From musical writing to the music of words
I invite you to read and listen to my adventures, the plot of which is drawn over the course of my life stories and those of my ancestors.
To my Mouny with the angels
since August 17, 2022
🕊 When the door of the eternal opens wide, it's time
The moment of a present that will last until the end of time
Without rupture or wound that mark the bodies until death
It's outdated, outdated, no longer counts
The tears of the living bead on skin torn with sadness as he or she flies away light and happy
Ring everywhere the bells of a brave goodbye without the will to hold back the most painful
Never mind the worst times since they vanish with the wind of happy memories
No matter the age of departure when the short or long life was bright
We tremble together from this appalling event, capsize our fragile boats and then regain balance thanks to you whom we love deeply
Oblivion will never be appropriate because it is absent from our hearts imbued with you, our dear flew
The sensations and visions shared throughout these years take up such a large place that absence cannot sit there
Grow again, live again, smile again while catching the subtle joys
Crying all the tears of our bodies of ice and melting the regrets in the burning sun of our hope to see them again
Peggy S December 17, 2022
About her
Write what you dare not say. Choose the being of paper to testify to his experiences. They are multiple.
I am a faceted girl who has fun with writing. One more way, to evoke my emotions and share them with the unknown who will be able to find comfort in it. Since adolescence I write. Recently, I have been inventing stories while also inventing my life. The cities of gold, well? If I went to see Machu Picchu. Kangaroos, okay? If I went to Australia. There were plenty of trips, as many as the different jobs I have had have given me the means to do so. Sometimes you have to have superpowers when you want to make your dreams come true, follow your intuitions and your inner voice. Musician aliasmiss pegbefore being a writer, if I may say so, I seem to have found a certain melody in words, that of my heart which reveals itself without artifice. There are few clues about her, but isn't it better to keep a part of mystery?
At night I fly
Fantastic adventure story
Flying with my own literary wings and reaching your bedside table is one of my wishes. Listen to this audio introduction punctuated with a few musical notes and very soon, you will be able to discover more about this adventure which does not lack air.
Sortie très prochainement
avec
A novel
Première publication dans
ATELIERS D'ÉQUINOXES 22
Un grand merci à Franck Violet, messager auprès de Bruno Smolarz, rédacteur et chef d'orchestre de ces histoires, nouvelles & réflexions réunies dans ces bulletins semestriels soignés depuis 2012
It is inspired by family history. The photo below represents Léonard Sirieix, 2nd class - 277 Rgt d'Infanterie,
killed by the enemy on April 5, 1918, my great-grandfather.
"We are at war"
Marie, curled up in her bed, her face illuminated by this first ray of morning sun, opens one eye. A strange atmosphere reigns on the top floor of this building on rue de Babylone. A sense of deja vu. A feeling that something terrible might happen again.
As she puts one foot on the ground, a chickadee lands on the sill of her bedroom window. His song challenges him. Is she delivering a message to him? Putting the second foot on the ground, her eyes wide open, she pulls herself up to her full sixty feet, stable and determined to walk towards the kitchen. The apartment only has about thirty square meters, but she feels good there, sheltered. She does not yet suspect what awaits her.
She prepares her coffee accompanied by young Congolese whom she finds at the Bon Marché, at Mireille, her best pastry friend who turns heads. She somewhat envies him for his culinary skills and physical attributes. But she too, seduced, knew love, the great one, which was taken from her, torn from her heart, on April 5, 1918. Leonard, her Leonard. Courageous fighter, whom this disgusting war took away from her a few months before the armistice was signed, leaving her alone with Léon and Marcel, their two sons. Thank you God, thank you for giving me these two beautiful children who look so much like their father, she says in each of her prayers.
