In a presence already dissolved[excerpts from the Journals of Danielle Collobert, 1960-1961, translated by Norma Cole.]1960 January "She was sitting by the bridge on the bridge a lot of people were watching the barges unload suddenly the rock she was sitting on started to roll - it was a big granite slab block She yelled - everyone turned to look at her - The rock picked up momentum nothing could stop it - the people couldn't understand - Little by little she leaned her upper body forward - until she was laid out on the slab -- Simultaneously she felt a great emptiness inside a hole a descent - No one moved from the bridge captivated by the movement..." I don't ever want to learn anything again - just people - I really only get close to them in bed - their nakedness - essential -- to understand - grasp by means of gestures - looks - more than with words - already so many men ... February I've been walking for a long time -- it's 9:30 - it's cold I rarely see streets or people at this hour in this neighborhood the houses are mute -- people pass quickly - closed walking tightly -- don't know how I got to this neighborhood - slept at J.'s and walked all the way here -- like it follows logically - strange looking at a long and empty day -- nervous -- there's that exhibit at the Musee d'art moderne to kill time, not out of love - that cold strange room last night - seeing myself again in all the bedrooms - dislocated -- blurred -- bodiless inside those walls -- maybe a little heat remaining -- sudden silence -- cold -- and all of a sudden solitude returns -- bad -- watching the kids in the square just now -- retrieving childhood sensations -- earth and water -- fuzzy sensations -- a smell -- scattered images -- the dining room door ajar and my grandfather in bed -- face to the wall -- women sitting around the kitchen table speaking quietly -- and weeping -- reds and pinks -- the boy in blue -- on a hook hung from the balcony of the house at one corner of the square -- and the Germans all over -- the hook -- the garden -- the entry -- the doorway with masses of red fuschias -- garden masses of apples -- one evening in the "house in back" eating pink rat poison and shrieking -- terror -- flowers -- frost on the window -- feet warming at the stove -- scorched socks -- after school-- the storms and wind in the pines at Compostal -- the fire in the living room hearth -- listing images when really the smells are what returns most vividly -- roasted coffee -- detergent -- overripe pears in the loft -- smell of wood and wet ground -- March Such a strange night -- on the Quai des Fleurs -- I've been living here for a few days -- very nice apartment -- They're sleeping -- the table faces the window where I write -- the Seine -- the lights -- water -- calm came back -- like glancing crystal in the water -- rising and falling -- as real as my hand -- my face in the pane -- the Seine's reflections disrupting the lamplight's opacity -- like crossing dream with reality -- and then a car passes -- from light to opacity -- disappearance -- tranquility -- very rare peacefulness - after days of emptiness -- empty enough to put off getting up -- because of the emptiness itself -- and after -- completely futile efforts to fill in -- why despite appearances I go to such lengths to achieve this feeling emptiness -- of discomfort -- as though every gesture --every movement were bringing me nearer to death -- the sensation of emptiness disappeared in that orgasmic moment -- I have possibly never been so far into that solitude as these last months -- it still might not be enough -- there is a vague form of stability left here -- of security -- some doubt about what I can stand -- more wandering -- add leaving the country -- breaking all bonds -- or whatever -- being broke in a country I don't know -- maybe -- probably an illusion -- equating being alone in a room for days -- and going off somewhere -- April Departure -- tomorrow -- real escape -- I'm going to Tunisia -- calm -- Tunis 1 here with no break -- already the same life -- I go to cafés -- I make love -- I go to films -- I talk to people -- no distance -- I've already been here since forever -- but still it's the East -- the light -- the colors -- the beauty -- at least this: I have new eyes -- senses beginning to function again as though after a long illness -- this morning very early -- in the village -- scarcely daybreak -- through the grillwork on the window -- some noises in the covered streets -- after making love all night -- body heavy and hot -- impression of tiredness -- of well-being -- H. motionless -- head on my belly -- almost cool -- a smell I couldn't place -- almonds and oranges -- old food -- and then suddenly in the silence -- a very long sound -- very low -- the slow modulation of the muezzin -- extraordinary beauty -- now here -- in the café -- seated on matting -- they're playing cards --the patron sitting on a chair by the stove closes his eyes -- head thrown back a little -- he is tall and lean -- looks high as a kite -- they aren't paying any attention to me -- I'm fine here -- it's raining out -- sound of rain on the steps -- Wednesday ran into R. the building's terrace and the little hut below -- just room for a bed -- when I came back at 4 -- air cool -- the whole town below -- early movement in the direction of the station -- to the left -- the quality of the air -- especially that -- staying there a long time looking down at the town -- September Saturday -- evening -- a café -- I'm far away -- toward Aubervilliers -- I walked a long time -- spent the last few nights walking -- here the old neighborhoods-- the houses -- hallways staircases -- little courtyards -- what goes on in the daytime -- warehouses -- workshops -- people -- their night deserted -- a few lights farther off -- near the trees -- I'm cold -- bitter taste of cigarettes -- voices -- a woman singing -- an accomplished liar's voice -- slightly hoarse -- sad -- a little raw -- go back and sleep -- get loaded -- no -- stay -- stay up -- nurture this -- thing that returned by chance -- the silence inside -- November he just left -- when he leaves I never know when I'll see him again -- always chance encounters -- or nearly -- today I asked myself what little errors we've let come between us -- I don't know yet -- I can barely guess -- why such tenderness in his gestures -- after -- where there is usually distance -- don't be taken in by tenderness -- protect yourself from it -- I'm sucked in too easily -- his presence I already live too much in these days -- not enough resistance now -- or irony -- December I am calm -- finally without anxiety -- a certain balance -- Y. -- circle around his presence -- no more severing -- or waiting -- calm -- a kind of delight -- also -- being with him -- finally this is a story I like -- I feel good -- but when I'm like this I don't do anything -- unable to write a word -- I only write in an anxious state (oh sure)* -- or in times like that -- ideas for novels arrive -- the story of the port for example -- stupid -- the novel is basically a pacific creation -- that releases what's essential -- sensation of well-being allows time to stretch out -- necessary to the novel -- whereas the anxiety produces something strong -- complete -- at once -- no going beyond -- (?)* momentary fixity -- in the anxious state -- totally out of it -- what am I doing here -- with these kids -- feels like sweet and well-behaved girls -- never been so isolated in the middle of a group -- almost peculiar -- get out of here at the first possible moment -- get away from it -- before the end of resistance -- of rebellion -- before boredom -- exhaustion 1961 February Algeria 2 -- as if this is really the beginning for me -- Said September Tonight I'm starting over -- after these parenthetical months -- for them -- go real slow -- like the first time going out after being locked up for ages -- tonight calm at last -- window open -- a little wind -- gentle -- feeling my bathrobe -- music below -- I just picked up K.'s journal -- always the way to get back to work when it's not happening -- Kafka or Beckett -- to start up again -- nothing is finished -- the problem hasn't been resolved -- but I'm at the end of my rope -- still struggling with it -- because it would be easier to keep going with them than pick up my life where it left off -- these months speak years -- many new things -- to be completely current with present events -- living the news as it happens -- with no time lag -- now it's difficult to become nothing but a spectator again -- what counted was the immediate -- objective justification was impossible -- for what I was doing -- theoretical questions useless -- when I make theory for others -- I end up not believing it -- immediate action justified immediately in its entirety -- uncomfortable position but real -- for months no writing -- impossible to reconcile the two -- walk paying attention -- I've lost sensation -- closeness of the outside world around me -- I'm not connecting with things any more -- could be irreparable loss -- trying now to recover sensations -- objects for instance -- the table's smoothness -- its color -- my hand on the paper -- it's raining -- that helps me -- I feel better -- more differentiated from things -- from the outside -- blur already -- October continuing -- I'm alone in the gallery space -- no options -- walls -- I touch the walls -- I press myself against them -- I'll lean from one to the other -- I stayed in the corner opposite for ten minutes -- now I'm in the middle of the room on a chair -- writing on my lap -- the empty space all around -- spinning -- what to do -- yell -- call out -- for someone to come -- wait -- slow death -- explosion inside my head -- words -- invent words -- fast -- absence -- non- sense of words -- I can't -- December waiting -- days -- time passes filled with little things -- cling to the slightest incident -- the most expected event -- the most foreseeable with hope for some hidden thing concealed inside the opacity of stillness -- I can't because I know what the end of waiting is -- the possibility of radical change -- definitive -- there are lots of examples of such possibilities but they crumble before any obstacle -- the real presence of people -- of objects -- the world -- the margin between the image of suicide and reality's uncertainty is too great -- story limited in time -- will end on a specific date -- with departure of a train -- wonderful impression of clean -- retreat -- irreparable -- it's there in a presence already dissolved -- almost weightless -- if he knew -- Footnotes: 1. Although placed in Tunis this passage actually describes the village of Sidi Bou Said and the café "des Nattes." 2. At this time D.C. became a part of a network supporting the F.L.N. [National Liberation Front]. Bio: Norma Cole is a visual artist, poet and translator. Her most recent publications are Desire & Its Double (Instress 1998) and Spinoza in Her Youth (Abacus: February 1999). With Stacy Doris, she edited Raddle Moon 16, a special issue of new French writing in translation. go to this issue's table of contents
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