Ebony Essence

Words unread, words written

In vain.

I scattered these letters,
Why didn’t you catch them?
They are still suspended, waiting.

Words written, words unread.
Lying on brown and dusty pages.
I sense a faint smell of inspiration,
Locked behind bars,

Letters, words, sentences,
Thrown in the air,
My hand are hesitating.
I stumble and stomp on assonances,
Stammered words, misunderstood.

Please catch these words,
The ink is not dry yet,
Pure and clear blue;
Words unread, words written.
I reveal my mind subtly

Nearly captured, nearly tinted.
*L’Afrique  is one of the allegorical statue in   in front of  Musée d’Orsey in Paris made by Eugène Delaplanche. You can admire 5 others representing the 5 others continents all created for 1878 l’Exposition Universelle.


My bionic nose

Grammarians, English language wardens I apologise…

My sister once said she’s always known me having nosebleeds. She is 12 years  younger than me.

My nose is a traitor, I can’t rely on him. He always embarrasses me. It is a love and hate relationship.
At the moment, he is behaving. I touch wood, I cross my fingers, toes, feet, legs, eyes etc.
Some days, he would threaten me. A  drop on a tissue and I would stop breathing. My heart would race, my hands would tremble, my blood pressure would be over the roof.
Armed with a tissue in my hand, another on my desk, one  in my pocket several in my bag : I would wait for the hemorrhage. Ready to respect  the 10 minutes rule : 10 minutes of silence. 10 dreadful minutes hoping it would stop.  Another 10 minutes to spit the clot : nose-bleeders will know what I am talking about!!!!
I would say, he is one of my biggest preoccupation. Don’t touch my face, don’t throw things at me! I try to protect him the best I can.  He gets a special treatment every day.
Sneezing, better to say the art of sneezing. Generally,  you sneeze without thinking. It is a spontaneous act. I sneeze through my mouth. It might not be easy to understand. The strength goes through my mouth and not through my nose.  My explanation is not as clear I wanted it to be, unfortunately  I don’t know how to be more precise.  Challenge, try this the next time you sneeze.
My sneeze is noisy. Once upon a time I was able to pinch my nose and have an almost inaudible one.
I have also stopped blowing my nose for years now.  But occasionnaly  in extreme condition, bad cold for example, I treat myself.
My nostrils, the twins as I call them are not identical. They are different and independent despite the thin wall between them, the septum. The left one is the naughtiest, always was. He has caused me too much trouble, always has. The diva, the drama queen! Always in tears : I tried to take care of him. The doctors too : too many cauterizations. I remember the burnt hair smell. The electrocautery or the butchery of my young nasal vessels was an inefficient procedure.  I remember, the week after I would bleed like never before.
I have learned to live with or maybe not. “It is just a nosebleed” I try to convince myself but too many.
The right nostril has been an angel. He was reluctant to copy his brother. One day, he lost it ! Both started partying as mad, 10 minutes, 20, 30 it was like an eternity.
I knew at this time that my nose had decided to take control of my freedom. Planted in the middle of my face smiling at me  murmuring : “And what?”.
One doctor convinced me to have a septoplasty, it might stop the chronic bleeding. One septoplasty plus an heavily cauterization later, no changes, no improvements.
However, my bionic nose is amazing. I can smell the good and the bad before everybody. Yes, unfortunately.

I am the only one who can understand his ups and downs, his tantrums.
I treat him with care, I am always gentle. He is good at the moment but I keep vigilant, always.
My nose and I,  a long and complicated relationship.



For today prompt, I’ve asked my daughters who would like to write about “heal”.
I love their writing: poetry or short stories. My heart always melts when I read their words.
My eldest wanted to know if it is because “I couldn’t be bothered” to write a post.  I’ve told them for a month I will challenge myself and write a post every day. No, it’s not a way to escape from this.
The youngest accepted the challenge. She is 9 years old.
Before the agreement in principle, I had the usual lesson on how to pronounce it. For me, with my strong French accent, “heal”, “heel” “ill”, “eel” sound the same. I’ve tried and tried but funnily the French is stronger. Damn! When I talk, I can see the confusion on certain faces: I know I didn’t say the word properly. Then I try again and it is even more laughable.

