Lou Reed

Je crois que le rock’n’roll est une culture urbaine typique du vingtième siècle. Je crois que ça a été inventé pour que quelqu’un rassemble une histoire, des paroles, des sentiments et une qualité de littérature qui soient délicieux et complémentaires à l’intelligence et au corps. On a eu Ulysse. Dostoïevski, et Shakespeare, et je voudrais créer quelque chose qui soit aussi précieux dans une maison que ces œuvres. (1981)

Je ne pense pas qu'il y ait quelqu’un dans le rock qui écrive des textes qui signifient quelque chose, à part moi. Je ne parle pas à beaucoup de gens. Quand quelqu’un est plus intelligent que moi, je la ferme et j'écoute. Ça n’arrive pas souvent.

Delmore,I missed all your funny ways/ I missed your jokes and the brilliant things you said/ My dedalus to your bloom/ was such a perfect wit.

Delmore,J’ai raté toutes tes drôles de manières/ j’ai raté tes blagues et les choses brillantes que tu as dites/Mon Dedale (personnage fictif de James Joyce ainsi que Bloom dans Ulysse)pour ton Bloom ,c’était un esprit parfait.

Extrait de la chanson "my house" 1982

Candy dit j'en viens à détester mon corps
et tout ce qu'il exige en ce monde
Candy dit je voudrais savoir absolument
Ce dont les autres parlent si discrètement

Candy says, sur l'album The Velvet Underground

Parfois, la musique rend les mots plus efficaces.
Dans les pièces et les livres, l'auteur a le droit d'écrire ce qui se passe réellement. Pourquoi la vérité des faits et des sentiments serait-elle refusée aux chansons ?

Heroin

I don't know just where I'm going
But I'm going to try for the kingdom if I can
Cause it makes me feel like I'm a man
When I put a spike in my vein
Then I'll tell you things aren't quite the same
When I'm rushing on my run
And I feel like Jesus'son
And I guess that I just don't know
And I guess that I just don't know

The Day John Kennedy Died (Le jour où John Kennedy est mort)

I dreamed I was president of these United States
I dreamed I replaced ignorance, stupidity and hate
I dreamed the perfect union and the perfect law, undenied
And most of all I dreamed I forgot the day John Kennedy died

I dreamed that I could do the job that others hadn’t done
I dreamed that I was uncorrupt and fair to everyone
I dreamed I wasn’t gross or base, a criminal on the take
And most of all I dreamed I forgot the day John Kennedy died

I remember where I was that day I was upstate in a bar
The team from the university was playing football on T.V.
Then the screen went dead and the announcer said
“There’s been a tragedy, there are unconfirmed reports the
President’s been shot, and he may be dead or dying.”
Talking stopped, someone shouted, “What?!”

I ran out the street
People were gathered everywhere saying did you hear what they
said on T.V.
and then a guy in a Porsche with his radio on
hit his horn and told us the news
He said, “The President’s dead, he was shot twice in the head
in Dallas, and they don’t know by whom.”

I dreamed that I was president of these United States
I dreamed that I was young and smart and it was not a waste
I dreamed that there was a point to life and to the human race
I dreamed I could somehow comprehend that someone
shot him in the face

*

J’ai rêvé que j’étais président des États-Unis
Je gommais l’ignorance, la bêtise et la haine
J’ai rêvé d’une entente et d’une loi parfaites, incontestées
Et surtout j’ai rêvé que j’avais oublié le jour où John Kennedy est mort

J’ai rêvé que je faisais ce que les autres n’avaient pas fait
Que j’étais intègre, et juste avec tout le monde
Que je n’étais ni vulgaire ni abject, pas un escroc qui touche des pots-de-vin
Et surtout j’ai rêvé que j’avais oublié le jour où John Kennedy est mort

Ce jour-là j’étais dans un bar, à la frontière de l’État
Je regardais l’équipe de foot de l’université à la télé
Puis l’image a été coupée et un présentateur a dit :
« Il vient d’arriver une tragédie, la nouvelle n’est pas officielle, on a tiré sur le
président, il pourrait être mort ou en train de mourir. »
Les conversations se sont arrêtées, quelqu’un a crié : « Quoi ?! »

