is a bit of his time: the words of Emile Nelligan set to music by Monique Neyrac. Between two Polish (Chopin is never really far), piano and voice that rises and crying and screaming, perhaps to fill the silence in which I am trapped. I returned from Montreal, in fact, empty. In addition to fatigue, I did not taste much, except maybe to make my presentation on Herve Guibert. Otherwise successful submission: applause at the end of the presentation. But beyond all that, it is the emptiness inside me. Maybe because I no longer recognize the city as though I live for a month and a half and I begin to hate Quebec. No good reason except that this is not Montreal. is a period that I call soberly the "post-trauma Montreal. I am perhaps the first to experience this trauma, which accumulate other things: the stress of university, lack clear and hard to fill all those in France. Lack, that's a cross that door every day when deciding to go abroad. There, every day, looking to the east, and this thought to others. Those who remained. I'm gone. Still no valid reason to favor. But the fact is that I left. And in this post-trauma that this departure Montreal Quebec is its most disturbing.
So anyway, it was enough to do. Yesterday I was in Sherbrooke (three and half hour drive from Quebec) for a symposium on the medium of literature, led by a French woman. If it is not a sign of chance (or fate, everyone sees what he thinks ...) just rub salt into the wound! Excellent conference, however, Marie-Eve T., who I unfortunately does not exchange any words. With the group of students from Quebec who took me by car, we are better acquainted. While the drive is that literary discussions and confrontations of our most diverse experiences. There was, also, today, two auditions for theater projects. I learned the text required the day before the fair hearing is only Tuesday evening. Alea jacta is! Tonight, I try to go through my head the two pages of the wonderful declaration of love Lack of Sarah Kane. Hard exercise, but very cathartic.
The only real comfort for those three days, I find with Chantal S., a teacher who follows me informally in the development of my memory. We agreed an appointment that very day, to ascertain the state of progress of my work and my reading. The interview lasted an hour. We share a lot of our feelings on reading women, she tells me some details, and welcome to the seriousness I'm proof. Thereupon, she clutched the famous question: "and if not, how it happens, your life in Quebec?". I unpack, without restraint. I spoke to him this weekend in Montreal, very intense, and feelings from within Me. In short, I told him my life. But Chantal S. is a woman who listens to students: it reassures me, this feeling is normal, it'll pass you. I understand you too. I needed it no more, I think. This closeness between us for a quarter of an hour, everyone from his past or present emotion. I get out of the discharge of a weight. I will definitely not complain. I am part of privileged, and every day I say "you're at Laval University!". These are just the steps needed to build this new temporary life: the anxieties that can not be stifled.
Obviously, it does not happen tonight, especially if I write while listening to a playlist doubtful that wants me: Chopin engage with Rose, it's a conspiracy that wants to make me fall! Ah, happy days!
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