rlbourges

Parcelles de mémoires

In Collages, Contes d'Exil, Once in a parking lot, Revision, Story material, Summer Story on August 1, 2014 at 7:27 am

Last night, before the outdoor show starts, commemorating the assassination of Socialist leader Jean Jaurès on July 31st 1914, a musician I know walks up to me. I mention I’m deep in a process of revision, he mentions he hasn’t composed in a while, then asks me: do you know Le Corps de l’oeuvre by Didier Anzieu? I do not. Anzieu is a psychoanalyst, he tells me, who has written on the process of creation. Whether I’ll read Anzieu’s book or not will probably depend on whether it’s available at the local médiathèque or not. I mention it here because it ties in, somehow, with something I wrote a long time ago, and called Contes d’Exil. Plus, a comment in notes from a character – notes that may or may not appear in the revised version of the story. Parcelles de mémoires – scraps or remnants of memories.

On my way home,  young voices call out my name: three of the young boys I coached during the last school year, on their way to the mosque for the night prayer. The two brothers in white djellaba, the third in his red sports outfit. He is a Palestinian, one of the fortunate ones from a family whose request for refugee status was granted in France. The youngest of the two brothers – eight years old – is afraid of dogs. So we amble along discussing dogs – small ones, big ones, nasty ones, friendly ones. I walk closest to the window of a house where there’s a dog (he’s got them all mapped out from his home to the mosque). He asks if I’ll walk with him all the way. The two other boys make fun of him, and I say no, I’m heading down here to cross the footbridge, the only dogs from here to there are the ones in your own head.

At mid-point on the footbridge, a darker shadow: a man, fishing. We exchange greetings. “Any bites?” I ask. “Not really,” he answers and goes back to his contemplation of the river.

Allez? Allez. Mustn’t forget to go home and water the plants today.

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