J’ai foncé dans la rue
Les gens se rassemblaient ils disaient : vous avez entendu
ce qu’ils ont dit à la télé
Puis un type en Porsche, sa radio allumée
a klaxonné et nous a annoncé la nouvelle
Il a dit : « Le président est mort, on lui a tiré deux balles dans la tête
à Dallas, ils ne savent pas qui c’est. »

J’ai rêvé que j’étais président des États-Unis
Que j’étais jeune, intelligent et ça servait à quelque chose
La vie avait un sens, ainsi que le genre humain
J’ai rêvé que je pouvais comprendre qu’on lui ait
tiré dans la figure

(p. 180-183)

Lou Reed : Je vous admire tellement. En lisant Lettres à Olga...
[...]
Vaclav Havel : Ce livre illisible. Je l'ai écrit en prison, et tout ce qui était compréhensible , a été, euh, interdit. [...] Censuré. Ils m'ont appris à écrire des phrases de plus en plus compliquées, et aujourd'hui je ne comprends plus grand chose à ce texte.. Ce langage extrêmement complexe, c'est le résultat de la pression de la censure en prison. Parce que s'ils ne comprennent pas une oeuvre, ils autorisent sa diffusion (Rires.)

There is no time (On n’a plus le temps)

This is no time for celebration
This is no time for shaking hands
This is no time for back slapping
This is no time for marching bands
This is no time for optimism
This is no time for endless thought
This is no time for my country right or wrong
Remember what that brought

There is no time

This is no time for congratulations
This is no time to turn your back
This is no time for circumlocution
This is no time for learned speech
This is no time to count your blessings
This is no time for private gain
This is a time to put up or shut up
It won’t come back this way again

There is no time

This is no time to swallow anger
This is no time to ignore hate
This is no time to be acting frivolous
because the time is getting late

This is no time for private vendettas
This is no time to not know who you are
Self-knowledge is a dangerous thing
The freedom of who you are
This is no time to ignore warnings
This is no time to clear the plate
Let’s not be sorry after the fact
and let the past become our fate

There is no time

This is no time to turn away and drink
or smoke some vials of crack
This is a time to gather force
and take dead aim and attack
This is no time for celebration
This is no time for saluting flags
This is no time for inner searchings
The future is at the hand
This is no time for phony rhetoric
This is no time for political speech
This is a time for action
because the future’s within reach

This is time, because there is no time

*

Ce n’est pas l’heure des célébrations
Pas l’heure des poignées de main
Pas l’heure des claques dans le dos
Pas l’heure des défilés
Pas l’heure d’être optimiste
Pas l’heure des réflexions sans fin
Pas l’heure de dire mon pays a tort ou raison
Souvenez-vous du résultat

On n’a plus le temps

Ce n’est pas l’heure de se congratuler
Pas l’heure de tourner le dos
Pas l’heure des périphrases
Pas l’heure des discours appris par cœur
Pas l’heure de compter ses blessures
Pas l’heure de s’enrichir
C’est l’heure de s’impliquer ou de la fermer
L’occasion ne se représentera pas

On n’a plus le temps

Ce n’est pas l’heure d’avaler sa colère
Pas l’heure d’occulter la haine
Pas l’heure d’agir à la légère
bientôt il sera trop tard

Ce n’est pas l’heure des vendettas privées
Pas l’heure d’ignorer qui tu es
La connaissance de soi est chose dangereuse
La liberté d’être soi-même
Ce n’est pas l’heure de braver les présages
Pas l’heure de faire table rase
Ne regrettons pas nos actes
que le passé devienne notre destin

On n’a plus le temps

Ce n’est pas l’heure de tourner le dos et de boire
Ou de fumer du crack
C’est l’heure de rassembler les forces
de choisir sa cible et d’attaquer
Ce n’est pas l’heure des cérémonies
Pas l’heure de saluer les drapeaux
Pas l’heure de la quête intérieure
Le futur est proche
Ce n’est pas l’heure de la rhétorique bidon
Pas l’heure des discours politiques
C’est le moment d’agir
Car l’avenir est à portée de main

C’est le moment, parce qu’on n’a plus le temps

(p. 300-303)

Waves of Fear (Vagues d’angoisse)

Waves of fear attack in the night
Waves of revulsion—sickening sights
My heart’s nearly bursting
My chest’s choking tight

