The stacks of papers, sliding into each other – admin stuff for me, for others, scribbled notes, large index cards on which the eleven year-olds do the exercises (must read, get some sense of who will work with whom at the next workshop). The kitchen: imagine a tornado that doesn’t break things, just mixes them up. Electrician coming this morning to make a secure connection. Therefore, I must clear the kitchen so he can work. Then: power outage for an undefined period.
Itching all over. Both in metaphor and in body. Welts popping out. Frustration, I know. Impatience. Story, dammit!
I take my eyes off the screen? Stacks of papers, sliding into each other. Stacks of books, awaiting another read. Index cards. Where the hell are you hiding, Iliad? and so on.
All the characters want to grab the stage at this point. They remind me of an aging actress whose only concern when expected to speak in public with others was: how many lines had I written in for her? Where were they? How long? How quotable? Did she get the parting shot? Considering the President of the Actors’ Union made the introductory and closing remarks by right, this made for press briefings short on substance and long on everything else.
Allez. Clear the kitchen. Yes, Pavel or Felix or both: you’ll get to make your point about the political game, all right? I have to clear the kitchen first and, damnit, find my copy of The Iliad. Has to be somewhere. No, I checked under the bed already.
A remarkable documentary seen on the Mediapart website last night – done with fishermen, grave diggers and survivors of the many capsizings in the Mediterranean. Where do you think the bodies go, ask the fishermen. On the beach: stacks of bundled fishing nets containing some of the answers. Where do you think we bury them, ask the grave diggers. The sober, sobering tales of intentional rammings of small overloaded boats. Of military personnel filming and laughing at the drownings. At the very end of the documentary, a man of exceptional, clear-minded eloquence comes close to apologizing before saying of the ones called “migrants”, the better to forget their individual identities: “Nous sommes les messagers de l’époque.” We are the messengers of the times.
Allez. One step at a time. One voice at a time. But first, clear the kitchen.