Attempts to communicate with the Universe. Lettres à l’Univers et autres destinataires.

Ok, chérie, c’est ton anniversaire, donc on va commencer avec ça, que la lumière soit, qu’elle déverse des torrents d’amour et de gloire sur ta personne céleste, c’est le moins que je puisse te souhaiter, en attendant de te retrouver pour déposer des pétales de fleurs à tes pieds. Les vraies amies sont rares, et j’éprouve régulièrement une immense gratitude envers l’Univers, pour ton regard, pour ton honnêteté, et pour le plaisir que notre relation m’apporte quasi-quotidiennement. C’est déjà beaucoup, mais peu au vu de la réalité.

Dans les news de la semaine, puisqu’on est lundi et que je fais ma mise à jour raviolis en même temps que de te souhaiter mes voeux, il y a tout de même mon aventure ferroviaire à narrer : en bonne super-maman, j’ai pensé que prendre le train de nuit pour traverser la France horizontalement avec Magic Clarisse était l’idée du siècle. Bon, d’accord, de l’été. C’est déjà ça. Autant te le dire : deux néo-zélandais ont sauvé ta Charlotte aux fraises et son engeance, non pas des eaux, mais du spray tranquillisant des cambrioleurs méchants, qui ont dû penser que deux kiwis musclés, valait mieux éviter, et se sont donc contentés de braquer nuitamment les compartiments voisins. A mon avis, ils ont dû endormir la contrôleuse qui avait juré de venir me réveiller 20 minutes avant Agen, parce que je me suis réveillée 30 minutes avant Bordeaux. Loin des pruneaux, donc. Résultat, brossage de dents avec les kiwis, et un grand-père resté seul, sur le quai, à 6 heures du mat’. Je vais en entendre parler jusqu’à Noël, c’est sûr.

Toujours dans les news, mon summer clip pour Marcus est presque fini et en post-prod camping, il devrait être en ligne d’ici fin août dans toutes les bonnes boulangeries. Le clip est fait d’images volées. Je refuse de les rendre, elles sont trop chouettes.

Enfin, j’avoue, je me suis remise au boulot, Street Art et Cinéma obligent. Mais là, à l’heure où je t’écris, je me console, à coups de rosé bien frais bien provençal, de la mort de Thierry Jonquet, grand polar-writer devant l’éternel, au sens propre comme au figuré, pour le coup. Mourir à 55 ans, quand on a son talent, c’est quand même trop con. J’adorais sa voix écrite, à cet homme, j’adorais sa noirceur teintée d’humour, enfin, je crois que c’était de l’humour, mais c’est peut-être qu’à moi qu’il faisait cet effet-là.

D’où un lundi tout en nuances, à coups de rosé, de street art, de pensées pour ton anniversaire et ta beauté exquise qui ferait virer toutes les cuties si je n’étais si hétéro, encore que, à force, on s’demande, et pour cet été en pente douce qui manque de yoga.

Allez, zou, barbecue.

I love you,
MND

Oh me, oh my, I wonder why,  wonder how my little girl can already be experiencing teenage angst.

35 minutes of broken-hearted tears, that’s what I just witnessed, as my own little personal Sarah Bernhardt sobbed explaining that she was done being happy, would forever be sad, refused to turn 4 in a couple of weeks, had no interest in life, did not deserve any more presents, could not bear to go back to school in September, or see her friends ever again. Add to that her officially giving up (still sobbing like mad) stickers, transfers, chocolate, notebooks, and color pencils, and now figure me, trying hard not to take my child’s pain lightly, but kinda freaking out at the whole “I’m sorry but I will forever be sad, mom, and I can only love you and daddy” monologue. 

After renouncing happiness for the tenth time, she has no more tears left, I think, and just kissed me and smiled.

She’s turning 4 in a week or so. What happens when she’s about to turn 15? Argh.