Waves of fear
Squat on the floor
Looking for some pill, the liquor is gone
Blood drips from my nose, I can barely breathe
Waves of fear I’m too scared to leave

I’m too afraid to use the phone
I’m too afraid to put the light on
I’m so afraid I’ve lost control
I’m suffocating without a word
Crazy with sweat, spittle on my jaw
What’s that funny noise,
what’s that on the floor
Waves of fear
Pulsing with death
I curse at my tremors
I jump at my own step
I cringe at my terror
I hate my own smell
I know where I must be
I must be in hell

Waves of fear
Waves of fear

*

Les vagues d’angoisse attaquent la nuit
Vagues de dégoût — visions qui rendent fou
Mon cœur va éclater
Ma poitrine se resserre
Vagues d’angoisse, vagues d’angoisse

Vagues d’angoisse
Blotti sur le sol
Je cherche une pilule, plus d’alcool
Je peux à peine respirer, du sang coule de mon nez
Vagues d’angoisse, trop peur pour sortir

Trop peur pour téléphoner
Pour allumer la lumière
Si peur d’avoir perdu le contrôle
Je suffoque sans rien dire
Je sue comme une bête, je bave
Quel est ce bruit,
Cette chose par terre
Vagues d’angoisse
Vagues de mort
Maudits tremblements
Je sursaute au bruit de mes pas
Ma peur m’effraie
Je hais mon odeur
Je sais où je suis
En enfer

Vagues d’angoisse
Vagues d’angoisse

(p. 174-175)

I'll be your mirror


I'll be your mirror, reflect what you are
In case you don't know
I'll be the wind, the rain and the sunset
The light on your door
To show that you're home

When you think the night has seen your mind
that inside you're twisted and unkind
Let me stand to show that you are blind
Please put down your hands
Cause I see you

I find it hard
to believe you don't know
The beauty you are
But if you don't
Let me be your eyes
A hand to your darkness
So you won't be afraid

When you see the night has seen your mind
that inside you're twisted and unkind
Let me stand to show that you are blind
Please put down your hands
Cause I see you

I'll be your mirro

Strawman (Homme de paille)

We who have so much
To you who have so little
To you who don’t have anything at all
We who have so much
More than any one man does need
And you who don’t have anything at all
Does anybody need another million dollar movie
Does anybody need another million dollar star
Does anybody need to be told over and over
Spitting in the wind comes back at you twice as hard

Strawman, going straight to the devil
Strawman, going straight to hell

Does anyone really need a billion dollar rocket
Does anyone need a $60,000 car
or the sins of Swaggart parts 6, 7, 8 and 9
Does anyone need another politician
Caught with his pants down
Money sticking in his hole
Does anyone need another racist preacher
Spittin’ in the wind can only do you harm

Does anyone need another faulty shuttle
Blasting off to the moon, Venus or Mars
Does anyone need another self-righteous rock singer
Whose nose he says led him straight to God
Does anyone need yet another blank skyscraper
if you’re like me I’m sure a minor miracle will do
A flaming sword or maybe a gold ark floating up the Hudson
When you spit in the wind it comes right back at you

*

Nous qui avons tant
À toi qui es si démuni
À toi qui ne possèdes rien
Nous qui avons tant
Plus qu’il ne faut
Et toi qui ne possèdes rien
A-t-on besoin d’un nouveau film d’un million de dollars
D’une nouvelle star à un million de dollars
Ou qu’on nous répète tout le temps la même chose
Crache dans le vent ça te revient en pleine gueule

Homme de paille, va droit au diable
Homme de paille, va droit en enfer

A-t-on besoin d’une voiture à 60 000 dollars
Et d’un missile à un milliard
A-t-on vraiment besoin d’un nouveau président
ou des péchés de Swaggart* parties 6, 7, 8 et 9
Ou d’un politicien de plus
Surpris avec son froc baissé
De l’argent collé dans le cul
A-t-on besoin d’un nouveau prêcheur raciste
Cracher dans le vent ne te fera aucun bien

