No further news from the boy who hoped to spend the night in the Albi train station.
When, after bone x-rays, they were told to leave the Home because they were over eighteen (notwithstanding their birth certificates to the contrary), each boy received fifty euro and the Toulouse address of a national organization that runs public awareness campaigns on the plight of refugees – but doesn’t provide any first hand emergency service whatsoever. Those of the boys who attempted that route lost at least twenty-five euro in the process, and then got lost in their attempt to find the building, let alone a live body to give them a hand.
I suspect the boy who made it to Albi ran out of money for a new calling card. The boys’ basic survival tool, the one and only item all of them cherish beyond everything else: a working cell phone.
It rained during the night. I know because I cursed the dog when she insisted on going out at three AM.
A dog peeing in the rain is one thing. Humans trying to sleep in the rain, quite another. I’m holding back a lot of anger – can’t afford to waste precious energy in ranting or sputtering when a problem is of such incredible magnitude. All the social services are overwhelmed, I can well appreciate their difficulties. But “batch-processing” in order to make room for more candidates to the clearing house approach? Sorry, no one will convince me there aren’t better ways to allocate funds for decisions based on something other than short-term political expediency.
Expediency of the kind that says: some lives matter, others don’t. Clear out batch A pronto, I’m sending Batch B down the chute.
Stepping back. Way back. I don’t know if the book exists in English translation. But since the two characters refused to move on last night – and after I stopped cursing the dog – I picked up Didier Anzieu’s Le corps de l’oeuvre again, this time with crayons. A blue crayon seemed the only way to go for underlining in the fifth phase of the process i.e. letting go of the work, be it a painting, a piece of fiction, a sculpture, an essay… The only color that made sense to me, at any rate, as I stumbled across two of the denizens of my own imaginary world in Anzieu’s writing – the brother I considered my “dead twin” (although this brother died when I was about two years old), and the other, the first-born, still-born one. Giving voice to them both, one way or another, elsewhere than in my inner world. Letting them go, one way or another, for whatever else still lies undiscovered.
Writing is a pretty idiosyncratic business.
So, as I told someone last night: phone off, this morning. Whether something useful will emerge writing-wise, I don’t know. The crayons are out, in case there’s need to scribble some more. At some levels, words don’t seem to show up unless I scribble them out of my head, and move them down into my fingers.