It's 8 o'clock. She turns on the radio like every morning. The water begins to simmer in the pan. Nice, she will soon be able to enjoy her favorite drink. The first sip takes her away, transports her to distant lands where she dreams of going. She remembers one morning, a few days before going to the front, when Leonardo had said to her in a rather playful and perky tone:
“You know Marie, one day I will take you, I will take you on the Silk Road, to see all these countries of which you dream, all these colors, to smell these perfumes of jasmine, to discover these immense plains of silence where the you can only see beauty. I promise you. »
At the time a little mocking, Marie had replied:
" Ah good ? And how are you going to go about it? With your scooter, perhaps? »
She still regrets the irony she had shown in her answer. She regrets it all the more since it was one of the last conversations with her beloved, her little pangolin she liked to call him. His slightly sweet skin systematically attracted all the ants passing near him, when he dared to reveal a few centimeters of bare skin in summer. The comparison was obvious when she learned of the existence of this strange animal in one of those numerous books on the fauna and flora of the world. One of his passions. Inevitably, he didn't really appreciate this comparison, a thousand miles from flattering his ego, already somewhat battered by his small size. But he accepted it because he liked so much to see her smile at this sweet and innocent stupidity. It was so rare to see her like this.
Marie did not grant herself this slight right, for the hardships of life had marked her face and her soul. To counter this underlying sadness, she often took refuge in waking dreams to glimpse life with a shimmering filter and because she had to be happy despite everything. This life abused her but she didn't blame him. She never complained. Not even once. Not a single day did she cry over her fate, because she knew she had so many wonderful things to live. She also knew that she would tread this earth much longer than her late Leonardo. While waiting for her final point, which she imagined far away, she considered each day invaluable.
And today especially, delighted to get ready and find something to treat her youngest son Léon, because he was coming to share lunch with her. A weekly appointment that she wouldn't miss for anything in the world. What was she going to be able to concoct for him? A refreshing starter, followed by a piece of beef why not. Energy for his mechanic son, on his knees all day, his hands dirty turning multiple keys and cranks. As an accompaniment, potatoes, those from the farm they had to leave with regret to go up to the capital. And a more than original dessert, red beans from Japan, which she has never cooked before and which would, it seems, have a slightly sweet taste. What do they call it again? Azu…Azuki, what a strange language. All these new flavors from elsewhere, it's the beginning of a journey after all.
Truce of linguistic digressions, it was time to prepare in order to best honor this family reunion.
Order this tousled black hair. Put on a nice dress. Make-up ? No. It wasn't for Marie, she didn't see the point of it and as she liked to say: “ It won't make me more beautiful! ".
Time was flying by and urging her to tidy up the apartment to accommodate Leon properly, because being a single woman is not a valid reason to leave room for disorder.
While the first delicious smells of cooking were beginning to waft through the apartment against a backdrop of music broadcast on the TSF, there comes a knock on the door.
It was Leon. Dressed in his workshop costume and adorned with recent sideburns that he had finally let grow at the request of Hélène, his fiancée with blond curls, he passed the door and entered. As always, he had not come empty-handed. An intense blue present wrapped in newspaper, for his mother. Something cleverly chosen to steal a smile from him. It was always his secret objective. This time, his arms carried a magnificent pot of grape hyacinths.
“Thank you my son, you know me so well. They are as beautiful as in the Luxembourg Gardens. »
Won. She smiles. His heart rejoiced each time he felt in her, the joy regain a little more space.
Leon walked delicately down the hallway that led to the kitchen. Even dressed in his working clothes, he was one of those beings, whatever they wear, who do it with elegance and class. He sat down at the kitchen table presided over by this imposing radio, which never stopped singing since he had given it to her for her fiftieth birthday. And this made possible thanks to his very first salary.
Marie sat down in front of him, after having served each half a juicy pomelo, the colors and flavor of which prolonged the holiday memories a little. They looked at each other without saying a word but their eyes spoke for them. They were happy.
Suddenly, tasting the first spoonfuls of this tasty fruit, the music stopped. An announcement of great importance was about to be given.
A shiver of dread ran through Marie from head to toe. His blood froze. She lost the teaspoon, which fell from her left hand and clanged with a stinging sound on the porcelain plate. She looked at Leon breathlessly. Leon took her hand and waited, like her, for this suspense to end. A few endless seconds where they both knew that their destinies were going to change. Again. Marie already knew what she didn't want to hear. She felt this terrible anxiety rising. She saw flashing through her mind all the images of the war. The “Great War” as they had dared to call it. What was so great about her to be repaid with the life of her husband and many other fathers of families. She relives as if it were now, Leonardo's departure as she carried Léon in her arms, a little baby of a few months, and Marcel, her 9-year-old big brother, clutching her dress tightly, for fear that she would leave. her too. All three disarmed in the face of this departure which turned out to be without return. No. Marie didn't want to hear what happened. No. Marie was afraid of losing what was most dear to her. Two sons of fighting age. No. Not yet. No. Not once again.
