If Sorry is the hardest word to say, silence might be golden when news are blushed with bloody Red stuff. Bloody Red stuff. Nice was nice. Nice means sun, holidays, fun for so many travelers. Nice is home, family memories, personal history core.
But when you are far from home, tragedies struck deep down in the heart and in mind. Usual places of childhood are distorted by fools. And ashes to ashes, folk to crowd, muteness turned into noise even for some silence minute.
How could blame them? People could put down their reserve to claim, scream and shout even silly random sentences. Facing harder stuff means not necessary being sad. Sure. But what about the ones who mourned and wept loudly in November 2016 who just spent a happy hangover of Bastille Day? Like if injuries of the Parisian capital were deeper and stronger than of a provincial effect. You know, being far from home means a lot. And you tend to become close to a frog as fast as you should eat garlic bread. Even if it sometimes implies spend some hours eating cheese wearing beret and complaining about rents and slow people in the street. I will narrate it later.
When these betrayals come from this community, your community, your homemade land. Could you enjoy the silence? Resentment drives to isolation.
And when, in the lonely mind, you skimmed this wounded crime scene, lively clamour seems to gain ground everywhere. Except for one word. One admirable friendly name of a city located in the neighbourhood. Censorship doesn’t erase sadness but shuns it. Being sad is okay, but the main pill is to be together.
If we couldn’t fight against that cruel spell, maybe we could gather for music. Since November, gigs are pervaded with a grave rebellious feeling. In vineyards, drinking rosé, round the pool, it was summer and life which gently awoke in a twilight night. Even if the band seemed gloomy. Feu! Chatterton means RIP Chatterton, like the English poet. A deceased label with dancing songs. But when rhythms died, when nagging/throbbing/tormenting melody from Côte Concorde. Narrating Concordia tragedies and facing coldness of water, we were down in emotion, overwhelmed by stress and sorrow. But we were there, on our lovely baie des anges, standing for the ones who couldn’t be there anymore. Was it crowded with the invitation of the Parisian musicians? But how wonderful was this feeling: To be comforted, at last.
No one can find faith, trust and energy in front of breaking news. So go out, talk, share, live with others and find the community that maybe don’t share your borders but your heart shape.
So thank you Le Petit Journal for not letting the French feel alone in London, thank you Feu! Chatterton for sharing rimes and nice sentences in French, thank you l’Originale for your streaming lives that recollected words, reactions, feelings, pieces of time that make life.
And others …
Even if it’s just a joker, you just do what pleases you but