</audio></p></content><categoryterm="gallery"></category><categoryterm="article"></category></entry><entry><title>Courtyard</title><linkhref="https://fel.theo-lem.org/courtyard.html"rel="alternate"></link><published>2020-04-24T17:01:00+02:00</published><updated>2020-04-24T17:01:00+02:00</updated><author><name>felicie</name></author><id>tag:fel.theo-lem.org,2020-04-24:/courtyard.html</id><summarytype="html"><p>A man and a building.</p></summary><contenttype="html"><p><audio controls="controls"
<p>He is less wary of how much of his emotions and thoughts is outward.
The bird flying by startled him and his body actually shook. His ears were staring at the sound of a knife striking a cutting board. He is more surprised by his own reaction than by the bird. Birds fly by most of the time.
He used to put a lot of effort into being as reserved in his private space as he would be with other people. When he takes the time to inspect this habit, he wonders if it would seem unreasonable to someone else. Deep down, he is afraid that being suddenly extrovert by himself without the rest of the world knowing about it would make him dishonest.
And now, he begins to realize as he is facing himself all day long, and the days before, and the days to come, that he needs some kind of confrontation to replace basic social exchanges. He needs something or someone to go against him even only by pointing out that he is not doing so bad. Something like a conversation, that would bring the dialectic aspect life is missing.</p>
<p>He doesn’t like calling people as much as he would need to. The geographical loophole it creates makes him feel uneasy. He is working on ways to hide how awkward he is when hearing someone, who could just as well be on another planet for as far as he knows. It really is not that simple.
He draws parallel lines with infinite care on a piece of paper that made the mistake of hanging around there too long. When both sides of the paper are filled, he uses a different color to draw new lines in between the first lines. At that point, the conversation seems illusive and his mind works up an excuse to hang up and a way to make that excuse come true, so that he doesn’t feel too dishonest because he really hates it.
At sunset, he starts to think that the angle of the light on the stretch of earth where he lives, is not the same on the stretch of earth at the other end of the line. At the end of the day, he doesn’t like calling people.</p>
<p>He laughs out loud more regularly, and it sounds odd. Both liberated and self-aware at the same time. As if he was in actual social exchange, it is often followed by the need to express, out loud again, what was so funny that he couldn’t hold it in. The toothbrush on the side of the sink seems confused but if that is what it takes to be at peace with himself, it is happy to help.
He also comments with either self-pity or candid interest everything he undertakes. He even talks back to himself sometimes, which he always assumed was the point of no return. But having the last word has become a matter of principle.</p>
<p>He goes to the balcony twice a day to smoke a cigarette. It overlooks the courtyard, so it is just outside enough to give himself the impression that he is going somewhere. The junk and the dust lingering on the other balconies have made space to allow a chair and a reading person to get a bit of sunlight.
He can hear neighbors laughing out loud, as they always had in peaceful sunny spring afternoon. They started to watch an old TV show last week. He knows the ending and can even tell some lines.</p></content><categoryterm="public"></category></entry><entry><title>Le retour du printemps</title><linkhref="https://fel.theo-lem.org/printemps.html"rel="alternate"></link><published>2020-04-24T17:01:00+02:00</published><updated>2020-04-24T17:01:00+02:00</updated><author><name>felicie</name></author><id>tag:fel.theo-lem.org,2020-04-24:/printemps.html</id><summarytype="html"><p>Le printemps revient.</p></summary><contenttype="html"><p><audio controls="controls"
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<p>Elle se dit, non mais c’est pas possible il en fait trop. On dirait que le ciel va exploser, et pourtant sa sœur penche à la fenêtre son sourire ravi, et ce rire qui n’éclate qu’au début du printemps. Elle se dit, c’est un peu fort quand même, on dirait que ça fait des années qu’on l’attend, le mec se pointe du jour au lendemain comme une fleur.
Elle a une horreur sainte mais silencieuse de ces moments dont l’appréciation est consensuelle. La météo ne fait jamais de vague, on nous dit que les citoyens sont épanouis sous un soleil radieux. Et les nuages et les vents ne sont que de passage. Retour à la normal. Retour du printemps.
Le lendemain il pleut sans surprise. Sans surprise sa sœur s’installe à la fenêtre encore, emballée dans un plaid comme un cadeau dont on cherche à cacher la forme. Elle essuie patiemment avec son index la buée sur un carreau, en partant du coin en haut à droite sur des bandes de cinq centimètres. Ça fait des traces sur les vitres, la régularité est jouissive.
Non mais dites-moi, c’est pas bientôt fini cette histoire. On se fait avoir à chaque fois, c’est quand même un comble. Elle tourne en rond dans la cuisine en attendant que la bouilloire ait fini son ronronnement vaporeux. Par moments, elle s’emporte un peu et se met à tourner en ovale. Elle a préparé la théière, le thé, le sucre au cas où vraiment, elle ne s’en sorte pas.
On entend les fleurs pousser dehors. Le lilas sur les plates-bandes du voisin qui se fait un devoir consciencieux de restaurer un bout de biodiversité choisie et bien rangée. L’odeur est un peu trop évidente à son goût, et par-dessus le marché, les oiseaux chantent.
Sa sœur essaye de prendre des bonnes habitudes. C’est 21 jours, répète-t-elle depuis 4 jours, 21 jours et après biologiquement ça se fait tout seul. Biologiquement, elle manque pas d’air tiens.
Le temps que l’agacement se dissipe, elle fait une ligne avec des graviers sur le rebord de la fenêtre. Demain la pluie tombera de nouveau et les emportera en bas, dans la cour.</p></content><categoryterm="public"></category></entry><entry><title>Sunday</title><linkhref="https://fel.theo-lem.org/sunday.html"rel="alternate"></link><published>2020-04-24T17:01:00+02:00</published><updated>2020-04-24T17:01:00+02:00</updated><author><name>felicie</name></author><id>tag:fel.theo-lem.org,2020-04-24:/sunday.html</id><contenttype="html"><p><audio controls="controls"