" Mom ? Mom ? You heard ? »
" No. Who's got my son? »
“We are at war. »
Autres publications
Nouvelles publications dans les
ATELIERS D'ÉQUINOXES 23
"Le papillon blanc des choux"
"Mon Rêve Rond" (4ème de couverture)
Le Papillon blanc des Choux
"Dans les années 60, il y avait encore des zones de nature un peu partout.
Il y avait un champ de choux juste en face de notre maison.
En été, il était souvent couvert de papillons, et il devenait tout blanc." (R.S.)
Le 28 mars dernier, Ryuichi Sakamoto est mort.
28 mars : un jour qui évoque également la naissance de Victor, un être cher, disparu un 28 août à 28 ans. La vie et la mort se rencontrent comme souvent à des instants choisis par un destin plus ou moins juste.
J'avais la sensation qu'un fil doré me reliait à Ryuichi depuis ce fameux matin il y deux ans où, les yeux à peine ouverts, j'entendis une mélodie. Je la connaissais, je pouvais la fredonner mais j'en ignorais à cet instant l’origine et le compositeur. Je cherche alors dans les musiques de films car elle semblait parfaitement pouvoir accompagner des images, des figures, une histoire sur grand écran. Je la trouve ! C'est elle, c'est lui, "Merry Christmas Mr Lawrence" - du réalisateur japonais Nagisa Oshima - et la musique de Ryuichi Sakamoto.
À ce moment, je ne sais pas jouer de piano, n'ayant jamais eu d'attirance pour les touches noires et blanches. Cette mélodie m'appelle, me défie de l'apprendre et comment la jouer. Ce n'est pas un morceau facile par lequel une débutante commencerait. Je pose mes mains sur le clavier et commence note à note, mesure après mesure, à reproduire cette beauté que j'espère ne pas altérer.
Je saurai la jouer, mais quand ? Ça n'a pas d'importance...
Pendant ces deux années, je le travaille, le répète, y ajoute une mélodie, des paroles en anglais sur les larmes du ciel, et un timide essai de haïku dont je confie la relecture aux parents de mon ex compagnon franco-japonais et rebaptisé "Chou" par mes soins experts en surnom distingué.
Ce mercredi 28 mars 2023, je décide de l'enregistrer pour te l'envoyer, Ryuichi.
Quelques jours plus tard, j'apprends ton décès survenu ce même mercredi. Mon sang se glace, j'ai froid. Et ce fût ainsi tous les jours qui ont suivi depuis ton départ. Je ne parviens pas à me réchauffer.
Lorsque je partage avec mon père cette étrange concordance, nous sommes sur la terrasse devant chez moi et nous voyons s'envoler un papillon blanc. Mon père me dit alors, "Ah, le papillon des choux !". Je lui demande d'expliquer, car je connais le fameux dicton "Papillon blanc signe de beau temps" mais pas celui du papillon des choux. Il me dit que ces petits êtres volants adorent les choux et se donnent tous rendez-vous dans les jardins et les champs où ils poussent à cette époque. Très bien papa, je ne le savais pas.
L'amie pianiste chez qui j'avais enregistré le morceau cinq jours auparavant, m'offre le dernier exemplaire d'un journal relatant la vie du compositeur. Plusieurs pages lui sont consacrées et je m'arrête, tout comme mon cœur, lorsque j'arrive au passage de ses souvenirs d'enfance :
"Dans les années 60, il y avait encore des zones de nature un peu partout.
Il y avait un champ de choux juste en face de notre maison.
En été, il était souvent couvert de papillons, et il devenait tout blanc."