A-t-on besoin d’une autre navette foireuse
Qui explose en route pour la Lune, Vénus ou Mars
A-t-on besoin d’un nouveau chanteur de rock pompeux
Qui dit que son intuition l’a conduit à Dieu
A-t-on besoin d’un gratte-ciel de plus
si vous êtes comme moi je suis sûr qu’un petit miracle suffira
Une épée de lumière ou bien une arche d’or remontant l’Hudson
Quand tu craches dans le vent ça te revient en pleine gueule

*Jimmy Swaggart est un évangéliste pentecôtiste, impliqué en 1988 dans un scandale sexuel avec une prostituée, ce qui le conduira à être défroqué par Assemblies of God (les Assemblées de Dieu) : un regroupement d’églises pentecôtistes

(p. 292-295)

Last Great American Whale (La dernière grande baleine américaine)

They say he didn’t have an enemy
His was a greatness to behold
He was the last surviving progeny
The last one on this side of the world
He measured half a mile from tip to tail
silver and black with powerful fins
They say he could split a mountain in two
that’s how we got the Grand Canyon

Some say they saw him at the Great Lakes
Some say they saw him off the coast of Florida
My mother said she saw him in Chinatown
but you can’t always trust your mother
Off the Carolinas the sun shines brightly in the day
The lighthouse glows ghostly there at night
The chief of a local tribe had killed a racist mayor’s son
and he’d been on death row since 1958
The mayor’s kid was a rowdy pig
Spit on Indians and lots worse
The Old Chief buried a hatchet in his head
Life compared to death for him seemed worse
The tribal brothers gathered in the lighthouse to sing
and tried to conjure up a storm or rain

The harbor parted and the great whale sprang full up
and caused a huge tidal wave
The wave crushed the jail and freed the chief
The tribe let out a roar
The whites were drowned
The browns and reds set free
but sadly one thing more
Some local yokel member of the NRA
kept a bazooka in his living room
and thinking he had the Chief in his sights
blew the whale’s brain out with a lead harpoon

Well Americans don’t care for much of anything
Land and water the least
And animal life is low on the totem pole
with human life not worth more than infected yeast
Americans don’t care too much for beauty
They’ll shit in a river, dump battery acid in a stream
They’ll watch dead rats wash up on the beach
and complain if they can’t swim
They say things are done for the majority
Don’t believe half of what you see
and none of what you hear

It’s a lot like what my painter friend Donald said to me,
"Stick a fork in their ass and turn ‘em over, they’re done"

*

Elle n’avait pas un seul ennemi
Elle était splendide
C’était la dernière survivante de son espèce
La dernière dans cette partie du monde
Huit cents mètres de la tête à la queue
grise et noire, de puissantes nageoires
Elle peut fendre une montagne en deux
c’est comme ça qu’est né le Grand Canyon

Certains disent qu’ils l’ont vue dans les Grands Lacs
D’autres au large de la Floride
Ma mère dit qu’elle l’a vue à Chinatown
mais faut pas toujours croire sa mère
Au sud des Carolines le soleil brille très fort
Le phare a une lumière spectrale
Le chef d’une tribu locale avait tué le fils d’un maire raciste
il était condamné depuis 1958
Le gosse du maire était un sale type, un violent
Il crachait sur les Indiens et bien pire
Le Vieux Chef lui a planté sa hache dans la tête
Pour lui la vie était pire que la mort
Les hommes de la tribu sont allés au phare pour chanter
faire venir la pluie, déclencher une tempête

Le port s’est ouvert en deux, la grande baleine a sauté
et provoqué un raz de marée
La vague a détruit la prison et libéré le chef
La tribu a poussé des cris
Les Blancs ont été noyés
Les Noirs et les Rouges remis en liberté
mais malheureusement
Un plouc local membre de la NRA
avait un bazooka dans son salon
et pensant avoir le Chef dans sa mire
a tué la baleine avec un lance-harpon

Les Américains se fichent pratiquement de tout
De la terre et de l’eau
Le règne animal est en bas du mât totémique
la vie humaine ne vaut pas mieux qu’une vieille levure
Les Américains n’attachent pas grande importance à la beauté
Ils chient dans les rivières, balancent les vieilles piles dans les ruisseaux
Ils regardent des rats morts échouer sur le rivage
et se plaignent de ne pouvoir nager
Ils disent dans l’ensemble on agit
Ne croyez pas la moitié de ce que vous voyez
et rien de ce que vous entendez

Ça ressemble beaucoup à ce que Donald, mon ami peintre, m’a dit :
« Plante-leur une fourchette dans le cul et retourne-les, ils sont faits. »

(p. 272-275)

Last great american whale

They say he didn't have an enemy
his was a greatness to behold
He was the last surviving progeny
the last one on this side of the world

He measured a half mile from tip to tail
silver and black with powerful fins
They say he could split a mountain in two
that's how we got the Grand Canyon

Some say they saw him at the Great Lakes
some say they saw him off of Florida
My mother said she saw him in Chinatown
but you can't always trust your mother
(...)