Mad Love,

MN

J’ai vu, j’ai hoqueté de surprise, j’ai fait “oooooh!!!” avec une bouche de gosse devant laquelle on a dit des gros mots. Vous êtes donc ma recommandation à ceux qui passent l’été à Paris, vous et votre Cri de la Fourrure, à La Comédie de Paris. Merci pour ce spectacle à voir, avec vous, créature Subliminale et Imprévisible, totalement déjantée, politiquement incorrecte, barge de chez barge.

En un mot comme en cent, Alex Pandev, vous êtes furieusement décalée, somptueuse et guerrière. Et drôle avec ça… Ca change du lissage aux bigoudis derrière les  portes qui claquent qu’on doit éviter  à chaque coin de théâtre.

Et pour tout ça, encore merci. Bref, to see absolutely, pour les billets, c’est ici.

Mad Love,
MN

I’m so focused on getting the writing done, filling my life with the good stuff and being a great mom, I don’t even know who to write to. I’m not sure I even have that much to discuss, which just shows that Twitter and Facebook are getting the best of daily whimsical thoughts. Actually, I’m slowly detoxing from FB, as I suddenly remembered I like reading and writing and dissecting movies better than putting up with most people’s spelling mistakes and bitterness. I also realized I keep putting off certain things. So I’ve stepped away from Facebook and gone to the pool for some swimming lessons. Three days in a row.

I can’t feel my body anymore, but I’m going again today. Our yoga instructor having abandoned us for some good old regular vacation (I mean Come ON, he’s not even off to some silent retreat or martial arts seminar! Who leaves their students unattended?), I’ve been left with no other option than to sign up for swimming lessons. And pools are a microcosm in their own right, with rules and unspoken laws and human sharks. More on that later. 

I did host a pretty cool Friday night girl dinner (my infamous menstrual dinners), with a simple yet scrumptious menu as a mirror version of my inspiring and inspired all female guest list. Some are recent additions to my life, and some have been around so long that this blog is, after 4 years, is more than familiar with them: Fanny the Pomarium founder, Alice the photographer of inner beauty, “You rock my Life” Marion C., Art and Law student turned gorgeousnotjustrawfoodista expert Marion T., newbies music industry organic oil entrepreneur Alex and soft-spoken South African beauty turned translator Mebrak.

Of course, parts of the menu can be picked up on Mathilde’s blog, Green Dressing. My contribution to what Alka calls Mathilde’s “food porn” being, of course, saturday’s salad, since her new and awesome blog is mostly about salad. I’ll be the good friend that I am and give you my secret salad dressing ingredient. It’s soy sauce. Ha haaaa! That said, nearly everything I’ve been making for the last year has soy sauce and toasted sesame oil in it. And I made perfect quiches to go with the salad, with smoked salmon and fresh shitake mushrooms and spinach. Lots of wine, laughing, giggling, gossiping, brainstorming. And a midnight perfect crime with an Academy Award to Marion C. for beating the egg whites manually so I could make a poppy seed cake . Ha! I heard you test positive when you eat poppy seeds. Guess I won’t make the swim team.

I have 4 days to work on three different projects, nah, make that four, before packing suitcases for Clarisse and I and taking the train to Côte d’Azur bliss, on a hidden hill house, to keep working and writing, albeit by the pool, like a civilized human being I am. 

Mad Love,

MND

Sign for Pour Joachim Gatti

 

Je suis désolée de ce qui vous arrive, désolée de qui nous arrive, désolée qu’on en arrive là, sur notre belle planète, dans notre joli pays.

MND

You’re bringing me so many blessings these days, it’s hard to count them all. Of course, I’m easy… Give me great food, music, movies + strong health for me and the little one and, what the heck, for the interesting unique people around me + sprinkle lavishly well-deserved money on top of it all = you got me pretty much where I want to be. Granted, I could use world peace and a fulfilling experience of any kind, at this point, with Clive Owen, but I’m patient. And busy. So who’s complaining?

I have so much to be thankful for (Antony and the Johnsons surreal show, incredible art seen lately, brilliant movies, my newly-returned health, this gorgeous weather and the coolest girlfriends to hang out). And I also have a lot to share, so let’s get it going, I need to get back to work.

