« I can feel the limits of my body, and when I push them aside, I feel it. When I try to do too much, to go above and beyond myself, I feel it.
I am a mother. I am no longer a lover — I’ve lost that. That leaves me with a lot of free time I haven’t yet figured out how to spend. What else am I?
For the moment, I am nothing. But you shouldn’t limit yourself to the tiny patch of ground beneath your feet. You’ve got to dig. Wake up every morning and realise just how exposed you really are. Feel it crumble a little more every day, thinking back to yesterday and everything you said. Regretting it. Watching all those pictures of bodies laughing and moving in a wholeness that eludes you — like a scene from a movie. And being there, in the midst of it all, and not knowing what to make of it. Trying to fit into a shape that’s constantly changing. Should you adapt?
Looking at yourself, once again, at that tiny, grimy navel that’s grown so wrinkled and dusty with time that you can’t even see the bottom of it anymore. What’s the point, anyway?
When I look up at the world, it all seems too much — too full, too fast, too much for me. There’s so much we’re expected to be. So much we’ve got to be. Too much being, perhaps. Perhaps I’m just too full of being after all. And in this discrepancy, I find myself either above or below, always with a posture, a stance. You’ve got to take up a position, to have a position, to be something in all its dimensions and express it — assert it. But I can’t. Assert what? What should I assert, exactly?
Talking to people, meeting them, going out — it's as if I’m trying my hand at the world. As if I need to confront what I feel deep inside, thrashing about. But what I feel — does it have a meaning?
It’s as if I’m coming out of my cave to test myself, to see if I’m not entirely dead. And then I go back in, and then I come back out. These comings and goings — I often think they don’t make any sense. They hardly mean anything at all and could take any shape or form. But what I need to do, what I have to do, is to validate my existence. Because being alone so much makes me wonder if I really exist. Sometimes it feels like little paw strokes, like a dog trying to attract attention: “Hey, look at me. I’m here. Do you remember me? You are the reason I exist,” says the little dog.
That’s what I mean. »
Written by Nathalie Vanderlinden, translated by Frederic Aerden
Set to music by Les Antonymes, which were, this time:
Philippe Van Bellinghen on cello and piano
Frederic Aerden on processed field recordings
Antonin De Bemels on groovebox
Recorded on August 13, 2023
Mixed and mastered by Antonin De Bemels
Image by Stéphane Jossart www.stephanejossart.com