So firstly, she wrote a few sentences defining the word.  “It would be good if you write a poem,” I said. Inspiration can be tricky sometimes however in less than 5 minutes she wrote this text:

Hey, you! You are going to be fine
Either they give you a plaster or wipe it up.
Are you allergic to anything?
Lastly, they’ll say you’ve been very brave, and normally, give you a sticker or a teddy.

She is speaking from experience for sure. She has received a few teddies and stickers in the past years.

Lots of people are dreaming of this word. It’s like a laboured obsession. The ultimate goal to reach: a tumultuous, depressing or unrealistic goal.
The journey to heal-land: motorways, buses, trains, planes; pain, tears, painkillers, resignation. Hours in a waiting room among lost eyes and rictus. Each pair hoping they will hear the word over-expected, the right diagnostic.

Heal-land or Utopia, you use the one the most suitable.
I wish all sufferers to reach this peaceful country where all pains are  non-existent, hearts are beating and bodies regenerate.

The teddy for hugs and comfort;
The sticker to acknowledge your bravery, better to place it on your chest;
Are you allergic to any medicines? You receive at last a new treatment, the rictus became a smile;
A cotton to wipe the excess of blood from any blood tests, each appointment ending with you leaving a part of you behind.
H for Hotel
E for Echo
A for Alpha
L for Lima.

Grammarians, English language wardens I apologise…

Rotten self 


I can’t remember how often I had this feeling…

I am an outsider. 

An alien, I believe.

I come from nothing :
I would like to believe that!
I have a weak nose,
Also a strong pressure,
My words are lost sometimes;

My voice can’t be heard
Among a cacophony  of nonsense.
My legs always refuse to  go forward,
A poppet with chopsticks and an active brain
I feel it again. I experienced it at 8, 12, 13, 19, 32, 38, 43 years old.
Outlier, never in, never part : different.
Little words, too much and my reason wanders.
From here to there, the right hemisphere is teasing the left.

I am lost between love and hate,
I am found between desire and repulsion.
I felt it in my dreams,
Bizarre, I don’t mind being different.
I am haunted with my young thoughts,
Those nightmares I have often fought.
I will feel it again, again and again.
“Outlier”, they said.
I am outlaw,  outcast, out of this world, “Outlier” they repeat.
I am enjoying it, the new way to define myself ,
This self too often forgotten,
This self reborn from a rotten past.
“Outlier” they hammered,  even if I have already agreed.
At 8, I felt sad!
I stop grieving and felt it proudly,
Beautifully, intensively, shamelessly.

I thought

Mornings sickness started years ago.  From when I wake up until my first breakfast, I am in a state where everything wants to come out : a constant feeling of nausea. I usually have two toasts with butter and jam. I have stopped drinking coffee as they said caffeine is not good for the baby. I bought my first barley drink, the taste reminds me my usual cup of coffee so needed after many sleepless nights. During the day I would have some infusions,  mint preferably.

Cravings, of course! Not strawberry too cliche : soft cheese! But unfortunately I  am not allowed.I have to avoid listeria bacteria. Too dangerous for the baby.
After all these months, years I should have felt something, a kick something…
I am getting fatter and fatter. My belly is round like the full moon, my ankles are swollen at the end of the day.
I have planned everything. I don’t want to know if it’s a boy or a girl.
The room is beautiful, I  even painted a fresco on the ceiling.
I am so excited.
I refuse to go to my GP. I can’t go to the chemist to buy a pregnancy test. My unconscious is too strong, indestructible.
He brought me one once! It’s in the cupboard, on the top shelf behind the allergie tablets.
I push my belly forward, it has to be obvious.  With my “baby on board” badge my journeys are easier during the rush hour pick. A few exchanges of smiles and I rub my belly reassuring myself.
I am pregnant, beautiful and impatient to give birth.
Epidural or not? Only gas maybe.