My razorsharp friend Mathilde just launched Greendresssing, her salad blog, at last. Gotta check it out, she’s put in the effort of writing it in both French and English. Of course, it’s more than just a salad blog, it’s a moment of shared intimacy (events in her life inspire her new salad recipes) with one of the most beautiful and acute and brilliant women I know. And she can cook. I mean COME ON!!!!

Also have been spending time with an American photographer. Alice Dison. She’s the Uber-Babe experience: gorgeous, funny as hell, laidback and easy to spend time with. And her photos are. I mean that. They just ARE. She sees people. She captures something utterly beautiful in every moment. Inspiring. Ok, she’s from Los Angeles. Nobody’s perfect. But she lives here now. She’ll get rid of the sand in her shoes. Eventually. Ha!

With all this girl time, and with the amount of time I spend working on Magda Danysz’s Street Art anthology, I don’t have time for anything else really. Which is too bad because at this point, listening to the Clash is, like, a major turn-on. Yeah… I’m turned on by the Clash. By art. By a good movie. Mmm hmmmm James Grey . Ok. Definitely need to put some of that into something else than work and girls.

Or maybe it’s because of the time I spend talking to water and food before allowing it to enter my sacred being. It’s the Emoto Experience. Strangely,  it’s changed my daily routine by adding even more thank you time to it. Beauty and gratitude pepper my morning coffee, my lunch, my evenings, I’m so spiced up, it reminds me of New York, the sense of freedom and purpose I had, and the humor I tried to increasingly add into life.

Back to myself.

Mad Love always,
MND

I realized last night that while I make a point of updating at least twice a day my Facebook and Twitter accounts, another point being I rarely duplicate my FB status to Twitter because where’s the fun in that, and the last point being that my tweets (silly word) appear on my blog every day… anyway, I realized that I had not posted a blog entry in ages. For various reasons.

But I read this article in the Stranger last night, posted on Twitter by the freakishly gorgeous inspiring mad woman, free spirit and artist Amanda Palmer. I might add that Amanda’s peregrinations (is that even a word in English?) are fascinating to follow. And the very insightful article, by a guy called Paul, concludes that Twitter and its likes will never replace blogs. Which reminded me of mine, and of its ramping emptiness this last month. The article can be found here.

So I promised myself that, however late I may be today, this week, this month (on work, I mean), I’d be consistent in writing blog posts. Now, promises are made to be broken, I know that, but I do want to remember what my Spring and Summer 2009 were like, which is basically rather good, after months of, uh, freaking out and sorting through the dead-end Ludo and I found ourselves in, despite our efforts.

My trip to New York, and the time spent with friends, most of them being the stupendously sublime souls that they are, and most of them looking at me with the eyes of love and open-minded tolerance, was cathartic. And I’ve been going up-hill since.

I’m happy to say that mentally and physically, I feel great. My health issues are officially resolved as of last Friday, and there’s a big part of me that truly believes it’s because of psychonalysis and yoga and talking to water, not because of the terrible treatment they had me follow. Yeah, I talk to water now. I saw these videos by and on this Japanese guy called EMOTO that went straight to my brain and heart. And I’ve got post-its on water containers all over the house now, and I whisper sweet nothings to water as I’m about to drink it, and just that process itself makes life more fun. I’ve also been eating raw food, green food, superfoods, living food, and it shows. I’m in great health. I feel good (hear music stomp in right here).

I could go on about how, yeah, I expect money to start flowing in as easily,it’d be about timle, come on already, and how much energy I’ve put in this break-up to make it as great as the end of the relationship was not, and how I’m giving shelter to this young gorgeous couple who’ve ran/been sent away from home a couple of weeks ago, or how Clarisse made my life a living hell before turning into an angel, and mostly on how late I am on work, and having a hard time concentrating. But I’ll save that for later. Here’s the video on water, though. It’s changed my daily routine in the last 6 months or so, for the better.

