May 68, and me and my emotions ... (an excerpt)
"The dreamer is true dreaming of the impossible. "
Elsa Triolet, thousand pardons.
I was 6 years old and I was fine, blond almost white hair, blue eyes, clear, and I was thin, with protruding ribs - a child who did not eat much, which stored the meat in his mouth before spitting it out on the sly in the trash. It was in Limoges, near the cathedral without an arrow in an apartment where I lived with my mother, who was not employed to look after me, and dad, who was driving steam locomotives and perhaps already diesel. Every morning when going to school on Boulevard Saint-Maurice, my stomach twisted strangely, I vomited almost inevitably to a butcher shop painted in red on the corner of a street opening to the Place Jourdan. The worm (or the butcher?) Brought me on the sidewalk while a glass of water, can be sweet to pass taste bitter and give me courage, and then I headed back to school, holding hands with mom, a coat over my plaid shirt, a cap on my English short hair, wearing pants or shorts.
At home one afternoon, my grandfather Marcel, who had more his wine shop up Banks, came to eat, without Grandma Rose, and he halved the porcelain plate with blue and white tiles along with his steak.
the radio, we often heard a song by the Moody Blues who spoke, I think, white satin sheets. I do not remember Hi friends! on Europe 1. I had not heard the name of Saigon or Martin Luther King, I knew nothing of the Sinai. But already during the winter, there was talk of strikes of railway workers. Do I know what the railroad that My father was one? He took his business, kissed me, told me: "I'll do a little tour of parsley," he went out, and then it came back that evening or the next day smelling soap in the shower of deposit . Me, I read The Diary of Teddy large format that Mom bought me at the newsagents on Saturday late morning. 1.50 francs, full-color stories of Philippine, teddy bear, Nicolas and Burnet, the coloring, the alphabet, games, adventures of rice powder and those of the duckling Couic ... pending Pif Gadget a little more later. In the street, we were more screaming on the sidewalk while returning from school: "Pompidou, sub!" without knowing who was Pompidou. My father taught me to whistle in front of the library, at home, maybe he told me about the rocket Veronique we had just launched from the Kourou space base.
When I was wise, we went down on Wednesday evening with our neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Lereclus, who had a television to watch The Track the stars, Gilles Margaritis, on the first string of ORTF: Roger Lanzac was a ringmaster who made me dream, with his top hat-shaped, like all the artists at the Cirque d'Hiver in Paris, as the music of the orchestra by Bernard Hilda. Sometimes, going to see Kiri the Clown and his small troupe of circus horsewoman Laura, Ratibus cats, parakeet and Bianca Pip'lett the mare. The next day was Thursday, there was no school! Mr. Lereclus, a former postman, take me with him sometimes in the attic, raised blankets, showing his canaries in their cages, which began to chirp. His wife was pregnant and I loved him very much.
radio sang louder, and vinyl on the turntable turned gray. I mimais play-back while holding a broomstick. My parents bought me a harmonica yellow. I remember: "She told me to go whistling on the hill ..." by Joe Dassin , "As a boy I have long hair" by Sylvie Vartan, the flute of "Paris Awakens" and also the "Alouette Lark" by Gilles Dreu , a big mustache and the cavalry " by Julien Clerc. And then there were these songs that I liked it very much but in a language I do not understand: "Hello Goodbye" sung by four young men a little strange, dressed in long tunics, pink, blue or yellow, and "Rain and Tears" by Aphrodite's Child. And then one day my fiancee , Patricia, who was twelve years old, offered me my first 33 laps, one of Johnny Halliday, and I became a rocker's preparatory course. Patricia had long hair, dressed in a white dress and I was playing the piano at home - I was madly in love. "Kili kili kili kili watch watch watch watch / Keoma ken ken aba / For two days I am only repeating / This little wind that starts to annoy me / Yes! Kili kili kili kili watch watch watch watch / Keoma ken ken aba
...."