Puis, toujours dans ce même journal qui semble s'adresser à moi, il cite l'année "1978", mon année de naissance, celle de mon ex-chou également et de l'explosion créative de Ryuichi. J'explose oui, mais de tristesse de ne pas avoir pu te rencontrer.
Je suis bouleversée. Ma machine émotive depuis le décès de ma maman au mois d’août l’année dernière ne fait aucun compromis. Sans faire d'histoire je pleure, je ris aussi avec une fréquence plus éloignée et je ne comprends rien avec une grande régularité.
S'il y a une réponse à trouver, je crois que mes mains posées sur le piano débutent l'aventure. Laisser de côté les doutes futiles et bien souvent inutiles lorsqu'il s'agit de vivre sa vie de musicienne.
Je ne résous pas les conflits du monde, ma conscience est claire sur ce sujet mais j'offre de temps en temps quelques papillons blancs à celles et ceux qui découvrent ma musique. Une pianiste quelque part joue pour Victor, ma mère Corine et Ryuichi aussi, des mélodies délicates que mon cœur chantera à jamais.
Free writing
My writing has rules. Those of my inner grammar, of my feelings, of my temporal landmarks.
Why submit in the artistic and creative field to rules defined by others?
There is a basis to consider for the respect of the language and the understanding of the reader or the listener but, let us not forget that they can change according to the time and the leaders. Some established, validated by an academic assembly, can be controversial. The agreement of the past participle of the verb “ avoir ” is one of them.
If our curiosity takes us to the past, we discover that it might not agree, even if the famous COD is placed before.
How many times have you heard this phrase? But in fact, why should we grant in gender feminine, masculine, plural, an action in the same way as a state of being? Hey hey, let's smile together how many times we've asked ourselves this question.
Another more recent rule, gives us permission to recognize the female part of an author, but let me for this one be somewhat " vieille école_cc781905-5cde-3194 -bb3b-136bad5cf58d_” because I give as much importance to this word, whether it speaks of my masculine or feminine side.
And the time ? How do you live your life? When are you telling it? Again, I give myself the right to decide. I'm neither right nor wrong, I feel like that. As long as you understand something about it, that you can receive what I am giving you in all sincerity.
It's the same for music. The harmony, the notes, the melodic paths that must be taken to be placed in the “ bon ” musical style… It doesn't matter. Those that I borrow can certainly be classified, explained, commented on, but in this case as in that of writing, making them logical would remove all form of magic and lightness from the journey to which I invite you. Allow me to sew my writing and music freely.
Most of the time the constraints are subject to economic rules, to an art market in which I have probably never found myself for fear of having to give a financial value to what has none.
Art has no small rules, except the one we set ourselves. Criticisms of good taste, bad taste, there are some but starting from the postulate that nothing is good, beautiful, bad or ugly, why limit yourself to an opinion? Locking yourself within the four walls of the building permit is your art.
The time of the story, the tempo of the music, all this is my business in my literary and musical creation, no offense to the jurors of the academies and star academy.
A bird in hand is worth two in the bush. Today I choose the freedom to create rather than the hypothetical approval of masters to think well or execute well. The death of art, the death of the soul, the death of the unlimited horizon, this is what we risk wanting too much to satisfy, please, sell and wait for validation.
Make mistakes. Whose fault is it ? Be mistaken. Attempt error. Submit his clumsiness.
Isn't that being creative? Inventor? Adventurer of his life?
Allow yourself imperfection and touch self-respect. Imagining the sunken worlds of the past, the suspended cities of the future and now relying on the moment.
The latter is never wrong in the words he whispers in his ear. He does not make spelling mistakes, because his language has no alphabet. He's there. All the time. Also by our side through doubts, which could put life, desires and the legitimacy to really exist on hold.
If you're here, trust me, it's good to be something, even someone.
A stranger getting to know himself. A jewel of life on two feet that walks towards eternity. Don't blame yourself. Don't blame him. He is there too, looking for himself in the din. She's there too, finding herself lost sometimes. They are all with you. Without any mask of attitude or certainty.
They also seek to understand why and to come to terms with this endless mystery, this unknown beginning, this unfolding embroidered with steel thread and the meaning of the stream of thoughts.
Good for you,
Your servant in skirt but also in pants.
