by J C W

Superb anxiety


I need to choose.

I need to know what I do.

In my life.


I feel this stress.

That is a good thing.


It is far better than depression.


I need to know.

I need to choose.


It needs to choose,

Inside me.




Very, very clearly

I see the effect

Of being in that library…

Without ‘goal’

Without hope for any better flow…


It gets inside me…

It makes me become less and less active…

Grey shades in my mind…


I need to get out of this dynamic…

I need to reinvent myself, to do something.


At least maybe

I let it out,

I make it a work surface,

Which echoes as I watch it…


A word surface,

Like an object,


A sculpture,

Some outer self I can act upon.


Modifiable ‘I’,

If only!,

Against this brute instinctive uncontrollable one

– The writing one.





Where would be the direction?


If not Academia,

The jump will be hard.


But if Academia,

The inner torsion,

To fit in,

Might be unbearable.


Two paths,

Both … nearly impossible.


And otherwise, well,

Only musing,

Only divertissement


Although with some … shaping…

Very gradually.


Something that might emerge.

The beginning of a working space,

In the mind.




Un sonnet de Paul Verlaine

La mort des cochons

Nous reniflerons dans les pissotières,
Nous gougnotterons loin des lavabos,
Et nous lècherons les eaux ménagères
Au risque d’avoir des procès-verbaux.

Foulant à l’envi les pudeurs dernières,
Nous pomperons les vieillards les moins beaux,
Et fourrant nos nez au sein des derrières,
Nous humerons la candeur des bobos.

Un soir plein de foutre et de cosmétique,
Nous irons dans un lupanar antique
Tirer quelques coups longs et soucieux.

Et la maquerelle entrouvrant les portes
Viendra balayer –ange chassieux-
Les spermes éteints et les règles mortes.

extrait de l’Album Zutique (circa 1871)


Oh dear, I shouldn’t read poetry like this…

I am further and further away from…

Academic life…

And if I leave, where shall I go? What shall I do?

This is what I wanted…?

Do I have what it takes?

Do I have the guts?

Jump into the unkown.

So cliché, so true.

At least for the organisational part…


Re-reading Rimbaud…

Lettres du voyant

Oh dear, it’s dangerous…

I might just… leave right now

To go where?