Revisiting Jean Cocteau’s ballet libretto “Le jeune homme et la mort”.

“Le jeune homme et La Mort”, 65×90 cm., installation de peinture: huile sur toile et filet de camouflage, Adam Donaldson Powell, 2017.

L’histoire chorégraphique :

THE YOUNG MAN AND DEATH.

Redefining Cocteau’s interpretation of “The young man and death”:
My painting — entitled “The young man and death” – represents a violent and hazardous order; whitewashed mental chaos with the conviction of purification and with cutting knife marks of self-harm … and swirling depression; and with so many overwhelming rhythmic atonalites that the blue electricity of pulses and currents are stifled by a huge blanketing whiteness that gives a general impression of calm and control – as long as we follow each breath religiously. It is an atmosphere of violent beauty; the inner environment which cleanses and consumes all the perceptions of the outside world that drive us to the ultimate act of correction and glory: suicide. The whiteness of depression is the light at the end of the tunnel of death – promise of rebirth, new virginity and ultimate seduction. The thick slabs of paint represent the mud walls we erect to keep ourselves safe inside our cocoons – in our fortress. Depression does not concern sadness, but rather the construction of our castle in heaven, where our indifference to success and failure can finally flourish. Nirvana. Here, death is not a woman, but the young man’s own psyche. The misogynistic vision of Cocteau will be whitewashed and exposed as a void that disguises itself as male self-victimization. Once the many layers of oil paint were completely dry, I then covered the minimalist painting with camouflage netting, this in order to force the viewer to want to look at the discomfort in the pictures … to encourage the Viewer to look under the veil, and then to identify oneself sufficiently in the Mind … Yes, to be able to look for the veil of Emptiness that is under the veil. Of course, no one really wants to know about another person’s depression – especially if they are suicidal. We are all fighting the same depression and nothingness. It’s only a thought away. The result is a two-dimensional sculpture painting.

Jean Maurice Eugene Clement Cocteau was very talented, very brave, very “gay”, very famous … and very misogynistic. Only the unfortunate (or idiots) would be stupid enough to try to make him angry.

“The young man and death In a workshop, a young man alone is waiting. In comes the girl who was the cause of his distress. He rushes towards her, she pushes him away, he begs her, she insults him, scoffs at him and tells him to go hang himself. He hangs himself. Only the body of the hanged man remains. Through the roofs, death then returns in a prom dress. She takes off her mask: it’s the girl. So she puts her mask on the face of her victim. Together, they go through the roofs.
— Jean Cocteau”

More than seventy years have passed since this work had its world premiere. And the idea still haunts me. The story is too thin … a cheap shot designed to shock. The cheating woman has the coldness of a man, and the desperate man (the cuckold) hangs himself as the woman demands. The irony is that a number of men today commit suicide after their wife’s infidelity or divorce. But what else is behind this suicide? Surely, there are problems of depression and relationship within man before this development? Was the woman really responsible for his death? Is the infidelity of another person really the cause of suicide – or is it just a symptom, the result of a long-standing illusion that can no longer be denied? Is not this another expression of misogyny in the age of Romanticism? And how can I recreate this story / painting – penetrating more into the young man’s psyche – far beyond this woman representing death, who can so easily be blamed?

It’s the same for both or all genders (there are more than two now). Because depression and suicide are taboo subjects, I want to force the public to commit to watching and walking inside the painting. These problems need to be normalized – like cancer and other syndromes and lifestyle diseases.

“It is important to understand and simply accept that all our past experiences, whether joyful or sad, continue to accompany us throughout our lives and greatly affect the way we feel today. Problems can only trigger feelings of insecurity, shame, envy or revenge if we deny that they are part of us. To be overwhelmed by such feelings in the most difficult situations requires us to recognize them and consciously integrate them as natural parts of our psyche. Only then will we be able to develop a loving acceptance of ourselves with all our flaws and shortcomings.” — from www. astro.com

As I always say, a lot of fiction is more factual than readers realize. Cocteau was very misogynistic and obsessed with wanting a son, and had great anger when the woman of his choice (Princess Natalie Paley) rejected him: he said that women were “the killers of poets’ children”, there had been many suicides in his life, and so on – all of which indicate psychological problems at work in this story.

With Nureyev in the title role:

Read about Gustave Moreau’s painting “The Young Man and Death” HERE!

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LE JEUNE HOMME ET LA MORT.

