Un jour, ma cabane

What can be said of the cigarette smokes
A prop for a joke or a mark on the clock
If I stopped would the bus ever come […]

Sleeping under a boat

Sleeping under a boat

I’m reaching the age when decisions are made
On life and living and I’m sure last ditch
That’ll I’ll ask for more time
But mother forgive me
I’ll still want a bottle of good Irish whiskey and a bundle of smokes in my grave.

Thanks for that, Goulven. You’re da man.

Un jour, ma cabane

the murmur under the stones

the murmur under the stones (thanks Jeffrey)

Easy late spring afternoons, in the cool shade of the woods. Waiting with the poets the fine moment when it’s time to leave there the books and the tea, to grab a rod, short and light, and a small tin box of flies, because now the fish will want to play.

But at the dawn of meaning —
When the stone is still obscure, the color
mud, in the brush’s impatience —
Paris carries Helen off;
She struggles, she cries out,
She accepts. The waves are calm,
Against the prow, and daybreak is
Shining across the sea.

Un jour, ma cabane


A steaming mug of Lapsang Souchong. That’s just what you’ll need, waiting for the tide and the winds to be just right for the striped bass. Big and strong striped bass, that you fish in the surf, wading up to your chest, shivering from cold, punching a heavy skagit spey line in the teeth of the wind with a 13′ two handed rod. Hard work for sure.

And lurking in the back of your mind, like the ghost of a fear. Because tonight, alone in this shack on the shore, with just the light of a petrol lamp, you know you’ll remember all these Lovecraft stories about Massachusetts’ shores, about Plymouth and Salem and Ipswich. About the frightening abyss in the ocean.

And the shadows will be deep.

Un jour, ma cabane

I’ll sit at my desk up there, in front of the window, and put the coffee mug aside. Light a cigarette and again be amazed by the sound of smoking in deep silence. Then I’ll launch Kile and create story_of_my_life_chap_12.tex. And it would go like


\chapter[12]{On how to unscrew}

Un jour, ma cabane

Sipping tea while the afternoon dies away, tying midge emergers — because you never know — and trying to forget that sooner or later I’ll have to get down. The radio would play jazz covers of pop songs.

Not least:

Some may object that it’s not jazz, but I guess that would be the malignant cells brooding a pancreatic tumor speaking for them.