Friday, March 03, 2006

When, at the hospital, they said to me that I was to find somebody with residence if I wanted to turn over to the house, I saw myself AD vitam eternam in this gray room to share my life in four hours section and to discuss with which is in the bed of opposite, a friend without fasteners which leaves without saying goodbye, just at the time when me examinations are made. And then the idea to be dependent somebody, of a person that I do not know, whom I must pay and for which I will have doubtless furies and sournesses, rages and meannesses. This idea does not have any attraction for me. But to leave from here. To leave this cocoon, this malodorous protection, this vast usurpation where it is believed that to look after wants to say to cherish and where one is quite simply réifié. This one, of idea, leaves me, more, never. Badgering small resonant old story in my head. Small notes, bitter and dissonant and insistent. But as I do not know anybody with whom to give the responsibility for my carcass, I asked to the nurse in at if her place, she knew somebody, if she knew quite simply how to make to leave from here. It was turned over, and, of back, said to me that it would reflect. That she would say to me later, and she left the room. There is nothing to take at this woman. Four months that I see it, two, three times per day and nothing with saying not more than four word, nothing, not of idea, and nothing to show either. A large stiff body, a a little dry skin and tight fair hair in a chignon of dancer nested above her long neck. When it does not speak, it so extremely serves its lips which they bleach and disappear completely. This face without lips effrait me almost. Any white, between the white blouse and the fair hair. And I had acquired during these four months a rather Asian design of death. It was first of all the duration of my stay, and the white which points out it to me, and the ether, the odor of died and the blouse of the nurse as a chief on his skin diaphragm a kind of reaper which would make its trade without joy. And then one day, the large dry woman returned with a kind of smiling on the face. She says to me that she perhaps found a solution. A free-lance nurse seeks a work more implying, it arrives of overseas and does not have housing yet and that does not disturb it food at, with and for me. Temporarily. I mouse and I insist, obviously that that will be provisional, obviously and it his, of smiling, solidifies, constrained. And in spite of the white, the disappeared lips, the sad odor and the dry gestures, this woman becomes to me sympathetic nerve and even pretty and finally completely adorable. And as I see his smile breaking down, I want to tighten the hand, to cherish the curve of his jaw, to go up this single straggling lock of hair behind his ear. A tenderness surprising, a sentimental start after four months of fog, greyness in my head. I should not remain any more but one week at the hospital, and, the ones after the others, all the people who côtoyée me, looked after, cleaned, forced and struck sentences in the variable term come to see me and wish things which they regret as soon as they pronounced them. And me, I mouse. They amuse me with their fears and their compassion, I them lime pits a little to thus suffer, by procuration. But, for the nurse in at, it is different. She changes. This woman, that for four months, I tried to be unaware of, becomes a beautiful object under my glance. And I wish. And I feel. And I want. It released there which tells me its humanity, the softened chignon of the end of day, a strap of bra fuschia which she reassembles when she believes that nobody looks at it, and discrete roundness of its centres, and the furrow pronounced between them, and its way of turning the foot when she goes. With the result that one always wonders when it will fall, unbalanced by its own leg. And its lips which it tighten until they disappear. The nurse as a chief has vulnerabilities which create my dreams, which it blottissent there in my arms and which fill with wonder me more than of reason. With the result that when I left, and that it carried to the taxi my gray bag, I had a pinching in the heart, and its last smile fissures me as its glances which tell me tendernesses of the last time. And I cry when the taxi turned to the corner of the street, a little also frightened by what waits to me now, far from from now on the familiar metal bed, and of television to the ceiling, and industrial looking after, and the odor strong and cherished, and the noises in middle of the night, and the doors twice broader than elsewhere, and of the toilets higher, and then. And then all the remainder too