He took me to the doctors.  My first scan. I am happy. Ecstatic to meet my host.
I have been on denial for years.

Denial“>a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/denial/”>Denial




Patriotic chants in every detours,

I can hear them.
Riots began way before the sunset,
Hurry up, don’t stay out!

Uniforms and matched berets roll in the abandoned  streets, ghostly city;
Don’t go out my love!

No clemency, out foreigners!

My faith has been knocked out.
Torn apart, I shrug the kids.
A tear, I can’t afford crying.
Be prudent, don’t go out.

Patriotic chants are still striking into the air,
Wrong place, wrong name?

Hope and beliefs,
At last.
Freedom flags start blossoming from  the skylights,
Sweet colours, true colours.
A rainbow of love,
Hands joined I believe it is  a chain of peace.
These chants, in my ears, are rays of sunshine

I have been prudent therefore I am.

Uniforms and berets are  lying on the floor,
Defeated, maybe!
Don’t wake them up!

My love, united there is no wrong name
United, there’s no wrong place.
Stay prudent, always!

Big Brother is watching

Grammarians, English language wardens I apologise…

I have started reading 1984 a few weeks ago in English. I read it in French at University. I’m sure a lot of people experience the same after learning a foreign language that the original version is always better than the translated one. A movie in the original version with subtitles is better than the French version. I hate French version movies in other languages. I am discovering George Orwell original writing and it is fascinating. I am a watcher, a nosy, a curious. My eyes go back to front. I ask questions. I want to know everything before making a decision. I won’t agree to commit myself without knowing what I am signing for. Yes I am a watcher, but I have been watched too. My performances have been controlled, monitored. My emails screened, eyes are checking on me. At the station, filmed on the platform, on the train, in the street, when I enter the building at work. I clocked in, sign in on my computer, sign out, clocked out. We are watched. Can you believe that all your correspondences, the professional ones or private ones, are read?  It is as if you were naked. Of course, you would like to share different things with others.  Who doesn’t like communicating! For example, you will discuss tissues with X and towels with Y, when you discuss scarves with Z. However, Big Brother grants itself the right to steal your tissues, towels and scarves stories at the same time. The fact is, he doesn’t need all the information: he needs only the socks! He will save the extra information and would perhaps use them when needed or when asked.

Big Brother is everywhere. Little Brother, Big Sister, Little Sister: all his relatives are on the look-out! In some businesses, it is easy to be overwhelmed by the way people act. Don’t expect people to be like you. One this has been understood, life is easier. Each whisper can be harmful, each gossip brings more gossip and you start yourself participating in this culture of gossip. Gossiping becomes the norm. You find good gossips and bad gossips. The ones which could make you cry, others built on lies or so made up, unbelievable but repeated and over repeated.

Are these people real?

You will learn a lot about an individual and sometimes your own words will be spread. How strange to hear someone repeating the words you have used at one point?  You are not only watched by the system or company, your peers will carry on with the monitoring scheme. I am guilty too. I would say it’s good gossiping but what is good for one can be interpreting as bad by others. This is a culture of total control when it’s difficult to think or to have your own opinions. You will be labelled. Going with the fringe, you might be promoted, you can be one of the mob. I would say I don’t like to be watched. I do care however I won’t change who I am. I am an independent ( I like saying that, it’s my brand!). I am me and I won’t pretend. I don’t follow a trend, not a sheep of the herd neither. Thankfully, I still need to know why before acting. If the reason is not illegible or irrelevant I will refuse to act. Am I difficult? Noooo!  Just sensible! “Better to be known as a sinner than a hypocrite”. I found this quote on the Internet and kept it as it summarize the Self (Me). On the “sinner” part I might write on this one day.

