Learning to Leave/live/leaf
Texte 1/5 — Chimère
"Alors, il est où le bleu cette fois-ci ?"
Un bleu — the French name for bruise, the violet-going-blue mark that blooms after a knock, a fall, an impact basically.
"We should wrap you in bubble wrap."
"Pensamos que tú eres la candidata a muerte estúpida del grupo." = "We think you're the most likely to have a stupid death."
"Tu n'es pas con, tu es différente." = "You're not stupid, you're different"
"Elle apprend vite mais il faut lui expliquer longtemps." = "She learns fast, but you got to explain it a while."
So I'm a bubble-wrapped, bruise-colored, kind of purple, weird-learning person who's going to die in an epic way.
Oh hell yeah, where do I need to sign to keep going with that lifestyle!
And should I put it on my motivation letter for some worthless (humanitarian-purpose-wise) company, to land a boring fixed-term or permanent contract, so I can pay French taxes and fund the army instead of schools and hospitals?
Yeah, why not!
Why not…
Why not, yeah,
Sounds good.
But can somebody at least write about my epic death on Substack.
So there's a true good ending to Gaëlle's stories.
Thank you,
You're the best.
Love y'all.
I asked an AI if what I had told a friend was true and I was wrong. About the stag beetle on our path, it told me: the largest beetle in Europe, no ancient god attached to it, no hieroglyph — but a modern symbol of quiet strength, of old forests still standing, of metamorphosis (egg, larva living three to five years hidden in dead wood, pupa, then an adult that lives only a few weeks in summer). A patient, hidden kind of transformation.
Thank you, AI, best explainer and editorial help ever existed.
My bad : not an Egyptian symbol.
Ostia.
Original text here, click the title, you're welcome: Chimère
Texte 2/5 — What I have learned
What I've learned is:
my brothers being asked too much by their mothers, and never learning how to say no.
"Not all men" is true.
And not all women, too.
That I had to learn quietly, without asking for help, because — I don't remember.
My mom told me I used to say: "Moi toute seule." "Yo sola." "Me, alone."
My first iPod, the one she'd customized, had Music is my boyfriend on it — that was my Facebook homepage back then — expression of emotion, and something else I don't remember.
Je passe du coq à l'âne comme on dit, mais n'est-ce pas là l'intérêt à user de la poésie ?
Expression of emotion and the thing I can't remember is from The Chemical Brothers, The Devil Is in the Beats, and the movie Hanna I already told you about — I've watched it more times than I could count.
I've learned how to hide.
How to come back properly.
How to leave, come back, leave again, and open my heart.
The truth is that sometimes I feel misery and sickness around me, and I feel lava inside one side of my body, left or right.
It's still a mystery how it gets chosen.
Since then I've had hunger issues, and I don't know when, or where it started, or how, or what?
What did you say?
Sorry, I wasn't paying attention.
Original text here, click the title: What I have learned
Texte 3/5 — Dangerous is
Dangerous is being a woman who is being herself, and is a "beauty," then, only.
Dangerous is taking space, being awkward, and farting.
Dangerous is saying no three times — make it to twenty-three and you're probably already dead inside.
Dangerous is saying your truth.
Dangerous is not being misunderstood, but not being respected: yes.
It can kill the vibe, kill your inner self, shut down your voice, your body, your ability to do pretty much anything.
If you make it to your deathbed, you're lucky. You made History.
Original text here, click the title: Dangerous is
Texte 4/5 — See y'all
If I die, or if I move to some place I've chosen to be my paradise, you'll have to promise me you'll dance on my grave and laugh at my funeral, or at my goodbye party.
Time glows, flows by, and I'm done wasting my time with a shitty job or a shitty relationship. Either kind, any kind.
But you'll always be welcome in my secret place. I'll send you the location.
If I die, just look at the stars, or the art I made you, and think I'm at peace, and that I died happy. That's my mantra.
If I don't die in my sleep like my grandpa dreamt for himself and got — know that I did not waste a second, and went at my own rhythm.
Not at some customer's tight lunch break.
Not at some teacher's bad lesson in a colorless, lifeless classroom.
I'm always going to do it right, my own unique, weird way.
And I'll see you later, with my magical warehouses: my backpacks.
And someday maybe I'll have my own song.
Hasta pronto, cabroneis.
Love y'all.
Original text here, click the title: See y'all
Texte 5/5 — Sit on it
My mom taught me how to sensationally live: to follow my intuition, embody things for good reasons, learn the beauty of movement, and forgive.
My moms taught me to look for new ways to make body-pain disappear.
My brother taught me to annoy, to destroy pain with laughter, and never be ashamed of my body's dramas.
My aunt taught me the chacha-chat laugh — tell her "shit, piss, fart" and you'll get it. Pretty much everybody's life, summed up.
I used to fall asleep to her laugh coming up from under the wood floor, downstairs, from my grandma's bedroom, surrounded by my farting cousins and brother.
My grandpas had no choice but to include me with the boys — taught me how to kill, cook, plant, build. In wildness, fractures, scratches, and broken teeth are to be expected. But remember: one hand for the sailor, always one hand for the boat.
My grandmothers, and their mothers before them, gave me tools to survive violent environments — by laughing, singing, going silent, reflecting. Their old heart-fractures made me want to understand body-postures.
My cousins taught me fraternity. Even though there's stuff I'd rather not share with anybody — like dark chocolate crêpes. Might've traumatized them with my cheapness back then.
Same with my location: don't let just anybody have it.
Twenty-eight years, one month, twenty-three days — the learning path started until it's over.
The cooks I worked with taught me that 2, 4, 6, 8 are boring numbers for plating. 1, 3, 5, 7, even 13, 17, 23, are beautiful, because they remind you nothing is symmetrical in art or in nature.
Naturally conceived brains came up with capitalism and sexism. That's asymmetry embodied.
AI knows it all but doesn't know how it feels, and the sense you have of choosing what to make of it.
There's no happiness without its opposite. So there's no peace without its opposite.
And even though I'm twenty-eight, it's already time for firing off peace, laughter, and tears — of, or, and with joy.
Self-fucking-love comes with speaking loud, silencing the noise, hiding to refresh, and still moving.
I took a shit in the forest the other day. Wiped my ass with leaves. Danced on a tree. Followed animal tracks for pleasure. Walked barefoot in the river. Laid my backpack under a fallen tree.
Sat on it.
Under rain and sun, made fast friends with insects, bit right into Brie, bread, chorizo, and raisins.
Even with a knife in my pocket, it's way more fun to bite.
Whatever's next, I'll probably bite into it too.
Original text here, click the title: Sit on it