San Diego - Juillet 2016

Après un peu plus de deux mois passés à San Diego, voici une petite vidéo qui résume un peu ma vie içi.

Je vais essayer de faire d'autres vidéos, plus régulièrement. Si vous voulez que je filme quelque chose, dites-le moi :)

Des gros bisous!!

Le temps qu'il fait

Hey!

Bon alors en attendant d'avoir plus de news, je vous mets des photos, et vous m'en direz des nouvelles.
Vancouver, ces jours-ci.

False Creek

Stanley Park

Lagoon Lake

Coal Harbour

Coal Harbour (bis)

Second Beach

Art Gallery - Robson Square

Owl & glitter

Warning, that guy is magic!

Repeat

Playlist of the moment

AKIINE - Sunglassey (x)
Arctic Lake - Limits (x)
ON AN ON - Drifting (x)
Lanks - Hold Me Closer (x)
Pooltheory - The Dreamer (x)
Flor - Back Again (x)
Chelou - The Quiet (x)
Sam Pinkerton - Part II (x)
Oh Wonder - All We Do (x)
Broken Back - Halcyon Birds (x)

Expressing myself

In the light of the recent events that happened in France, I realized that expressing yourself is a necessity. But it also means putting your heart out for everybody to see... and it is something I've been struggling with a lot because - believe it or not -, I am pretty shy when it comes to sharing my stuff. 

For most people, poetry means romanticizing things or emotions when, in reality, it just means feeling deeper. And for an introvert and hypersensitive person like me, I feel like poetry is my home. I’ve always found comfort in words, understood and analyzed everything through writing and reading. I have a little corner of imagination that I cherish and nourish the best that I can and as often as I can.

I see poets as people that dissect the World. I am simply amazed at their ability to manipulate the language in all its beauty to create stories.

Now, I don’t see myself as a poet - even though I try to write poetry sometimes - but, I read, listen to and watch so much of it that I, too, try to dissect everything.

And that’s why I spend a lot of time trying to define the origin of when and why I became an introvert. Because it’s who I am, and it shapes every aspects of my life.

When I was younger, my father had an accident at home. There was so much blood and it was awful ; and the memory is still perfectly clear in my head.

When the accident happened, I realized that my father was not immortal. And by deduction, my mother and my brother weren’t either. And it may seem silly or stupid, but it was heart-breaking for me. After the accident, I remember being so angry at the World and wanting to curl up into a ball to think about all the ways I could make him immortal again. I couldn’t, obviously, so I guess I just started to pay attention to the little things he did : how his eyes reacted to the pain, how his hands tried to fight the crutches, how silence became his best friend. Then I discovered Jacques Brel and Jacques Prévert and fell in love with the way they told stories. And around 10, I started writing.

Poetry is often seen as either boring or too complicated, and not necessary. So if there are a lot of misconceptions about poetry, imagine how I felt – and sometimes still feel.

For the most part, being an introvert and hypersensitive has been a burden. Mostly because it’s exhausting and confusing to care all the time. It honestly is. And if you care so much about other people or other things, you don’t spend a lot of time caring about yourself... 

It was also a burden because people don’t like what is different, and I have always been teased for being that way. People didn’t understand why I cared so much about things that didn’t matter to them. And they always assumed that if I didn’t talk much about myself, it was because I didn’t want to or because I was shy. In reality, it was just because every time I tried, they didn’t listen. Or they made me feel like what I was saying was not important, or stupid. Sometimes they would even tell me that I simply shouldn’t care that much... As if I could help it.

The thing that sucks the most when you’re like me is that you always worry about what other people think of you. So when a lot of people make you think that what makes you you is not worth it, you start believing it.

But bad things and good things happen in life, and you know what ? I was still writing, even if I kept everything to myself. Writing was like a coping mechanism for me. In some ways it saved my life, in other ways, it made it harder. Because what I was writing, I wasn’t telling. It was hard for me to talk about my favourite things without stopping myself and apologizing for getting excited. It was hard to talk about the worst things too. So after a while I just stopped talking. I still have that reflex sometimes. And I don’t think you can laugh at everything, and sometimes I can’t contain my sadness and it’s all over my face, and everybody asks if I’m okay... and I still don’t talk about it. I have opportunity to talk, but I won’t do it. It’s a habit that I’m trying to change.

Many people would think that I did that to myself, that sometimes I am sad for no reason or that I try to find reasons to be sad. It’s really difficult to understand, and it can probably be mistaken as depression.

The thing is : solitude is not a fun place to be when you don’t choose it. In my case, I chose to write, therefore to be alone, and I enjoy it immensely. But I also went through stuff that made me super lonely as a teenager - I'm not just talking about being bullied - , and that is a solitude that I didn't choose. 

After all these years spent analyzing everything and observing the world, and writing about it, poetry has made me understand that everybody wants to know that they matter, everybody wants to be heard. And I’m not talking about love here, I’m talking about the fundamental need to be cared for, and in the end, to be understood. 

But the point is – and I’m sorry I’m all over the place – : I realize now that I can’t always feel everything too much because it just makes me sad and angry all the time, and I have other things to do. Happiness is a luxury I would like to afford.

And if I know that expressing myself is a necessity, and sharing is something that I'm ashamed of, I also know that people are missing out on what they could possibly enjoy about me. 

I have a degree in screenwriting... I mean... that's how much I enjoy writing! And yet, maybe 10 people have read some of my writing. I have over 20 years of piano behind me and have taken voice lessons too, and yet less than 10 people have heard me sing...

I have wasted so much time because of all the layers of shame I have accumulated over the years. It is incredible to me!

So I'm gonna try something new this year, because I made a promise to my brother : I'm gonna try to share my stuff. Every time I'm gonna film myself singing - because yes, I do that sometimes -, I will share it. I'm also gonna post some of the stuff I write, whether it's in French or in English. I'm gonna open myself up to you.

And I swear I'm gonna try to not be ashamed of it. I'm gonna try real hard.

Remember

I know today all you want to do is grab his ass and drag him to the bedroom, tie his two good hands and make him forget his own name. But remember when he is mad at you, when his two hands aren’t good enough or not good at all. 
Remember how to run. 
Remember the fire in your belly, and the taste of blood in your mouth. 
Keep that in mind when he smiles at you next time. Don’t let him negotiate you into his arms, don’t forget they are a cage. 
You know how it is. 
You know his smile is just an excuse you tell yourself when you feel the ghost of his lips on your wrists. And you know it took too many bruises and a very long time to understand that arms can hold too tight and lips can’t heal everything.

So, remember. 
Remember you have hands too.