Redéfinir l’interprétation de Cocteau de «Le jeune homme et la mort»:
«Le jeune homme et la mort» – il représente un ordre violent et hasardeux; chaos mental blanchi à la chaux avec la conviction de purification et avec des marques d’automutilation … la dépression tourbillonnant avec des atonalites rythmiques tellement écrasante que l’électricité bleue des impulsions et des courants est étouffée par un énorme oreiller blanc qui donne une impression générale de calme et contrôle – tant que l’on suit religieusement chaque respiration. C’est une atmosphère de beauté violente; l’environnement intérieur qui lave et consume toutes les perceptions du monde extérieur, nous pousse à l’ultime acte de correction et de gloire: le suicide. La blancheur de la dépression est la lumière au bout du tunnel de la mort – promesse de renaissance, nouvelle virginité et ultime séduction. Les dalles épaisses de peinture représentent les murs de boue que nous érigeons pour nous garder en sécurité dans nos cocons – notre forteresse. La dépression ne concerne pas la tristesse, mais plutôt la construction de notre château dans les cieux, où notre indifférence au succès et à l’échec peut enfin s’épanouir. Nirvana. Ici, la mort n’est pas une femme, mais la propre psyché du jeune homme. La vision misogyne de Cocteau sera blanchie au néant, et exposée comme un vide qui se déguiserait en auto-victimisation masculine.

Une fois que les nombreuses couches de peinture à l’huile sont complètement sèches, je vais couvrir la peinture minimaliste avec filet de camouflage ; qui forceront le spectateur à vouloir regarder les désagréments dans les images. Regarder sous le voile et ensuite s’identifier suffisamment dans le Mental pour pouvoir chercher le voile de Vide qui est sous le voile. Bien sûr, personne ne veut vraiment connaître la dépression d’une autre personne – surtout s’il est suicidaire. Nous combattons tous la même dépression et le néant. C’est seulement une pensée loin. Le résultat sera une peinture de sculpture en deux dimensions.
Jean Maurice Eugène Clément Cocteau était très talentueux, très courageux, très “gay”, très célèbre … et très misogyne. Seuls les malheureux ou les idiots seraient heureux de le mettre en colère.

Le jeune homme et la mort

Dans un atelier, un jeune homme seul attend. Entre la jeune fille qui était cause de sa détresse. Il s’élance vers elle, elle le repousse, il la supplie, elle l’insulte, le bafoue et s’enfouit. Il se pend. La chambre s’envole. Ne reste que le corps du pendu. Par les toits, la mort arrive en robe de bal. Elle ôte son masque : c’est la jeune fille. Alors elle pose son masque sur le visage de sa victime. Ensemble, ils s’en vont par les toits.

— Jean Cocteau»

Plus de soixante-dix ans se sont écoulés depuis que ce travail a eu sa première mondiale. Et l’idée me hante toujours. L’histoire est trop mince … un cliché inverse conçu pour choquer. La femme qui triche a la froideur d’un homme, et l’homme désespéré (le cocu) se pendent comme la femme demande. L’ironie est qu’un certain nombre d’hommes aujourd’hui se suicident après l’infidélité ou le divorce de leur femme. Mais quoi d’autre est derrière ce suicide? Il y a sûrement des problèmes de dépression et de relation au sein de l’homme avant ce développement? La femme était-elle vraiment responsable de sa mort? L’infidélité d’une autre personne est-elle vraiment la cause du suicide – ou est-ce simplement un symptôme, le résultat d’une illusion de longue date qui ne peut plus être nié? N’est-ce pas une autre expression de la misogynie à l’époque du romantisme? Et comment puis-je recréer cette histoire / peinture – pénétrant davantage dans la psyché du jeune homme – bien au-delà de cette femme représentant la mort, qui peut si facilement être blâmée?

C’est la même chose pour les deux ou tous les sexes (il y en a plus de deux maintenant). Parce que la dépression et le suicide sont des sujets tabous, je veux forcer le public à s’engager à regarder et à marcher à l’intérieur du tableau. Ces problèmes doivent être normalisés – comme le cancer et d’autres syndromes et maladies de style de vie.