La dernière grande baleine américaine

Elle n'avait pas un seul ennemi
Elle était splendide
C'était la dernière survivante de son espèce
La dernière dans cette partie du monde
Huit cent mètres de la tête à la queue
grise et noire, de puissantes nageoires
Elle peut fendre une montagne en deux
c'est comme ça qu'est né le Grand Canyon

Certains disent qu'ils l'ont vue dans les Grands Lacs
D'autres au large de la Floride
Ma mère dit qu'elle l'a vue à Chinatown
mais faut pas toujours croire sa mère
(...)

« La texture de sa voix est l’une des plus pure et des plus chaudes et elle a la couleur d’un coucher de soleil et du champagne. »

Lou Reed à propos d'Etienne Daho.

Je prends des drogues uniquement parce que, au XXème siècle, dans une ère de technologie omniprésente, quand vous vivez en ville, il y a certaines drogues que vous devez prendre juste pour rester normal comme un homme des cavernes. Juste pour vous faire remonter ou redescendre pour atteindre l'équilibre, vous avez besoin de prendre certaines drogues. Elles ne vous feront pas forcément planer, elles vous rendront juste normal.

Dirty Blvd. (Boulevard Mal Famé)

Pedro lives out of the Wilshire Hotel
he looks at the window without glass
The walls are made of cardboard
newspapers on his feet
and his father beats him ’cause he’s too tired to beg
He’s got 9 brothers and sisters
They’re brought up on their knees
It’s hard to run when a coat hanger beats you on the tights
Pedro dreams of being older and killing the old man
But that’s a slim chance he’s going to The Boulevard

This room cost 2000 dollars a month
You can believe it man it’s true
Somewhere a landlord’s laughing till he wets his pants
No one here dreams of being a doctor or a lawyer or anything
They dream of dealing on The Dirty Boulevard

Give me your hungry, your tired, your poor I’ll piss on ’em
that’s what the Statue of Bigotry says
Your poor huddled masses—let’s club ’em to death
and get it over with and just dump ’em on The Boulevard

Outside it’s a bright night, there’s an opera at Lincoln Center
movie stars arrive by limousine
The klieg lights shoot up over the skyline of Manhattan
but the lights are out on the mean streets

A small kid stands by the Lincoln Tunnel
He’s selling plastic roses for a buck
The traffic’s backed up to 39th street
The TV whores are calling the cops out for a suck

And back at the Wilshire, Pedro sits there dreaming
He’s found a book on magic in a garbage can
He looks at the pictures and stares up at the cracked ceiling
“At the count of 3”, he says, “I hope I can disappear
and fly fly away...”

*

Pedro tire son pain de l’Hôtel Wilshire
pas de carreaux à sa fenêtre
Des murs en carton
des journaux aux pieds
son père le bat parce qu’il est trop fatigué pour mendier

Il a neuf frères et sœurs
On les élève à genoux
Dur de courir quand on reçoit des coups de cintre sur les cuisses
Pedro rêve d’être grand, de tuer le vieux
Mais il y a peu de chance qu’il aille sur le Boulevard

Cette piaule coûte 2000 dollars par mois
Tu peux me croire mec c’est vrai
Quelque part un propriétaire pisse de rire
Ici personne ne rêve d’être avocat médecin ou autre chose
Ils rêvent tous de dealer sur le Boulevard Mal Famé

Donnez-moi les affamés, les pauvres, les accablés et je leur pisserai dessus
dit la Statue du Sectarisme
Les masses pauvres et agglutinées — matraquons-les à mort
finissons-en, balançons-les sur le Boulevard

