Lycée Joffre - Montpellier
17 hours - the two wings of the large metal gate ajar.
A stream of high school sports.
Then the alley beyond. Their legs
trolling or fly the bright soil.
A roar of tumbling drum on the arteries.
hasty, two figures support each other, just finally, though far less than their conversation.
This again Roc and Emmanuel pursuing one of their dialogues.
"The Dialogues of unsearchable Roc and Emmanuel" thunders and the wind in the trees.
Yes, a sort of enigma sound, a rhythmic humming by walking, by not hesitant, jerky, heavy or suspended.
No pause, no silence.
dialogue a little stocky, blue-eyed - short neck - tight jaw-forehead-with a large ungainly gestures loose - with head slightly bent - nonchalant approach punctuated by a knowing smile .
Emmanuel and out of the Roc-class philosophy and Plato, The Phaedrus and the Symposium they remain quite through.
Do not worry, they démordront well ... one day ... great question, Question desire ... a whole constellation of issues echo.
From words and feelings.
A kind of mystery one-to-lo-gi-that that that case, the desire to love and all the stuff, a fairy that falls on you with wispy blond hair or a brown creeper that wraps his gestures awkward.
two names embodied in faces that sing, steal, fold.
may be held slender, close to gravity.
For a Chinese puzzle: Lisa and Sarah.
A look from afar, one could quickly match each other as a game agency, assembled by similarity between the brown and blond, big and small.
Chess, checkers or chess.
It is not.
A game without rules.
No logic. Neither
reflection.
The Other.
Unlikely.
Sham. Captive. Essential
. Vain.
Able to appear.
disappear.
A crossover is woven, a pas de deux loving his own colors, or revives extinguished.
As anchor points, attraction, and Leakage Fault ... . A unique checkerboard
between Roc and Liza, Sarah and Emma for this nascent desire.
"Love is the son of Penia and Poros, Wealth and Poverty ..." Roc launches
"... poverty ... poverty ..." echoes the voice of Emmanuel.
"Yes, yes of emptiness, poverty and misery .... style goodness of the soul .... Taratata Taratata ... .... now looking girls everything they want ... everything and more ... mechanics with hefty fine pieces ... well oiled, well ... a chrome Ferrari somehow ... you know, Lise, for example, it is finally you see, Ferrari it consumes ... Understanding, surprise ... the comfort and allow IN-DE-PEN-DAN-TE ... there are no rules of the game ... believe me, two steps forward three steps back, she tightrope ... and sometimes I expect it to break the jaws of the war ... and war ... "said Roc peremptory raising shoulders of a small bearing.
Emmanuel listens, nods, his gaze turned inward myopic.
He thinks Ms. Bellanger, the wise teacher and sassy, straw philosopher.
It breaks a silence and a nice sow disorder seem like much.
... She and her ideas.
In the wake of a perfume.
He feels physically next to Sarah in her back that makes his neck, his hands and wins already hatched some trick.
"War as a killing ... dying as Phaedrus argues ..." Emmanuel ventures.
"No way, rather being duped fool, go and run ... because, you see, he finds that Plato is very ugly, very ugly to yield to the pleasures of the body etc etc ... the word .... lustful, you speak a word, yes yes that the life of a man worth living when he contemplates the beauty in him, purity, beauty and I do not know what when he contemplates IDEAS ..... our nature is to bend ... and not about to commit hara-kiri ... "cowardly Roc pecs pumped.
A s align the words slamming, pulsate and have already extended the momentum of the body.
upside down.
Emmanuel knows them because apparently the crux of a male accomplice.
They appear in the heart of the argument.
Where dangerous conversations become intimate or trivial ....
A sort of skirmish between men.
True.
He pulls out his pack of cigarettes " You want one? "he proposes in his last reserve.
The words of the devil he keeps to himself, barely breathing as he feathered lip.
Ash red off at once.
Who already burning mouth.
He feels wildly and seizures of the body in the burning of the red and the fire.
Especially do not crucify the reasoning reason ... or the wildness of instinct ... wake up constantly, more unpredictable, find Sarah, into that strange region, be it fluid, works at his side. Feline
which surprises her.
Roc does not swallow the smoke like him: he looks like he sucks up blood.
With the bumps.
There is always a bit of rage in his matted hair.
And his body hits, passes through the air. When he joined
Lise, he speaks louder. Many
.
Life becomes beautiful and brown.
It looks like a warrior from a tribe with a comb and spurs.
He speaks with words like who stumble on a path stony.
A mass of land that rolls, whole.
Never bias. Although
opposite.
With each conversation, and Emmanuel Roc 's invented a life, also burn the dead wood.
Every conversation is born, the fuels and consume the branches rise up to heaven sealed the same totem pole. Then fly
incandescent.