I am still on the same page after a week : 1984 by George Orwell. I have been very studious!

Emotions and rain,
Why this door has to be opened?

No knock, one sign.
My heart jumped.
Not today, not this  Wednesday.

Why this door has to be opened?
I whispered.
Emotions and cold.

I postponed it.
My heart tightened
I played,
My mind is all over the place.

Why this door has to be opened?
Scattered movements,
Unclear speech.
Why today, why not tomorrow?

This door has to be opened,
Emotions and sun,
You came back,
Overflowing emotions, my feeling.

This door will open,
Torrents and cascades,
You came back and my heart is tighter,
Scattered movements.

Inertia, mine;
Squared emotions, cubic feelings.
It was meant to be today,
Not tomorrow, not yesterday.

Angels, my heart is painful.
My eyes have swollen,
My head is all over the place
I am without being.

My minds is travelling through months, years,
A decade wandering.
Closed doors, a few I reckon.

Shall I open them?
One by one, a decade passed and the keys are lost.
Old habits, these doors should be opened.

Angels, I open the door.
You were there.
You came back.
I am without being.
Cascades and torrents,
Squared feeling, cubic emotions.

22nd of March is today,
Not tomorrow,
Not yesterday.

My Phobia

​Grammarians, English language wardens I apologise…

A phobia is “an extreme fear or dislike of a particular thing or situation,especially one that cannot bereasonably explained”

Last week I was thinking about what I would write about. What I would share with the world or the few people willing to read my texts, my tribulations.

I came up with my phobia!
Coincidence: my colleague came 3 days after I have decided to write about it with a superb necklace, sparkly green,  so beautiful but so realistic.
I felt strange :  I was between admiration and fear. When the mind contradicts itself.
It was an amazing piece of jewellery. The red eye, magnifique!

I remember when I was little, they were everywhere specially climbing the trees or “sitting” on the house’s ceiling.
Anecdote : my cousins could have been accused of animal cruaulty. They use to rein them and making them carry bottles! It  was awful.

 They used to stare at me. I used to move as quicky I can to be far away; as far as I can.

During the summer they love sunbathing on bridges, like some humans : just getting the right tan before going back to work! I know it’s less futile. Apparently they lounged in the sun to keep warm and  looking fo Vitamin D, like us!

I gave you so many clues, you might have guessed.

I won’t name it right now! People who know me are laughing!
It seems silly! But I’m glad I didn’t pass this to my progenitors. Sometimes an entire familly can have the same fear, it’s not innate for sure acquired, learnt.

My hobby, when I was little : climbing trees. Dancing on trees, defying altitude and force, the higher the better. The highest to pick the last fruits, at the end of the season. 
They were hiding sometimes and would appear suddenly, the fall. Not it but me!  Laughable but painful.
We call them “zandoli” back home.
They can be green, brown, small, big.  They can be nocturnal or diurnal.

I am scared of lizards. I have said it! This inoffensive little creature, so cute for some but just vile for me. Writing this,  it’s as if I have overcomed my fear. It is as if…
I could  touch my colleague’s necklace, I would pick one by it tail and put it on my arm.
I could have one as a pet, wandering with it everywhere.
A few years ago I saw a girl with her pet lizard on the platform : I was on the opposite train. Luckily!
I could climb any tree and greet each one I meet. I could have a conversation with the one sunbathing on the bridges, talking about holidays and plan for next year.

I can appreciate the feelings of  people with phobias like: spiders, feet, socks, rats, dark, work, Mondays, Christmas, names, bridges, lifts, chickpeas, Z, etc.

I would be curious to hear Freud analysing my phobia. I could be Bertha, Emmy or Hans ( Freud’s patients). Olala! I think I am overexagerating.

Luckily where I am now I don’t see them very often except on TV sometimes or on my colleague’s neck.

And why not share your phobia in the comments?