Dehors la nuit est claire, il y a un opéra au Lincoln Center
des stars de cinéma arrivent en limousine
Les gratte-ciel de Manhattan sont illuminés
les quartiers chauds plongés dans le noir

Un môme près du Lincoln Tunnel
Vend des roses en plastique pour un dollar
Circulation dense jusqu’à la 39e Rue
Les putes de la télé appellent les flics et font de la lèche

Et au Wilshire, Pedro est assis en train de rêver
Il a trouvé un livre sur la magie dans une poubelle
Il regarde les images et fixe le plafond lézardé
« À trois », dit-il, « je voudrais disparaître
et m’envoler... »

(p. 262-265)

Waldo Jeffers had reached his limit.
It was now mid-August which meant that he had been separated from Marsha for more than two months.
Two months, and all he had to show were three dog-eared letters and two very expensive long-distance phone calls.
True, when school had ended and she'd returned to Wisconsin and he to Locust, Pennsylvania she had sworn to maintain a certain fidelity.
She would date occasionally, but merely as amusement.
She would remain faithful. But lately Waldo had begun to worry.
He had trouble sleeping at night and when he did, he had horrible dreams.
He lay awake at night, tossing and turning underneath his printed quilt protector, tears welling in his eyes,
As he pictured Marsha, her sworn vows overcome by liquor and the smooth soothings of some Neanderthal,
Finally submitting to the final caresses of sexual oblivion. It was more than the human mind could bear.

Visions of Marsha's faithlessness haunted him.
Daytime fantasies of sexual abandon permeated his thoughts.
And the thing was, they wouldn't understand who she really was.
He, Waldo, alone, understood this.
He had intuitively grasped every nook and cranny of her psyche.
He had made her smile, and she needed him, and he wasn't there. (Awww.)
The idea came to him on the Thursday before the Mummers Parade was scheduled to appear.
He had just finished mowing and edging the Edelsons lawn for a dollar-fifty
And had checked the mailbox to see if there was at least a word from Marsha.
There was nothing more than a circular form the Amalgamated Aluminum Company of America inquiring into his awning needs.
At least they cared enough to write.

It was a New York company. You could go anywhere in
the mails. Then it struck him: he didn't have enough
money to go to Wisconsin in the accepted fashion,
true, but why not mail himself? It was absurdly
simple. He would ship himself parcel post special
delivery. The next day Waldo went to the supermarket
to purchase the necessary equipment. He bought
masking tape, a staple gun and a medium sized
cardboard box, just right for a person of his build.
He judged that with a minimum of jostling he could
ride quite comfortably. A few airholes, some water, a
selection of midnight snacks, and it would probably be
as good as going tourist.

By Friday afternoon, Waldo was set. He was thoroughly
packed and the post office had agreed to pick him up
at three o'clock. He'd marked the package "FRAGILE"
and as he sat curled up inside, resting in the foam
rubber cushioning he'd thoughtfully included, he tried
to picture the look of awe and happiness on Marsha's
face as she opened the door, saw the package, tipped
the deliverer, and then opened it to see her Waldo
finally there in person. She would kiss him, and then
maybe they could see a movie. If he'd only thought of
this before. Suddenly rough hands gripped his package
and he felt himself borne up. He landed with a thud
in a truck and then he was off.

Marsha Bronson had just finished setting her hair. It
had been a very rough weekend. She had to remember
not to drink like that. Bill had been nice about it
though. After it was over he'd said that he still
respected her and, after all, it was certainly the way
of nature and even though no, he didn't love her, he
did feel an affection for her. And after all, they
were grown adults. Oh, what Bill could teach Waldo --
but that seemed many years ago. Sheila Klein, her
very, very best friend walked in through the porch
screen door into the kitchen. "Oh God, it's
absolutely maudlin outside."
"Ugh, I know what you mean, I feel all icky." Marsha
tightened the belt on her cotton robe with the silk
outer edge. Sheila ran her finger over some salt
grains on the kitchen table, licked her finger and
made a face.
"I'm supposed to be taking these salt pills, but," she
wrinkled her nose, "they make me feel like throwing
up."
Marsha started to pat herself under the chin, an
exercise she'd seen on television. "God, don't even
talk about that." She got up from the table and went
to the sink where she picked up a bottle of pink and
blue vitamins. "Want one? Supposed to be better than
steak." And attempted to touch her knees. "I don't
think I'll ever touch a daiquiri again." She gave up
and sat down, this time nearer the small table that
supported the telephone. "Maybe Bill'll call," she
said to Sheila's glance.
Sheila nibbled on a cuticle. "After last night, I
thought maybe you'd be through with him."
"I know what you mean. My God, he was like an
octopus. Hands all over the place." She gestured,
raising her arms upward in defense. "The thing is
after a while, you get tired of fighting with him, you
know, and after all he didn't really do anything
Friday and Saturday so I kind of owed it to him, you
know what I mean." She started to scratch. Sheila
was giggling with her hand over her mouth. "I'll tell
you, I felt the same way, and even after a while," she
bent forward in a whisper, "I wanted to," and now she
was laughing very loudly.