“Il est important de comprendre et d’accepter simplement que toutes nos expériences passées, qu’elles soient joyeuses ou tristes, continuent à nous accompagner tout au long de notre vie et affectent considérablement la façon dont nous nous sentons aujourd’hui. Les problèmes ne peuvent que déclencher des sentiments d’insécurité, de honte, d’envie ou de vengeance si nous nions qu’ils font partie de nous. Être submergé par de tels sentiments dans les situations les plus difficiles nous oblige à les reconnaître et à les intégrer consciemment en tant que parties naturelles de notre psyché. Ce n’est qu’alors que nous serons en mesure de développer une acceptation aimante de nous-mêmes avec tous nos défauts et insuffisances.”(astro.com)

Comme je le dis toujours, beaucoup de fiction est plus factuelle que ce que les lecteurs réalisent. Cocteau était très misogyne et sa fascination pour vouloir un fils, sa colère quand la femme de son choix (la princesse Natalie Paley) l’a rejeté: il a dit que les femmes étaient «les tueuses des enfants de poètes», les suicides dans sa vie, et ainsi de suite – indiquent ses problèmes psychologiques au travail dans cette histoire.

”COVID-19 — fini les bises à la pelle !”, oil on canvas, 60 x 50 cm., 2020, is a self-portrait of myself hesitating to kiss my own death skull, and is surrounded by a ring of blue roses. The blue roses symbolize the unattainable; here, an unfulfilled love-moment that is even too complicated to be described in words because our natural habit of performing the delicious bises à la pelle is abruptly stopped by the cold mental forewarning that “some doors should never be opened”. There is nothing to say, save perhaps “Oh, I almost forgot.” This is, indeed, a challenging conceptual and technical study and essay. The image of a person kissing a death skull is an age-old meme (if not a cliché). Here the twist is to play on the concept of The Picture of Dorian Gray, whereby the death skull is the mirrored image of my true Self — i.e. that part of me that always remains constant, regardless of the « accoutrements » of fashion, disposition, or aging. In the Age of COVID-19 a simple kiss on the cheek can become the shovel that digs our own grave… Indeed we must all face our own Death, with eyes open or shut. And yet Death finds meaning only against the background of Life, though measured in mere years or breaths. Just as Light has no significance without shadow or Darkness, we cannot live Life fully being afraid of Death. “On ne peut pas vivre en ayant peur de mourir … “
“La mort rappelle une vie passée”, 60 x 80 cm., huile sur toile, 2020.
«Eternal Sleep — Mors Vincit Omnia», oil on canvas, 80 x 60 cm., 2021.

Men can be such cunts! (Les hommes sont des cons !)

LETTRE D’UNE PROSTITUÉE À LA RETRAITE À SON TRAVAILLEUR SOCIAL

Chère Madame Defarge,

Je me suis bien acclimatée à mon nouvel appartement de banlieue. J’ai été à la recherche de travail, ce qui est difficile … mais je reste optimiste car j’ai déjà travaillé dans les magasins (avant d’avoir abusé de mes cartes de crédit et de recourir à la prostitution). En attendant, je suis reconnaissant pour l’aide financière que votre bureau m’accorde.

J’évite de passer pour une prostituée, de peur d’être refoulée dans la vie quotidienne. Ici, tous les autres hommes que je vois dans la rue ou dans un café ressemblent à des proxénètes potentiels. Bien que j’essaie de m’habiller de façon conservatrice – a mes yeux, du moins – Je sens le regard des hommes, des femmes au foyer et Des vieilles mémés me scruter lorsque je les croise dans la rue. Celle-ci (les femmes) ont toujours un regard acide … celui qui trahit l’envie et la méfiance.

Ce n’est pas comme à Paris, où de nombreuses femmes se sentent libres de se comporter comme elles veulent, certaines faisant les salopes, mettant les machos et les féministes extrêmes à leur place. Ici, les hommes se permettent de lancer des propos salaces dans la rue. Et les femmes n’en font même pas un cas, tournant la tête pour me suivre des yeux. Je sens leurs regards brûlants derrière moi longtemps après les avoir dépassées.

Pas plus tard qu’hier, j’ai été approchée par un homme dans la mi-trentaine, alors que je marchais près d’un café non loin de mon appartement. De la façon dont il s’habillait, et dont il s’est approché de moi, je sentais qu’il était soit de la ville ou qu’il était de passage. Je tremblai un instant, et me mit à marcher plus vite, alors qu’il prétendait que nous nous étions rencontrés auparavant. Je l’ai détrompé, lui assurant que je ne l’avais jamais vu auparavant. Il a ensuite répondu, avec un éclair dans les yeux, qu’il pouvait se tromper, mais que j’avais l’air familier … qu’il m’aurait vu ailleurs. J’ai haussé les épaules et lui ai dit que je n’avais pas le temps de bavarder, et que je n’étais pas du tout intéressée par les hommes. (Plus tard, j’ai regretté ce mensonge car on aurait pu me croire lesbienne, et cela m’aurait certainement cause des ennuis, surtout ici où l’on n’ose pas vivre ses fantasmes.) J’ai poursuivi ma marche à grands pas, et, jetant des coups d’oeil furtifs en arrière, je mes suis aperçue que l’homme ne m’avait pas quitter des yeux.