On the plaza they pass through the booth sounds of music already outdated, barely audible. It all entourne
yellow leaves of Ginkgo biloba that dot the land of gold crowns.
There's always here before the rapture of the passage of an orchestra, the shortness of time between dog and wolf, the short winter lit lanterns .
can just imagine a waltz and the time before turning around just at that point.
At the other end of the cons-tree-lined driveway and games for children, Lisa and Sarah are standing at the Fountain of Three Graces in clear drops of water pépitent.
Finally ... in the clear light of nothing ...
Emmitoufflées in long plum and red scarves, they watch the horizon, a little shriveled.
Like sparrows or tits.
Lise hopping from one foot to another and Sarah clenches his hands, press against each other fingers Rosis escaping from striped mittens.
ago lurking like the cold ground and cut their isolation on the walls of the Opera. The immense building
then draws the spectra of the end of the day wandering drunk to go home, sit
, silence at last.
Just a place or a time clock on the sovereign of the place are the witnesses of repeated gestures
steps, come forth.
Both fell silent, his eyes strained towards the horizon, having said, I hope that they-will-happen-soon - o-what it is cold tonight-ah what do they do? They too are your boots - you think it will snow-. 30 and 17 hours through the night begins to collapse on the spot.
They are the eyes and voices that reveal: Lise's eyes are two round balls, sharp .... it often ashamed of their cheeky, they say more than it wants, so she repeats the cache. His shyness is
any rag paper, sensitivity to watch.
His eyes, a thrown ball as candy or honey acids.
And his voice-clear-night sailing almost inaudible vowels.
gently sweeps the words safe, reassuring, also absent.
dotted.
Sarah about it expands its blue eyes at infinity.
hemmed when Naval mooring there.
Sarah is talkative, she likes to say its a little voice singing to Lisa and the others what she sees, what she hears, her emotions, she swallows words and Gouley precipitate a torrent ... do not talk with Sarah, Sarah says and hear his story like that.
Who captures and captivates the south wind and all the ancestors combined.
There is already a safe magnetic play one or the other is a strange siren song.
And Ulysses who advance the foresee a danger that makes the bonfire of the Phaedrus, the Symposium and knocking down two or three parades. From
those we studied before, they should be ironed in the head, sometimes from father to son, generation to generation. Those who say
how it should happen, how this should not happen and how it will happen.
come so close to each other, it stands therefore, invisible to cross a border, with smells and screams, areas, territories, some of which open entries, others barred them like sentinels at the door. Many figures are meeting, brew in their chaos sounds and senses of Roc, Lisa, Emma and Sarah.
Already in the tub.
"It quail" Roc launches in the preamble of its most resounding stamp.
"Go with Solange and Louis Oust" he connects.
The icy wind rushes into the cave of Creamy Café de l'Esplanade, adjacent to the Centre Rabelais.
A tornado breath hot and vibration fills the coffee hut.
Life staggers the tables ... and it speaks and it screams, smiles and hails already Solange and Louis have been well identified as the four there.
must say that ...
With their gestures, their grandchildren, they exchanged books and poses of each other.
And ideas that pulsate, and foam gush from the quiet bar.
ON THE MEAN.
Solange in her place behind the counter, she and Louis looks.
And never misses a beat.
She knows they ask four coffees in searching their purses, as Roc say it is too expensive even on how much coffee you said but how it is not possible 10cl hot c is not Solange to offend you, but frankly, and besides he has no money on him and Lise look full of horror, embarrassed.
Solange sits at the cash, always in the same place for fifty years so for fifty years.
So it commands respect, it feels good old lady.
Sometimes she gets up, blows a towel on the counter and then sits down for a secular movement.
course, there was the coffee, the euro ... the cost of living.
His short man and speaks.
He is there with it all day because they are together all day.
A little.
She knows the passage of time and tears.
She never tires of the surveyed feel their coffee.
An animal, a force of nature she thinks, a savage in a cage!
is always a man of the plateau.
There was that day ... and all those other days they don like beads, a rosary funny howling against the right, left, and everything that happens on the ground in the air.
This Day May 28, 1960, there were many on the Place de la Comedie. This idea
taking the train to Montpellier to demonstrate. Nightlife
by the two towering cliffs overlooking Millau.
The door opened and they entered, fifty years ago.
The same place with the guys in the fight all together.
They came from the limestone plateau, the crash of stones, among the black branches that are spaced in a transparent white.
He looked mutely eyes, face and anything else that ..
She dropped the cup of coffee clasped in his right hand.
Zim-boom.
Above the voices, he looked a funny eye shape and the awkwardness and said top, finally, loud and proud:
"It is the sky on the ground. "
Teresa BONNETAT
"The belief is now widespread that everyone does not follow that its interest.
Then the Love is a cons-test.
Love is this confidence made randomly . "
Alain Badiou, philosopher.
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