THE GAME OF THE VESTALS

Dear Claudia,

The Vestal Chloe

Or the resigned reflection of a Marrakech garden…

She makes shadows spring up
The glare
This music of the soul
Double me
Gaze into the mirror
Image returned
Identical and yet different
Opposites game
Duality
Between dream and reality

With my words, I tried to tame you.

With my words, I tried to seduce

you who are but pure spirit

a free electron traveling to me across the web,

My words describe emotions, sparkling joys, and hidden sorrows.

My doubts, in a more intimate way, align with my moods.

Your words, your doubts, your questions, your modesty in the face of not understanding what I am, reassure me like caresses, like a breath, like a kiss with the taste of honey.

I am building a bridge over the river of life; my thoughts are its foundations.
Keep building it at your own pace, according to my whim, my emotions, my desire…

The edifice may perhaps be sumptuous in its misfortunes, perhaps poorly built; it will crumble like a sandcastle.

I know, from having spent much of my life making projects and selling my doubts, that some palaces are prisons, others are simple houses, wonders of peace and happiness.

Perhaps you are the ones who reveal, with attentiveness and openness, what is within me that I do not yet know.
Chase away the fear and gradually discover how far I am willing to go, or not.

Strange sensation, like Sleeping Beauty, the woman in me awakens and dares not.

I am not asking you for anything, but I desire that nothing, for I hope for nothing for myself.

Vestal Chloé
Come closer and finally pluck the answer within you…
The gaze of man and of the being will be thereby sublimated…

Best regards
Lollipop

Vestale price
But also Clélia
The vestal who knows how to tell her story
The journey of a woman who traverses love like a country, life in the first person singular.
Few women are willing to embark on such adventures…

For a very long time, I had wanted to write myself a novel that would sweep away this open narrative of myself.
Anything but a lousy novel
And that woman is me
Both drawing the features of a maternal character and a metaphor for who I am
So I had these ideas in mind, but I couldn’t find the way.
I have completely immersed myself in the life of this woman who is me, and I no longer ask myself any questions.
When I reread some of my passages today, I get the impression that this woman was truly born out of all that,
of my encounters and my desires, of my fears: she has a touch of Brecht’s Mother Courage, a touch of Kateb Yacine’s Nedjma, and a touch of my own mother, to whom I dedicate my love

My narrative is not linear; it is made up of back-and-forth movements between love and the courage to love, between different places, different moments….

My way of living. I like to wander at random, take dead ends, go through hidden doors, follow complex, non-linear routes.
My conception of life aligns with this attraction to dead ends and chance paths.
I owe it to a very rich intensity of life,
I like this other side of me that does not seek to reproduce reality as it appears, but rather as it is believed to appear.

I love that moment when we savor life, when we let ourselves be imbued by a gentle and mysterious atmosphere, and on another, deeper, more philosophical level, that grants us a way of seeing the world with lucidity and generosity.

A beautiful declaration of love for this world that does not always love us back, yet which I love nonetheless…

Her name was
Vestale price
But also Clélia

LOLLY POP
Life is just a bunch of shit, man

Magic
The Vestal Pantheon,

Her desire that morning was more beautiful than ever.

In this composition of light, all the domes of his thoughts seemed unattached to him.

Desire drew flowers of reality on the windows of its pleasure.
A voluptuous silence embraced his gaze.

At the end of the alley, in the mist, a vestal emerged in the distance, sublime as a sun.

She took his arm to lean on it, and also in a surge of happiness. Neither of them spoke, and that was just right, he thought, aware of the sweetness of that moment and moved by the sensuality it created in his contact with others.

They reached the bank of the Grand Canal facing a backdrop blurred by the grayness, but whose density lightened at certain moments, revealing in the areas of transparency the facades of the palaces, their small columns against the blue background of the galleries, in a fleeting vision.

He was waiting to catch the magical moment, the moment when these shifting lights would create an image that would never be reborn.

He took her in his arms, held her close, and whispered to her,
You bring me luck.

For a long time, he had not felt that sensation of being a mystery, strong and profound, created to hold within him all the happiness in the world.

He had already gathered a selection of landscapes that the effects of mist distanced from any physical reality, as if they had been born deep within his consciousness or from a series of magics
Life has the gift of reproducing the same scenes, slightly modified.

This morning I dream of romantic escapades, so I simply picked up and slightly modified a few passages from my short story “Imperfect Past.”
…he was the Turner watercolor "San Giorgio Maggiore"

Lolly