Je voudrais que les gens cessent de poursuivre les paranoïaques que nous sommes. J’aimerais parfois me mettre dans la peau de quelqu’un d’autre. C’est alors que vos sages paroles me reviennent à l’esprit: “Agissez selon votre conscience, et surtout, n’écoutez pas les imbéciles!”

Cordialement,
Amélie

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FICTIONAL LETTER TO ANNA ARDIN, FROM AN ANONYMOUS FAN

Dear Anna

My name is “Pru” … short for Prudence. I have read about your case against that “DickyLeaks” guy, and I felt compelled to write to you. While you do not know me, I feel as if I know you. I am sitting on my terrace here in Arizona, watching the bees rape the morning glories on the trellis, which are now in full blossom.

And I am furious.

I know that it is a symbiotic relationship, necessary for pollination … but it reminds me so much of a poem I once read, which has provoked me from the first time I read it – and which I can never be finished with:

THE RAPE OF THE DAUGHTER OF ALCATHOUS.

Purity of white fleshes outward
With the subtlety of wind chimes
Swaying lithely in the seabreeze …
Sublime fragrances of jasmine and
Virginity meld unwillingly
With sweat and fear
Engendered by threat of violation …
The scent of victimization
Only encourages animal passion and
Further increases the value of the prize …
Beauty – inviting – passion –
Creating – revulsion – increasing –
Attraction – begetting – fear –
Maximizing – passion …
Contorted faces and war-drum heartbeats
Distort humanity as minds are
Dismembered by occlusion …
Peace cannot prevail until
A victor is crowned and
Reintegration is impossible until
Silence shreds its hostility.

The reason I am sitting on the terrace and fuming is that I am sick and tired of not being able to express my need for gender equality and justice … at least not without being referred to as a sour bitch or a “feminazi”. I like masculine men … but I cannot bear misogynistic fools that use verbal and physical aggression – and the accompanying boasting humor – to “keep the bitches under control”.

Last night was a disaster. Cork, my twenty-seven year old live-in boyfriend told a stupid story at a dinner party that we had in our suburban apartment on the outskirts of Phoenix:

“I remember an incident in the apartment building I lived in in NYC, years ago. A woman on the floor under me had a Black lover that played around (she worked at the phone company, and he lived off her). Anyway, one afternoon I was entering the building when a White woman who was literally half-naked ran out of the building and exclaimed to me: ‘He tried to rape me. I’m gonna call the POLICE!’

I chuckled and seconds later the Black neighbor ran out onto the street butt-naked, screaming ‘I’m cumming baby, I’m cumming!’

Well, I quickly went inside and locked the outer door – knowing that he had neither clothes or a key on him. He looked back at me and I just smiled, and went upstairs.

Days later an elderly Ukrainian neighbor was in the hallway and she asked me if I had heard the ruckus. I said: ‘Yeah, and saw it too!’

She then replied: ‘Yes, me too. He rang my buzzer to get into the building. It seems he ran out without his keys.’

After a few seconds of silence, she whispered to me: ‘I have never seen one so big … and so black before!’ “

To be honest, I did not particularly like the guests anyway. They were all colleagues of Cork from his job at Ernst & Young. Cork was the “new guy” at the firm, and he attempted to impress everyone with his special stories from the Big Apple. After two hours of cocktails, wine, appetizers, main course, and dessert — all slavishly made by moi – the “boyz” felt brazen enough to turn the conversation from niceties to conquests.

It began innocently enough, but it soon became a match to determine who had the most brilliant feathers amongst the cocks. Of course, Cork – in his attempt to both assert himself and also to ascertain the strength and cockiness of his colleagues (and competitors) managed to twist the conversation into a sexual context. The three male colleagues listened attentively and laughed all too haughtily at Cork’s story – hoping to both size up this emigrated Englishman, and to show their own worldliness and manhood. The only other female at the dinner party was Cynthia, who was Peter’s wife. Cynthia and I exchanged a few glances, acknowledging that this turn of events was both expected and hopeless. But neither of us dared to interject a protest, or to attempt to change the subject.