...."
the winter, we went to our cousins in Strasbourg where people spoke a strange language. Christmas in the snow, in the illuminations, timber on the sled. I was startled to hear the name of this specialty: chicks Wantzenau. the night when our parents left us at the baby sitter to go to dinner, I imagined them eating the poor little birds, probably as cute as the yellow canaries Mr. Lereclus. I triais all the ingredients for fried rice on my plate to eat as little as possible, which annoyed the wife of my sponsor. Bruno, my cousin, was Vietnamese and I do not know why, but obviously it did not look like his parents, with his brown skin and slanted eyes. They all had chickenpox, but not me.
There is a picture where I make pancakes in a small stove in the kitchen with mom and her friend Andrée, my godmother, for Candlemas. I am dressed to the nines as always.
I in a school that I would soon be leaving but I do not know. I learned to read, write, count, with a bearded teacher in a blouse. We were boys. I have few memories, only I think that the master warning my friends that I have surgery: a hernia or something like that. I only remember the operating room, the big lamp above me, very small, and the horrible mask to sleep. I remember Dad coming to offer me Le Pied-Tendre , an adventure of Lucky Luke previously published in Spirou. And then my convalescence La Gaillarde, from a colonel, father of Patricia and her sister Lillian, and his German wife - who tried in vain to make me eat taking my knife right. The property was a farm in the countryside limousine. Is this the year that we went down one night by a ladder right next to the balcony, took the boat and went to the middle of the big pond? The trout were eating pieces of bread into my hands.
In May, I felt my parents more febrile. It was fine. Some excitement was perceptible, a quivering of the air, perhaps. Strange words heard on the radio. For example Pepe, the female chimp Léo Ferré, was dead. Or that there were barricades in Paris. But I did not know who was Léo Ferré, or what a barricade. The city seemed on vacation. My father came home more often - I figured out that he no longer worked. He made "pickets" ; that, I understood what it meant say where he worked, near the railroad tracks, he drove wood poles into the ground. What could it serve? With his friends, he had hung a big red flag after the lightning rod of the station of the Benedictines. It was nice. There were many people in the streets. The trains were stopped. We would prepare our holiday in Bidart, a friend of the same class as my father, who lived in the country. But I do not know what a promotion. What I knew was that they had started working at age 14. Michel had a wife, Marie-Therese we called the head, and three children: Mark, Christian and especially Claire, then a teenager who looked after me. Their beautiful house was way below the line Limoges Ussel, but there are more trains going. We talked about going on vacation but also said there would be no fuel to put in the tanks of cars, we, we spent the two horses to a friend 6. Me, I learned to ride a bike and Yves Montand sang "A bicycle" . It was a time of happiness worried.
I did not understand the conversation and heard the words, I think: "Agreements ... Grenelle, CGT, CRS, Baden-Baden, popular government, Charles de Gaulle, shambles, Champs-Elysees, Sorbonne, Odéon, BA, hydrogen bomb ... "
; We went on vacation in Bidart, there were gasoline tanks. My father told me it was an ancient port of whalers. The only one I remember is that escaped from an umbrella, which made me ill to the eye. The waves were huge, I watched their feet in the ocean, skinny and tanned body. They made me lose my swimsuit. In the distance, surfers remembered the film "The Sun Also Rises" . I worried that we want to make me eat sausage ass. I heard vaguely military about the other side of the mountain, Spain. My parents spoke of their Republican friends in exile. Puffins and razorbills seemed very foreign to the excitement of the world. Men dressed in white, a chistera attached manually, sent balls bouncing on the pediments of the villages. We ate the Ttoro: red mullet, monkfish tail, eel and prawns, mussels, vegetables, white wine and olive oil. Later would come the cures The Bournemouth to try to treat my nasopharyngitis, my poor fragile childhood diseases. I began to write poetry in notebooks to large squares. Faced with the Civil Guard, my father assumed the airs of a smuggler.
He had come in, move, change schools.
My father and all the others resumed work. But the red flag remained stuck somewhere in their hearts. Sheila sang "Long will be the Winter . It was prescient: it still lasts. My head is flaked.
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