Short storiz, en attendant une mise en page

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Fields are wonderful places between surrealism and reality, warm and sunny landscape, rude and quiet life. If you had a look at me, you would have seen a poor figure in tattered clothes. May the sun has given other design to my face and to these faded tissues covering my body, this heap of old straw: I am thin and dry, the consequence of living in the air, outside, under rays of sunshine. Hopefully, those colors surrounding me, an amalgam or a mixture of sunset saturation flooding these millions of wheat stalks, make me feel like a part of this nature. This is unfortunatly why birds have never been interested in my personality. They come for a while, due to my patience and calm attitude, an opportunity for them to land on my arms or my head.

"

"

Everybody seems to know my name

Maybe they imagine how selfish I am to leave my name in all my conversations. It's true, I'm a crow. Call me «crow" if it makes you feel better, but, listen carefully, I am talking about “art”. Repeat after me: "art art art". And it begins. Here is my story.

"
 

It was a cold sank foggy day. I was chilling near the wood, that had been our home for an even more freezing time, when, I saw him. Or her. Nevermind. He was so lonely with his arms wide open, I couldn't leave him alone. He never talked to me but I felt something unreal about him. He was like the personification of this field, the representation of past and future: a pile of dry straw. He became like a messy to me. We spent all the sowing season together overlooking the field, under cold showers or sunny rays of light. Seeds made me remember about those laughing children and old cheerful people throwing those to birds, like a social sign, somewhat. The atmosphere was as warm as our relation. We, crows, are known as social creatures, which does not really mean friendly, sadly. Then came a war. Like a terrible rumble of thunder under a scorching sun, came a monster of metal, ripping brutally the blond herbs all around our zone of happiness, like in one second. "Me, crow", I couldn't stay here like my hero, in the middle of the field, I had to hide in the wood where nature is respected and strongly alive. I could never forgive myself. He was alone, again, like a dark prophecy. He said, somewhere, and once upon a time, that colors are like a fire, a mixture of sun, leaves and corns. Then again came an overcast sky and a freezing fog. We came back to our lives on treetops, wondering about those words. All was white, excepted us, and the hat of my friend, in the middle of the field.
Everything is real: friends, wars, nature, colors, black and white.

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Coming from an old time, with its own memory, stands an unfurnished flat, traversed by the smells of the other side of things. There was a wide carpet whose edges have rubbed off on the tile. By the entrance door,  frames of old pictures have left five rectangles of faded colors, the place of an unknown family portrait. The only thing left in the room is a shelf, detached and abandoned on the floor. Perhaps it was nailed here, on this partition with a chipped paint. Few steps ahead, on the windowsill, is written in the wood a meaningful message: “ I was here ”.

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Few weeks ago, I shot the ‘photo of the month’, that thing you get as a photographer because it’s nonsence to be ‘employee of the month’ in the sector. Here is how it happened:

I was walking alone along never-ending corridors, thinking how I could capture the atmosphere. When I arrived on an empty subway platform where the train had just left, one concept came to me: geometry. Walls, bricks, arcades, junctions punctuated by advertising billboards appeared to me as a magazine under construction. I stopped in the middle of platform B, facing platform A, a symmetric scene of what was happening on this side and I saw a sequence of rectangles where each one had a particular message. There were standing three people. Two of them seemed detached and relatively elsewhere, but the one in the middle was involved as an iconic actor of reality: he had to wait until a machine arrived, and he was doing that as a perfect gentleman. On my picture, he was surrounded by those uncertain passengers, there by the fate of life and hooked at their personal experience, books and newspapers. Behind him, sticked in an advertising space, I could see wings of an angel. I was attracted to much by the effect, I did not consider that it could have been a strategical campaign and even more premeditated, a trap for the eyes. Somehow, I made it happen.

Twice upon a time, there was a desperate jackrabbit ready to run after the meaning of life. He was a sad and poor rabbit tormented by his past, kind regards to this gentle lady in its carapace who left him on the side of the road for a year. There was now, on the way,  a frog and a repeating jackrabbit having together a reflexion about who was going to end first. The frog was breathing deeply and strongly squinting at his comrade's thighs. 

" What are you doing here, there should be a wise ox with which I hastened to compete ?

The jackrabbitt was inflating his body with the same effort. 

- Sorry, I think it's a matter of organisation. We are free to run, but trust me, someone is pulling the strings. "

At the time of fulfillment, they felt much better running together, side by side, jumping in rythm toward the sunset, waiting for the credits.

 "Bouncing twice looks like a rebound." (ndljr)

“Wrong number,” says a familiar voice.

Today, I'd like to go further with you. I am fed up with those familiar words we used to have. Express yourself by shaking the velvety substance deep in your entrails.

- Would you mind if I use my memory, the only thing I remember about my entrails is that they are stored in my memory, says a familiar voice.

- Of course, try. Put all your energy on my word, entrails.

- Whether you were looking for deepest feelings or searching for a child in an imaginary womb, your request results to a syntax error. My answer is no longer available, says a familiar voice with the same monotone voice.

- Did you find issues in the dictionary? You gave me two options: the first one is the definition one, and the second is the definition two in the dictionary.

- Wrong number, interrupts the voice

- What?

- The first definition of entrails is organs contained in the abdominal cavities. Where should I have found the answers?

- Are you suggesting that I am a down-to-earth person?

- You suggested to go further, so I have chosen the second definition in my memory. I am your computer. You make me remember what I have to do. What I have to do is to tell you what you want to do. Moreover, I can't tell you something you won't have to. You would not appreciate my opinion. I think the best compromised is to leave a syntax error. To err is human.

- Nevermind. I'll repeat my question, one way or another... "