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

So it’s been a few weeks since I’ve written to anyone. Actually, it feels like it’s been a few weeks since I’ve even spoken to anyone. Now of course, that’s not true. I have been communicating. Sorta. Over the phone. Via Skype. It occurrred to me the other day that my social interaction/voluntary isolation ratio has totally shifted in just a few years. The good news is, when I actually do interact with people, I’m charming and open-minded and interested.

Truth be told, even though I actually feel way more at peace that I used to, I sometimes wonder if I’m flirting with peace inside or with plain old depression. The answer is, I think, that I’m actually getting to know myself, and still beating around the bush a bit. I think. I’m on the second or third date with myself. Should I suggest we go upstairs for a drink, or play hard to get?

And by beating around the bush, I refer, among other things, to beating myself up for not doing enough, not being enough, not creating enough. The paradox, in these phases I go through, is that suddenly I enter what I might call my “Nothing” mode. Remember this song by Radiohead, the one in which Thom Yorke sings “I’m not there” and you’re not sure whether he wants to dig a hole and hide, or melt into a billion stars before merging with the Universe? That’s what my “Nothing” modes feel like (yes, I know, I’m in love with Radiohead). The problem with the Nothing is that I just stop doing, well, pretty much anything. That’s of course, uh, when I’m not entertaining and feeding and nurturing my four-year-old punk rocker, but since she now goes to school, my parenting duties begin at 7:25am, stop at 8:40am, resume at 4:25pm, and end with the grand story-telling finale at 8:15pm. In between, I feel like I’m doing nothing. Or trying to. Or trying not to not.

During those hours, I’ll fall in love with Hugh Laurie, Tim Roth, wonder how many writers work on TV shows, and if they have time to even watch TV shows, I’ll read, I’ll make food, I’ll write for 5 minutes, I’ll read, I’ll forget to answer mail, I’ll wonder about whether I should be writing, scheduling my life, meeting people, or not, and if not, why, and if so, why. I’ll also nap, smoke cigarettes, drink coffee, find excuses not to see anyone except my shrink, and I’ll just, again, wonder why, how, if, when, who, but and all that. Oh, and occasionally I’ll feel really good about everything being about nothing and nobody (which reminds me, I’m also in love with this recurring character in Neil Gaiman’s books, called Nobody).

So mostly, it’s a mixed feelings mode, because it usually implies I’m not working on a project that should be getting all my attention. *Or am I?* For example, right now, I mean this month, I need to be rewriting this romantic comedy I’ve been given by this great production company I really like. I worked ten days in a decent/manic mode on it. And for the last week, I’ve been in the nothing, toying with the screenplay in my head, taking notes every now and then, rewriting one scene at a time, in between Tim Roth and Hugh Laurie. Don’t ask. Needless to say, I have a lot of work ahead. Needless to say, there’s something pathological about being in the Nothing feeling like you’ve accomplished nothing, when you’ve got so many things to do.

Then, suddenly, I snap out of the Nothing. Usually, I figure this out when I get the urge to wash my hair at midnight and take my freakin’ Bach flowers and actually put on skin creme and make lists of what needs to be done. The funny thing, really, is that during my last few days of Nothing, three projects I’ve been a part of recently, have come out. Magma’s DVD I subtitled, Yodelice’s video FREE I danced in, and From Style Writing to Art, a street art anthology I worked on. So I guess my Nothing is my own way of finding directions to my Everything. And that in the shadow, lies my inner growling beast, waiting to leap out. Speaking of, here’s the really cool video for Free. I’m Mrs It. I dance, carelessly, happily, hiding under my fur. Damn, I love my life.

Mad Love, everyone and nobody, here, there, and everywhere.
MND

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

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