From my yellow notebook 4

Lack of love causes insecurity which increases the need for love which increases insecurity, etc.

The bottomless well: Lack of love. Rage. Lack of love. Rage. Lack of love. Rage...
Stops filling the well!

Spiritual Alchemy: transform my weaknesses into strength.

I created my fears and faults; I’m their father and them my son. Their strength comes from their creator, me. This is my strength, I therefore control them...

The rage I feel I can turn it, sublimate it by making a "transplant"; use that feeling to serve an idea a goal, and make it a formidable force to stimulate me. Build rather than destroy.

To create time for contemplation, however small they may be, throughout my day…

I hear you, I expect you...

This n' that 5

When I took the train to leave my little town for my studies, I was torn apart between this new freedom to discover the world and the well-being and love I felt in my home town with my family and friends. A huge sadness occurred and I had an intense feeling of uprooting, which continues even today. 

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When my father died, I felt a tremendous relief.
Then, the regrets and the guilt fell on me like a ton of bricks.

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On my gravestone: he was loved…

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I am amazed how easy it is for me to guess, to feel others.

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I’m constantly in need to prove that I have the right to say, to think, to write.

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“Don’t forget that the others also live a fight; they’re warriors who look for resting.”

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My concentration: I’m here, I’m not here, I’m here, I’m not here, etc.

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Don’t be afraid anymore to say:
"I want to finish what I was saying..."

"Give me still a minute or two…"

"Just wait a little until I finish…"

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A staircase is built from the bottom up, but it’s swept from top to bottom.

Narrative 3

I remember after my Saturday evening big weekly bath, my mother making me an neapolitan ice cream cone and then going to the living room watching Thierry la Fronde (The King's Outlaw) and then Hockey Night, with dad in his armchair and mom on the sofa and me right in front of the TV, sitting on the cold floor.

I was three.

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I remember having a terrible fit because my parents went out to the movies, a weekend, and hitting with all my strengths my red plastic boat on the front door, and shouting, howling, crying to show my anger in front of my babysitter totally helpless. Suddenly, I stopped everything and I noticed dozens of red marks which I had made on the door and then I was afraid I’ll be punished.

I was around two.

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I remember vaguely my little sister sleeping in her crib in my parents’ bedroom.

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I remember being five when I heard that our neighbor, Mrs. Tardy, woke up one morning and her husband, sleeping next to her, was dead. Not knowing it, she slept with a dead body next to her all night. This really traumatized me, upset me. A lot. I don’t know why…

Narrative 2

I remember the military parade at the top of the hill, on 1st Avenue, near the former Igloo, the ice cream counter. I was two years old.

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I remember around three, four years old, being at the cabin of a friend, who lived the neighboring house of mine, and trying to look through a hole, below the outhouse, where my friend had gone to the toilet, to see his booty!

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I remember, also, squabbling with a friend and then running to catch him up, when he wanted to leave, angry, to apologise and when I got out of the house, I stumble on the threshold, which was, like, one and a half-inch thick, and although I tried to hang on to the door frame, I fell on the corner of a metal tank, which was upside down, that mom used to soak the linen in, and I split open my right eyebrow and the skin over my nose. I remember crying a lot, blood flowing like water on my face and my mother carrying me in her arms to daddy's big old truck. Then dad in turn carrying me in his arms up the hospital’s staircases instead of waiting for the elevator which was too long to come.

(It’s strange, but I can feel, right at this moment, how they must have been worried for me I’d lose my eye or I’d die. Twenty years later, maybe they would wish I die, after all…)

I remember the doctor putting a sheet over my head, with only one hole for my eye. I remember the needle entering in and out of my skin. I had the feeling that the hand of the doctor was entering along with the needle and going in and out of my head. I remember, later, sitting on our stairs outside the house, my friends coming to see me, and feeling almost proud to show them my stitches. I was about four, five years old.

This n' that

What's the strangest about this "re-conquest," it's that I change while being the same.

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At first, the person whom I made responsible for my blocking was my father. 

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Younger, I dreamed to be a professor or an archaeologist, and somebody important.

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I think that my creativity is the source of my soul.

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When I was a child, my father thought that my art, my creativity were useless. It triggered in me a feeling of anger. 

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I remember when he said to me, towards the end of my adolescence, that I would never be able to make a living as a artist. I felt very sad and angry. I have never forgotten this moment. (Ironically, this recollection is more and more vague today...)

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When I was a child, my mother taught me that dreams were impracticable. I remember that she always told me to snap out of it for my own good.