A Text (Authentic obviously otherwise it's not funny)
from my collection a normal life:
Breaking letter to my bank:
January 24, 2015
You're bastards.
I'm poor.
I'm at the RSA.
I'm a writer.
At four in the morning, while you sleep, kind and sated like pigs, I'm in front
of my computer. I'm at work. I fill sheets, why? To clean up my account.
I'm trying, in sum, while you sleep on your boor.
I wish you nightmares and stomach aches.
I do every effort I can to keep my account afloat.
There are people in the world who are particularly dishonest, who are
screwing up finance, which flows from banks, countries.
I supplied my account 30 minutes before the deadline.
I still have the message on my answering machine.
30 minutes before.
And you refuse to pass my check?
When I complied with your threatening message?
And you're removing my discovery?
I keep it: you're bastards.
I wish you nothing but misfortune.
Christopher Siebert.
=========================
My Bank's answer (and a hundred other texts) is to be found in the book!
A few excerpts:
I could have flowing but I escaped that. I float between two waters and see
the surface. It extends above my head, as far away from me as I am from the
bottom, and I am light enough not to fall but not strong enough to move me
horizontally or go back to her. Sometimes the sun pierces it, its light so
happens to me but not its heat: I only have a clear and cold print and I can't
find out if it frustrates me or rejoices me. At different distances of me, and at
various heights, I see silhouettes whose precision fades according to their
remoteness. To the closest, I speak; sometimes, she answers me; the amount
of water separates us distorts the sound of our voices, so that between what I
say and what we understand, and between what they say and what I
Understand, there is a separation whose depth and depth are difficult to
measure.
Between the moment Where you get to your parents and get free a little
And the one Where your sphincters become jellyfish resume orders There is
the adult age It lasts for a long time, watch out Between the two well-brief
underworld is the escape This interlude Gotta put it to profit Don't mess,
don't have to mess Gotta put it to profit, fast Time to wonder what to fuck
and it's already too late What can we tell, when we're a writer, apart from
that? Have to, yet, make you want to live, a little Between the agony of
childhood and that of old age Poking the asses of the donkeys to make them
move forward A little bit
Doing things with tenacity
Doing things with skill
Proof of his talent
Doing things good
Make sure to be a good craftsman
Make sure to make progress
Be proud of yourself
Doing things with tenacity
Doing things with skill
Proof of something but without too much know what
Doing things sometimes well, sometimes wrong
Know what to do, what you shouldn't do
Know what we expect from self
Getting away by principle
Become a writer
Contemplating his work
Contemplating his failure
Wonder why it doesn't want to walk
Refuse the answer as it spreads bigger than failure
Don't play the game
Surprised not to win it
Believe yourself smart
In a long interview
To be published in Marie-Claire
And including a few excerpts
Are readable on pure-people
Laurent Ruquier tells us
That he suffered a lot
And that he understands the others
And that he feels things
" Ah! If you knew! " " " " "
" Ah! If you knew! " " " " "
But No Laurent Ruquier
When you don't suffer anymore we forget the suffering
When you eat at its hunger
Let's ejaculate in the silk
We forget the hollow mornings the sheets rough the heavy nights
Compassion is a theatre
A figure of style imposed by another
Since when are the lovers
Mourn the sorrows of love
Of those who are desperate
Since when the bellies full
Digging into the idea
From the hungry third-world
Since when the arms in the coats
Cover of goosebumps
To every bum dead of cold in the subway
Compassion is tourism
A visit to the suffering of the other
A good camera
Good walking shoes
In the pocket the guide of the tristard
Everything you do Laurent Ruquier
It's remember that you were poor
It's remember that you're going to love it
But the memories are not real, Laurent Ruquier
Memories are nothing but a historical reenactment
Like medieval animations, do you know?
We see this sometimes in cities
And when we get tired
Of all these idiots
Dressed in mesh mail
More or less well imitated
Who drag their swords that wouldn't kill anyone
And when we get tired of it
To drink leffe
Disguised as a beer
We're taking back his car
Let's go back to the present
Every mourning is a carnival, Laurent Ruquier
We disguise the dead so they look alive
And the living it their mask of sadness and scream inside
It's not me!
It's not me!
Who am in the tomb
It's not me!
It's not me!
Who eats from the earth
It's not me!
It's not me!
Who belongs to the maggots
It's not me!
It's not me!
Who silent me forever
It's not me
The stories we write for the little boys have the function of saying: adventure
is cool and especially between guys, we don't want girls to break our trips.
The stories we write for little girls have the function of saying: the house is
nice especially if the husband on the way home from work is happy with
food. Me when I was little I was playing big jims. Between two adventures
the big kiff of big Jim was doing the dishes, and then cleaning, tidying up his
accessories, his hero costumes, and then hanging at home. I built him a nice
cosy corner, I spent my days hanging with him, we wouldn't do much of it.
The adventure was mad me, what I care about was daily. And one day I
found that little boys must be bullies, must be sassy, and little helpful and
cuddly girls. That day I found that little boys and little girls only have a
function to be animals, yes, wild animals for little boys, domestic animals for
little girls, so I thought no thank you. No boy, no girl, I'm pissing you off.
UNE VIE NORMALE - CHRISTOPHE SIEBERT
Writing and poems by Christophe Siebert (en Français) accompanied with illustration from Lilas, Clo Porte, Cha Kinon, Fanny Nie,
Marc Brunier Mestas, Dav Guedin and Pakito Bolino.
21 x 30 cm, 40 pgs, silkscreen 2019, 200 copies
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