I had my own reasons for playing it off. Cork had recently suggested that I was prudish, and tried to make associations with my birth name: Prudence. Ohhh how I have hated that name my entire life. My well-meaning parents wanted to give me a special name, something old-fashioned chic but also with associations to what they equated with a cultured lifestyle. I was ridiculed already from the second grade, when my fellow students mocked my name and made up embarrassing rhymes that haunted me throughout elementary school. And so it was that I went by Pru most of my life, and from high school onward my birth-given name was conveyed only on a need to know basis and in official circumstances.

A short conversation with Cynthia in the kitchen revealed that she had her own strategy all laid out. She was two months pregnant and planned on revealing the “news” to Peter when they got home that night. That surprising news would surely nullify any bachelor-life longings and “guy-talk” residue that might be left over from the dinner conversation. She sat and smiled throughout the evening before she leaned over to Peter at ten-thirty p.m. and whispered that she is tired and needs to get home. Just to be certain that he would leave promptly without more prodding and drama she added: “Honey, I was at the doctor recently and I have something I need to talk to you about.” That clinched it, and Peter soon asked Juan and Ahmed if they needed a lift back into the City. Neither had taken their car that night, and the bus communication back into the City was infrequent at that late hour – so, of course, they said “Yes”; and by eleven forty-six the three were thanking their hosts and stumbling out the door.

Well, Cork was in a good mood, if not well-intoxicated – both by the French cuisine that I had prepared, the liquor and wine, and the feeling that he had “made the grade” with his colleagues.

This is how it all started:

“It went well, don’t you think Babe?!!”

“Yes, Cork. Your new work friends seem very nice. And …”

Cork had cut me off in mid-sentence and was recounting bits and pieces of the evening conversation – all the while analyzing what was said, the body language, the “male drive” of his colleagues. I continued to clear the table and stacked the dishes and silverware and glasses in the sink and on the kitchen counter. As you can probably understand, I was all too tired to do the dishes at that late hour, and there was no point in asking Cork to help tonight. A good night’s sleep and forty-five minutes of work in the kitchen in the morning – and all would be back to normal in our small two-bedroom apartment. Or so I thought …

Typically, Cork suddenly decided that he was in an amorous mood, and that he wanted to get laid. “Hey Pru! C’mon over here. I have something to tell you.”

I tried to mask my slight irritation at being disturbed by someone who was not helping me to do a thankless task, and replied: “What is it Cork? I need to organize things here in the kitchen so it will not be so much work when I clean up in the morning. Tomorrow is Saturday and I have lots of chores to do.” I added: “And I hope that you remember that I have to go visit my Aunt Martha at the retirement home in the afternoon. Just come into the kitchen and tell me whatever it is – while I finish up.”

Cork walked into the small kitchen, now already half-undressed, and leaned into me from behind. He nibbled on my neck, started to grind his genitals up against my bum and clumsily caressed my breasts before starting to unbutton my blouse. “I want to tell you that you are the most beautiful and sexy woman in the world,” he whispered into my left ear. I made a half-turn of my head towards him, gave him a quick peck on the cheek and said: “How sweet, Cork. Now go away and let me finish up here.”

But Cork would have none of that. “Leave it until the morning. I will help you.”

“Ha!” I exclaimed, thinking: “How many times had I heard that before?” Cork would not stumble out of bed before ten o’clock, and if he was really hung over then not before almost noon. I replied: “Go into the bedroom, and I will be there shortly.”

Cork then let go of me, brushed his teeth, got butt-naked and jumped into the bed, feeling great about the evening so far. Of course, in his mind, there was now only one last thing he needed to cap off the perfect evening: sex.

However, I had other plans for myself. I slowly and meticulously took off my make-up, had a nice long, hot shower, and put on my favorite flannel pyjamas before turning off the light on the night table on my side of the bed. I leaned over to give Cork a goodnight peck on the forehead, thinking that he had already fallen asleep since his eyes were closed and I could hear his drunken semi-heavy breathing. (I was relieved not to have him chasing me around the bedroom tonight. You see, I enjoy sex and enjoy being pursued … but my boyfriend still has not learned to respect a “no” for a “NO!”)

Alas, Cork was not asleep – he only pretended to be. He suddenly grabbed me by the head and pulled me close up to his face and plunged his tongue deep down my throat.

