By Sylvie Nicolas
Le 25 août 1998, Sylvie Nicolas est à Montréal où elle participe au dévoilement d’un cahier pédagogique auquel elle a collaboré, intitulé Est-ce ainsi que les filles vivent ? Pendant ce temps, trois brokers de los angeles DPJ débarquent chez elle, à Québec, et enlèvent sa fille. Presque dix ans plus tard, l. a. poète parvient à tracer les ravages que causent les erreurs sur los angeles personne.
Un livre pour les amateurs de poésie, les aventuriers de l’image, les cascadeurs du mot ou de l. a. métaphore, escouade tactique de los angeles parole vivante et exilés en tous genres.
Ce recueil constitue avant tout los angeles transcription lente et mesurée de toutes les conséquences que cet enlèvement entraîne. On n’a pas idée à quel element l’univers de Kafka est à deux doigts de nombreuses réalités. Peut-être suffit-il de dire qu’il s’agit d’une femme qui se retrouve malgré elle dans les coulisses d’un théâtre d’ombres, dans un scénario qu’elle n’aurait jamais envisagé, campée dans un rôle qu’elle n’aurait su imaginer. Peut-être suffit-il d’ajouter que cette bifurcation de sa vie se joue en moins de dix mins. Et que tout ce qui a été vécu avant revient se lover dans chacun des instants qui s’écoulent.
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Extra info for Dix minutes avant l'heure aux montres de Dali
Dido, can you hear me? Who is Medea if she isn’t what I do now? But I keep acting like a statue. 56 Dammit I’m still trying to tell my fortune after millennia. Will I make it, to what? I want something else to happen—more than vindication for Medea. So I stare at my palm, which hasn’t changed since, 3000, 5000 bc. Why can’t the human change? Then I play poker on a hand-held machine: my version of the Casino. Playing poker by myself. Somewhere in between the palm and the poker I talk to Indians: do you care if I call you Indians?
Can you decipher where we are if it’s to be communal; or in the privacy of this symbol, be sorry. Then where is your power? The symbol to me is pink and spreads over the walls, comprised of large irregularly round spots for the force of whatever I’ve concluded was real. I can’t transform what I don’t believe in; wherever it is I’ve been everyone was happy except me, because 29 they understood the language of the forms or thought they did. Essentially I decipher an unscrupulous funerary urn full of your parts but not all of them, only the ones that you’re used to—you think I’m arranging those to you the symbols of where you were.
It’s important that I have my own weight. Why has this life been so serious? Do I have to explain it to you, as if you weren’t only another such 41 one? How can I be judged if I don’t care about my past? ’ ‘I’m not weighing stories only your heart. Nothing you tell me can change your heart’s weight. ’ ‘My own heart is heavy. If I weighed my heart against my own feather I’d stand condemned You must never tell as I learned from the other gods, never tell where you’ve been. ’ ‘In all my automatic parts—as in calling to you—there is an element I would have called lies before.