Mad Love always,
MND

Quand j’ai reçu le truc, j’ai cru que vous nous faisiez le coup de la reprise des Bee Gees… Alors que pas du tout ! You rock! Ca fait tellement plaisir de vous voir vous éclater, fallait au moins ça. Bravo pour le clip, c’est la joie !

This is my horoscope for this week, brought to me by my favorite oracle, Rob Brezsny himself.

“Wisdom is knowing I am nothing,” said Indian philosopher Nisargadatta Maharaj. “Love is knowing I am everything. And between the two my life moves.” According to my calculations, Sagittarius, you’ll be more on the “knowing you are everything” side of the polarity for the next few weeks. That’s because a flood is imminent. I expect you’ll be on the receiving end of a massive outreach from the universe — an influx of invitations, inquiries, and offers to make connection. You should also be prepared for the dizzying pleasure that comes from seeing how profoundly interlinked and interdependent you are.

All I have to say is : Bring it on, my arms are open wide, and so is my heart. This (really cool) horoscope reminded me of my encounter, a little over a year ago, with a genius, right up the street from my place. And by genius, I don’t mean Einstein, I mean Ali Baba. Who was no genius but got one to do all the work for him.

I was standing on the rue des Martyrs, freezing my bum-bum off. And yes, for those of you dying to ask, I have a bum-bum. Once you have children, you have a variety of body parts with interesting names, and therefore not an ass, my friends, but a bum-bum. Frankly, what kind of a mother would I be, were I to sweet-whisper in my perfect, if somewhat temperamental child’s ear : “Honey love Clarisse, how about you moving that cute ass a little faster so your school principal doesn’t throw me out, uhuh?”.

I don’t think so.

So anyway, I was freezing my ass waiting for a bus, craning my neck and cursing politely its driver for being ever so late in its ever so usual way, when I heard someone say (in French, s’il-vous-plaît) : “Dites-moi quel est votre souhait le plus cher…” Meaning, for those who still have not spent enough time with me in Paris to becom fully bilingual, that someone was asking me what my number one wish might be. So I turned around, with an amused, yet circumspect look, wondering who was walking around granting wishes on a crisp January morning.

My genius was wearing an orange, as in very bright orange, overall suit. Kinda like a spaceman. And he had this huge excited smile on his face. He might have been in his forties, though I’m not sure at this point. And he was downright totally happy, and his happiness was downright infectious. So I smiled. And he repeated his question. I thought about it, trying to focus on my wish and not the freezing cold. I think he mentioned something about the fact he didn’t have all day and would I be so kind as to figure out my wish today, not tomorrow. I asked if I could get three wishes, like them stories I’ve read, and he politely blew me off, said wishes weren’t on sale, that granting me one was already a big deal. So I asked for love in my heart. He said “ok, I can do that, here’s your bus, have a great life and I’m glad I could be there for you”. Sure enough, the bus slowed down in front of me, I got on and looked back to see the orange spaceman waving bye bye to me. And that was that.

Now the thing is, my brain and my mind work in, uh, very strange ways. I think it’s probably so as to allow me many wild creative moments and incredible experiences that I seem to forget those moments and experiences as rapidly as they appear in my mental space. So I kinda forgot about my encounter with the Genius, until I read my horoscope, went to write in my blog, and found an old post draft from that day, which I’d never finished, never published. I remember smiling all day. I remember thinking, wow, maybe he’s a lunatic, but maybe, just maybe, he’s a genius. And how cool would it be for love to be in my heart…?

Well, I can’t say the last months have been easy, or that the last years haven’t been challenging, in an interesting way… but in the end, that’s what it’s all about, no? Could I be who and where I am today without love in my heart? I think everything I’ve recently experienced is the proof, if need be, that my orange genius out of a bottle has managed, as it should be, to grant my wish. So next time your bus, your subway, your ride is late, just keep your eyes and your mind open to raving lunatics.