“Hey! Wait a minute!” I exclaimed. “I need rest and sleep now. We can do this tomorrow.”

But Cork wanted sex now. He playfully wrestled me down onto my back, pressing me firmly with his large and gym-trained body. His huge arms pinned my upper arms and shoulders down so that my only possible movements were to flail with my forearms and hands, and to squirm and kick with my legs. Cork then used his muscular thighs and calves to pin down the bottom half of my body as I screamed out in vain. “Stop it, Cork! You are hurting me. I don’t want to do this. Cork!”

But Cork only tried to muffle my protests by covering my gaping mouth with his own, thus burying my protests with kisses designed to shut me up. Before long, Cork had ripped my panties off of me and was trying to force his penis into my vagina. Anna, I then became desperate, but the more I resisted the more forcibly Cork exerted his aggressive libido … and the more excited he became. I bit him and I scratched him, and I even tried to punch him with my finally-freed right arm but Cork was too strong, and too drunk … and focused on “one thing”. That one thing that men always seem to want and need from women in order to feel masculine and powerful.

He won out in the end, or at least he felt as if he did. Directly after he ejaculated into my pussy, he flopped over onto his side of the bed – still panting, and exclaimed: “God damn! That was fucking hot, Babe! Wasn’t that great sex?!!”

I was sore, scared … and pissed off. I felt like a sardine in a tin … drowning in cold tomato sauce, with no escape from the blood-red sugary tension of domestic rape. I was outraged at the violation, and equally so that an act of love could be so emotionally and physically perverted into a boxing match requiring my ultimate submission. And all the while he acted as if he “knew better”, and would show me what good sex is really all about – almost as if it were an act of kindness for which I would thank him once I realized what I had been denying myself, and how badly I needed a “good lay”!

I answered him coldly: “It was … all right.” My jaws were tight. I wanted to grab the lamp on the night table and bludgeon him, again and again. But I knew that I could not win a physical fight against him. I would have to attack his ego, and his manhood.

“All right??! What do you mean by that?” retorted Cork.

I wanted to tell him that he does not know the first thing about how to turn on or satisfy a woman, and that poking his cockiness in and out of my vagina in a selfish and crude and insensitive way had nothing to do with romance, or even sex. It was basically just him getting off, and holding me hostage as his “cum dump”. But I was suddenly feeling too tired, and begrudgingly said — while turning my back on him and hugging my pillow: “Let’s talk about it tomorrow, Cork. I am too tired.”

Cork did not pursue the matter anymore, and I lay awake for hours watching over his heavy breathing and snoring … ready to spring from the bed at the first sign of him waking up out of somnambulance.

Men can be such “cunts” …

Good luck with your case, and best wishes from Phoenix.

Pru

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SATIRICAL FICTIONAL LETTER TO JACQUES BREL.

Cher Jacques,

Félicitations ! Ta chanson ” Ne me quitte pas ” est devenue un succès énorme. Tu fais sentir ta douleur … en utilisant la veine ensorcellante de Maurice Ravel, comme dans son ” Boléro “, où tu gardes le même refrain et le même ton calme, mais la colère en plus, dans tes mots. Et tu te protèges d’une manière si poignante en me demandant à plusieurs reprises de ne pas te quitter, à en devenir fou de rage. Ta chanson nous ravit, mais en même temps, elle a plongé le poignard dans le coeur de notre conte de fées. Si seulement tu n’étais pas si lâche. Pourquoi n’as-tu pas pu exprimé tes craintes et tes émotions dans la vie réelle, au lieu de me faire passer pour un citoyen banal? Comme ta stupide maîtresse, qui a voulu exploiter ta gloire et ta réputation ? Tu sais que je ne me suis jamais soucié de telles choses. Je t’ai simplement aimé. Et toi, tu … tu as seulement été amoureux du romantisme, du simple fait ” d’être amoureux “. L’annonce de notre ” enfant d’amour ” s’est avérée trop pesante pour toi. J’ai aussi eu peur. Mais tu étais un enfant, jouant à être un homme. Ma fierté ne m’a pas permis de porter les ombres que tu décrivais dans ta chanson. Et comment oses-tu inclure mon chien adoré dans ta chanson pitoyable…? ” Laisse-moi devenir l’ombre de ton ombre, l’ombre de ta main et l’ombre de ton chien. “

