the spot, when, opening brutally the door, a deep silence surrounded me.
Seeing Mrs Penn, our closest neighboor, coming out of our kitchen with swollen eyes just confirmed my intuition : something bad had happened.
Holding me in her arms, the fat Mrs Penn started speaking, bursting into tears : "Your daddy had an accident, honey. He's dead."
I came over to the pile of dics, took the Beatles one out and through it through the room. It broke in little black shiny pieces.
Happy moments would never happen again now.

Since this day, I'm unable to listen to "All You Need Is Love".

(February 2002)

Dedication

I might have a compulsive writing disorder.
You might have to hear me.

George

My heart never rushes when I'm with him.
It never even did when he touched my hair. He stroke my hair and made me look in the mirror. He was loving my hair. He was not loving me. I am aware of our animal attraction for each other and I hope we will remain friends. We're not even lovers, we're lonely and needy. Both in the same sack. It's easy and very nice, but not satisfactory. His sweat is sour, just as my thoughts are. I like his smell, but he pretends I don't have one.
George and I are part-time lovers, waiting for someone better to come.

Killing You Softly With My Words

Hi all,

and welcolme to my second/ new blog.

Yesterday I found this sheet of paper amongst my stuff, full of drawings and some words. This is what it says :

"BeAt KIdS
Kill him with your kindness
MEXICO
Clever Carott!
Dog Gyneco
Where do babies come from?
You're never too young to have a VietNam Flashback.
What are you coming from?
Hey look! the hot-dog highway!
Delicious murder
Ride w/ the devil, but the devil rides alone
WONDER SHOW ZEN
SIN"

It dates back from 2006, and I swear I was not on drugs at the time.

This random doodling / writing made me realised that I've got loads of short stories, or aborted short stories, or sentences and anything, really, that I have written for years.
The least I could do is starting a blog where they can Rest In Peace.

They're part of me, just as the entries on my other blog (in French) are, but they just wouldnt fit in it.

So here they are.

My creativity as a present for you.