Mad Love, Always,
MND

Bonjour bonjour Charlie, hop hop hop arrivée sur Terre en douceur, en une heure, il y a un mois. Ta mère, Fred, est une bonne copine, une amie, une de celles qui restent dans une vie, mais autant te dire que son p’tit tour de magie, hop hop hop, tiens je suis enceinte, hop hop hop, on s’est dit que tu ferais une bonne marraine (crise d’hystérie dans la rue, petite danse enthousiaste), hop hop hop, tiens je pousse, hop hop hop, naissance de la nouvelle divine enfant en une heure top chrono, j’ai un peu du mal à m’en remettre.

Sans blague. Qui pousse son premier bébé en une heure ? La question étant même, pourquoi j’ai pas mis une heure, moi, mais 12 ? Ou 24 ? Je sais même plus tellement c’était long. Je te passe les détails de pourquoi j’ai pas mis une heure, tu verras ça quand tu seras plus grande, et puis cette lettre a d’autres aspirations.

D’abord, faut-il te le dire, je suis très très heureuse d’être ta marraine. J’espère que tu auras joie à être ma filleule. Tes parents sont des très belles personnes, cultivées, originales, complexes, avec lesquelles tu auras plaisir à grandir au moins jusqu’à un certain âge parce qu’après, ça se complique. C’est plus que beaucoup d’enfants sur Terre, alors fais pas ta snobe. Ils sont beaux à l’intérieur et à l’extérieur (nonobstant les grimaces effrayantes de ton paternel), tu pars donc avec un ADN et un environnement positifs. D’accord, ta mère est allergique à tout, même le savon de Marseille hypo-allergénique de base, et ton père est dingue, mais ta mère a une sensibilité à fleur de peau, et ton père est dingue. Bon départ dans la vie, ça, Charlie.

On a tous besoin d’une marraine un peu carrée, terre à terre, organisée, équilibrée. Ca inspire sans empêcher de respirer, tu vas voir c’est hyper bien les marraines.

La mienne me fait des cadeaux surnaturels, rares et précieux depuis 30 ans (avant je me souviens pas, mais je soupçonne que mes extravagantes tenues, gamines, subtiles et chics à la fois, avaient un peu à voir avec elle). Pour exemple, son dernier cadeau c’est un maillot de bain (je crois, parce que c’est peut-être un ensemble lingerie). Deux pièces. En perles et paillettes brodées à la main. A l’effigie des Etats-Unis. Si je te dis que je peux maintenant me promener en Wonder Woman, version vintage 1974, ça devrait compléter le tableau. T’inquiète, je te le garde au chaud.

La mienne, de marraine, est tout le temps de bonne humeur, légère et joyeuse, même dans la détresse. Une fontaine de vie mélodique. Elle veut tout savoir, tout raconter, boire manger se promener, et elle a une impudeur pudique, toute artistique, qui donne envie d’être comme elle comme on sera grande. D’accord, ça fait 30 ans que ça dure (avant j’me souviens pas, j’t'ai dit), mais crois-moi, j’espère que je t’inspirerai autant de joie et de fous rires.

J’ai déjà prévu des grandes conversations philo-fondamentales. Alors, pour l’instant, y’a le sens de la vie (comment vivre alors qu’on sait qu’on va mourir, et par conséquent, salé ou sucré, le pop-corn ?), les interdits masculins (santiags, slips, gourmette), et comment les autres, et toi, c’est pas pareil, mais quand même, on est tous reliés, faut assumer.

Je t’aime déjà, Charlie bébé tortue, on va bien rigoler toutes les deux, j’en connais aussi un rayon ou deux, ouh laaaaa maybe trois ou 12, sur les garçons. T’inquiète, si j’ai rien dit, c’est pour par faire flipper tes vieux.

Bienvenue parmi nous, plus on est de fous…
Follement,
Ta MarraiNe

PS : mon blog version liftée m’empêche de coller ta photo cette fois, tu me remercieras plus tard, mais tu vas pas t’en sortir comme ça.