Tu exprimes ta colère et ta confusion tout en me priant de ne pas te quitter. La vérité est que tu n’étais jamais complètement là dans notre relation d’amour. J’étais un jouet pour toi, un joyau à chérir dans le secret … mais tu ne m’as jamais vraiment aimée comme un homme devrait aimer une femme. Je sais que je dois te sembler amère. En vérité, je ne le suis pas. Je me sens finalement libre de devenir la femme que je suis … libérée de cet homme immature qui me détruisait avec ses émotions toujours changeantes et extrêmes. Tant d’apitoiement sur soi-même, tant de colère et d’indifférence soudaine ! Non, notre ” enfant d’amour ” n’a aucune réalité et il n’existera jamais. J’aime ma chambre sans berceau. Pourquoi n’écrirais-tu pas une nouvelle chanson, Jacques ? ” La chanson des vieux amants … “?

Ne me quitte pas …
ne me quitte pas …
ne me quitte pas …
ne me quitte pas …
Assez !

Je ne t’ai jamais quitté … parce que je ne t’ai jamais eu.

Entendons-nous : tu ne me parles pas – et je ne te parle pas. C’est mieux comme ça. Tu peux maintenant écrire toutes les chansons que tu veux de notre amour perdu et devenir ainsi encore plus riche et plus célèbre.

Et je me contenterai d’épouser le plombier ou le charpentier.

Je pourrai alors chérir mes enfants, des enfants conçus avec amour.

J’aurais d’utiliser ce subjonctif que tu aimais tant, je regrette de ne pas y avoir pensé plus tôt!

Penses-y,
Zizou

(from my book “Entre Nous et Eux”)

^€ ^€ ^€ ^€ ^€ ^€ ^€ ^€ ^€ ^€ ^€ ^€ ^€ ^€ ^€ ^€ ^€ ^€ ^€ ^€ ^€ ^€ ^€ ^€ ^€

JISEI: a new poetry book by Adam Donaldson Powell.

DECEMBER 1st IS WORLD AIDS DAY.


辞世

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JISEI

DEATH POEMS AND DAILY REFLECTIONS
BY A PERSON WITH AIDS

By Adam Donaldson Powell

First edition published by Cyberwit.net, India, ISBN 978-81-8253-403-2, 2013.

My new book “JISEI” is now available for orders at CYBERWIT and AMAZON.COM

Paperback: 245 pages
Publisher: Cyberwit.net (May 2, 2013)
Languages: English, French, Spanish, Norwegian, Japanese, Russian, Filipino
ISBN-10: 8182534038
ISBN-13: 978-8182534032

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COMMENTS ABOUT “JISEI” FROM AUTHORS AROUND THE WORLD:

J. Richard “Rick” Davis (USA):

This book of poetry, is more than just a collection of poems, on life, death, and AIDS. It is a guidebook for anyone struggling with the meaning of it all – whether it’s AIDS, or cancer or any travail that is causing one to question the meaning and purpose of why we’re on this planet.

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Albert Russo (FRANCE):

Qui est Adam Donaldson Powell? Ce poète rare qui parle de la beauté, de l’amour, de l’amitié, comme l’homme découvrant le monde à l’aube de l’humanité. Avec angélisme, direz-vous? Aucunement, il en parle avec la poésie du philosophe et du mystique. Il traite la maladie et la mort, non comme des ennemies, mais comme des connaissances, avec sérénité, presque avec sympathie, il va même jusqu’à causer avec elles comme l’on cause avec des passagers lors d’un voyage. Il se mets même à blaguer avec ces trublions, sachant qu’au bout du compte, il retrouvera la dernière.

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Maria Cristina Azcona (ARGENTINA):

Adam es el esclavo líbero, el que rompió las cadenas y nos golpea con su martillo de oro las nuestras, incluso aquellas que volvemos a crear a cada momento, enfermos pero de la cabeza mientras él, enfermo del cuerpo está cada vez mejor de la lucidez mental, cada vez más cuerdo y descarnado. Su poesía es cada vez más aleteo y menos cuerpo, más alma y menos carne, más verdad y más arte hasta que llegará el momento ese sublime en que el hombre se hará poema, para siempre, en nuestra mente que ahora, tarde, podrá ver en el interior de su alma.

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Lisbet Norderhaug (NORWAY):

I disse vidunderlige, dype og mørke diktene kan vi synke inn i oss selv og la oss treffe av lyset som gjennomstråler mørket. Adam har satt ord på den gjenkjennelige fortvilelsen over å måtte forlate livet, men han beskriver også gløden som skinner til oss fra den andre siden. Han har hevet, ja, transformert, historien om ett menneskes dødsprosess til en sang for oss alle.