It was at this point that Mr. Jameson of the Clarence
Darrow Post Office rang the door bell of the large
stucco colored frame house. When Marsha Bronson
opened the door, he helped her carry the package in.
He had his yellow and his green slips of paper signed
and left with a fifteen-cent tip that Marsha had
gotten out of her mothers small beige pocket book in
the den. "What do you think it is?" Sheila asked.
Marsha stood with her arms folded behind her back. S
he stared at the brown cardboard carton that sat in
the middle of the living room. "I don't know."

Inside the package Waldo quivered with excitement as
he listened to the muffled voices. Sheila ran her
fingernail over the masking tape that ran down the
center of the carton. "Why don't you look at the
return address and see who it is from?" Waldo felt
his heart beating. He could feel the vibrating
footsteps. It would be soon.

Marsha walked around the carton and read the
ink-scratched label. "Ugh, God, it's from Waldo!"
"That schmuck," said Sheila. Waldo trembled with
expectation. "Well, you might as well open it," said
Sheila. Both of them tried to lift the stapled flap.

"Ahh, shit," said Marsha groaning. "He must have
nailed it shut." They tugged at the flap again. "My
God, you need a power drill to get this thing opened."
They pulled again. "You can't get a grip!" They
both stood still, breathing heavily.
"Why don't you get the scissors," said Sheila. Marsha
ran into the kitchen, but all she could find was a
little sewing scissor. Then she remembered that her
father kept a collection of tools in the basement.
She ran downstairs and when she came back, she had a
large sheet-metal cutter in her hand.
"This is the best I could find." She was very out of
breath. "Here, you do it. I'm gonna die." She sank
into a large fluffy couch and exhaled noisily.
Sheila tried to make a slit between the masking tape
and the end of the cardboard, but the blade was too
big and there wasn't enough room. "Godamn this
thing!" she said feeling very exasperated. Then,
smiling, "I got an idea."
"What?" said Marsha.
"Just watch," said Sheila touching her finger to her
head.

Inside the package, Waldo was so transfixed with
excitement that he could barely breathe. His skin
felt prickly from the heat and he could feel his heart
beating in his throat. It would be soon. Sheila
stood quite upright and walked around to the other
side of the package. Then she sank down to her knees,
grasped the cutter by both handles, took a deep breath
and plunged the long blade through the middle of the
package, through the middle of the masking tape,
through the cardboard, through the cushioning and
(thud) right through the center of Waldo Jeffers head,
which split slightly and caused little rhythmic arcs
of red to pulsate gently in the morning sun

Since half the world is H2O

having disregarded exhortations to join the
NAVY
We learn to swim.
Those who do not swim,
Learn to sail,
Or more bizarrely,
Water ski.
Others, who had not even conceived of water,
Oh they wish for dry land.
But as the continents are defined by the sea,
This is never wholly possible.


Vu que la moitié du monde est de l'H2O

Après avoir refusé de s'engager
Dans la MARINE
On apprend à nager.
Ceux qui ne nagent pas,
Apprennent la voile,
Ou plus bizarrement
Le ski nautique.
D'autres, qui n'avaient jamais pensé à l'eau
Oh ! rêvent de la terre ferme
Mais comme les continents sont définis par la mer
Ce n'est pas vraiment possible.

THE BLUE MASK
"They tied his arms behind his back to teach him how to swim
They put blood in his coffee and milk in his gin"