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EXCERPT FROM BOOK INTRODUCTION:

AIDS has changed the world in more ways than we may possibly know. We will never fully comprehend the impact of losing so many people taken by this disease. Their contributions could have altered the face of humanity, the world of art and literature, the rearing of future leaders, the impact on communities, and the hearts of countless individuals. And this is all looking at the impact of AIDS in a broad perspective. It is a disease that, regardless of our own personal admissions, affects us all. However, behind the public fray of communal loss, social change and medical advances, lies the experience of the individual who must still awaken each day with the acknowledgment that they carry inside of them an evident ticking time bomb. No different from the rest of us who live with our own mortality, but distinct in that their clock has a name. That name is AIDS.

— Christina Landles-Cobb (USA)

COMMENT BY THE AUTHOR:
My first public performance of my poetry in New York City was at a trendy art gallery in the SoHo district, back in 1986. The place was packed, wall-to-wall, and the audience was enthusiastic. I was reading from my soon-to-be-published first book of poems, entitled “Notes of a Madman” which was an illustrated collection of mystical poetry from Pagan and Sufi traditions. The gallery owner, an enigmatic young man, was particularly obsessed with the poems and spiritual messages in the slender volume of verse, and he read the book over and over again. Some months after the reading I again called the gallery to say “hello” and another young man answered the phone, saying in a somber voice: “Didn’t you know? He passed away shortly after your reading.” He had died of AIDS.

That beautiful young man hung onto my verse in a time of deep personal transformation. I have never forgotten the awe and sense of responsibility I felt after that telephone conversation. Since then, I have always written and painted with the intent of inspiring creativity and transformation in humanity. And now that I have — myself — lived with the AIDS virus for twenty years it feels appropriate to inspire once again through writing about one of the greatest transformations Mankind can ever know. It does not matter what we die of … every Soul and Life Expression is precious, and to be celebrated.

I die (and I am reborn) just a little bit each day of my life. Should any given moment be my last, then my epitaph will surely be the sum of all my thoughts, poems and tears of joy and sorrow … from day to day, over the course of eternity. Perhaps just one of these short daily poems will touch upon a few readers and lend a bit of realization of the magic that each of us creates in our personal and collective transformations.

– Adam Donaldson Powell

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A FEW EXCERPTS FROM THE BOOK:

i am but a liar,
my Lover.
i promise to stay,
but you know i
will often forsake You.
i swear to friends and family
that i will bid them “farewell”,
but i will steal my way back to you
in silence, My Beloved …
like a thief in the night.

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une chaude journée d’été à marseille,
sans souci …
oh là là là là là là !
il a remarqué mon regard
il a l’air en colère
il vient vers moi
il demande une cigarette
nous allons à mon hôtel
il me quitte une heure plus tard, satisfait
le lendemain, je le remarque dans la rue à nouveau
et il a toujours l’air en colère

pour certains,
une vie avec le sida est une vie gâchée
ils n’ont rien à apprendre,
et rien à contester …
et ils ont surtout engendré la haine
envers le monde et envers eux-mêmes

… ouah, quel beau mec !
oh là là là là là là !

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Pienso en tí …
y muero
lentamente
en mis sueños.

Pienso en tí …
y ahora
lo único que queda
es la música,
unas palabras perdidas
y … quizás
una que otra lágrima
errante …

Pienso en tí …
la lluvia oculta
la arrogante apatía,
el retórico insoportable.
La apología
sin rostro
de los que piden perdón.

Despierto y descubro
lágrimas
que baten
ventanas con grietas
y sueños quebrados …

De súbito …
no puedo llorar más;
la lluvia ha parado.
Bajo el cielo desnudo
la vieja pintura se descolora.

Y yo pienso aún en tí …
hasta olvidar
el silencio que ya existía

antes de la muerte de mi amor.

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Ingen solnedgang for meg, takk.
Jeg vil reise til sjøs i vakre flammer …
midt på formiddagen.

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ANETTE TRETTEBERGSTUEN (Norwegian Labour Party Parliament Member) ON “JISEI”: “Break the sound barrier with art”, by Anette Trettebergstuen (Norway)

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Azsacra Zarathustra comments on Adam Donaldson Powell’s poetry book entitled “JISEI”

jiseilarge

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Adam Donaldson Powell