I do breakfast

Late one night, I was raising my arms, touching my legs, turning my head to one side and then the other as if I were driving a strange machine. This tough body in which I live transports me where I wish to go, a real-life vehicle, made of a strong frame, able to house and feed. I’ve never really worried about the human body. Of course I coexist with it every day. Slowly but surely, I notice it getting weaker and losing its agility. Like a fur coat worn for a thousand years, its casing cracks and splits, and becomes damaged and stained. I’ve never helped things either, completely ignoring magical creams that might have helped slow down my skin’s degeneration. Born in a large bay between land and sea, I’ve always thought of myself as strong as the rocks of the Gaspé cliffs and bright like the water of the high tides. Since they were much too busy trying to get along and find a compromise to their joyless marriage, my parents never really had the time to educate their kids. Our bodies matured in complete freedom; a bit like wild cattails on the side of the road. Quickly forced to earn our living, my siblings and I never had time to get to know each other. We knew little about ourselves until each one of us found courage and determination and discovered our strengths, weaknesses, talents and fears. We aged, and here I am today, already in my seventy-eighth year on earth. This old body, tired and worn, still serves me faithfully. What should I call it? Persona, individual, anatomy, matter, corpus, substance or perhaps organism? What a strange thing this body is that keeps on going! I guess it’s like the house that never wonders who lives under its roof; it simply provides accommodation and shelter. I appreciate everything this body is and has been, everything it still insists on doing for me after all these years. It doesn’t moan, although it does make some noise; it never curses or contradicts me. This ultimate wonder of the world deserves all my praises and, one day, someone will have to place Holland’s most beautiful tulips at its feet in my name. Will this body also give up its soul and die one day? How can I go on without it? It gesticulates, speaks, gets agitated and says everything I feel like saying. It faces adversity, cares for my creative processor and gives life to many of my desires. When it’s upset, annoyed, tired or displeased, this body raises its voice. Sometimes I feel like its heartbeat invents an unbearable gallop just to distract us. Until it releases its last breath, this venerable body will keep me alive. What will happen to me afterwards? Without this body, what will I see in the mirror? Who will I be in the world? A fleeting memory, a deactivated nuclear plant? Without these eyes, I will quickly forget the beauty. Without this nose’s olfactive power, I’ll give up the scent of flowers, and without this basic mobility, I’ll become the living dead searching for eternal rest. Yet I anticipate an imperceptible acceptance of everything I am before I no longer am. This breath of life will animate me and manifest itself at the centre of the universe I’ll have created myself. At least that’s what the wise thinkers say. My thoughts, my conscience, my discernment and all the love my heart contains will not die. This breath, this happy immaterial presence in a material world, will be immortal. And when the time comes for the body to decompose, this house of flesh will transform into a million shooting stars. When my fingers climb on top of each other and I’m unable to stop them from escaping, I remain still and calm. I savour this suspended moment. I patiently wait for the moment when my knuckles dislocate, my palms drop their load and I can no longer stand up against the inevitable. I’m waiting for the final show when the body collapses and is reborn as millions of particles of hope, and when the heart finally arrives at Heaven’s gate. But the breath remains, searching for another home to house its airy matter; a kind of divine state of mind that any departed human can experience. Cora ♥️

In my big home, transformed into a library, there’s only a small corner left with room on a bookshelf for another book. All the walls are lined with bookcases, a collection of bestsellers I’ve been dusting for over 30 years. There’s a very long table in my four-season sunroom on which my most recent acquisitions are piling up. And the table is overflowing! I read incessantly, most times unable to separate the good from the bad. I’m no expert when it comes to novels. On the other hand, when someone suggests a book by Dany Laferrière, I read the back cover and buy it regardless of the price, though it’s almost always second-hand. I know, I know! I’m a compulsive buyer when it comes to books. I’m totally unable to resist delicious poetry volumes that enrich my mind. Since I live in the country, my weekly trips revolve around second-hand bookstores, and there are so many in our beautiful Laurentians! Especially in the summertime when people everywhere hold yard sales and lay out their merchandise in the sun. I’ve often gotten my hands on incredible finds that were in good condition, some classics and even a few rarities whose pages had barely been touched. I love books even more than I love ice cream or fudge! Of course, I sometimes fall for a gripping title before I even read the back cover. I seriously think my love of books is turning into an obsession. Really! I glance, I gaze, I get carried away. I grew up and then lived without affection, attention and, worse, even love. Am I compensating today by accumulating so many great books to keep me company? These piles of books certainly fill an existential void. Each one perhaps camouflaging the bars of an imaginary prison. How can I free myself from this compulsive obsession to buy books, no matter how amazing they are? It’s my worst flaw, my vice: being a compulsive buyer who can’t stop herself from constantly buying new or used books I will probably never read, not even partially. There are some true book lovers who leaf through them with respect, keep a few of their favourite ones and display them like trophies on their shelves, a bit like me. And then there’s the real me, the maniac shopper who can’t resist buying new works that I most likely will never have time to read. Will my love of books die with me? With tears in my eyes, I’ve already given away six large IKEA bags filled with my best cookbooks to municipal organizations. I was warmly thanked for it; maybe I should do the same for some of the classics and novels I’ve pretty much all read. How will I manage? I’ll never be able to sort through them all, and discarding them would break my heart. For all kinds of reasons, I love each one of my books – especially those that’ve taught me how to live, express myself and write properly. All these pages that speak to me, the invented stories, the Sunday letters and a few published books. My life can be summed up as an accumulation of printed words, carefully preserved. Cora ♥️

What should I make of this strange theme occupying my mind today? I fold and unfold my hands; the cold entering my ten fingers. For the last few weeks, I’ve been trying to bring this keyboard to life, but all my beautiful words have remained silent. My little self tumbles and falls into the void, most likely too soon. The long train of my breakfast queen dress crumbles like an overcooked cake. Despite the thousand crumbs of words, an abundance of Sunday letters and a feast for the birds, sometimes even in English, words now escape me. What can I say, what can I do? Maybe one morning, or at dusk, my heavy head will empty itself like a dried-up well. I’m in pain and suffering. My world is a vast reservoir of words that scatter, spread out and, on the rare occasion, fly away. This incessant buzz of stories I have difficulty remembering. All the heavy sentences I need to rejuvenate; all the wonderful words I’ve started to forget. I sometimes get the blues, these tiny nips of time. This awful feeling of being lonely, eaten away by depression or anguish. I’ve often written about happy things and real people, like those who wait for my letters each week. All I can do is stay close to my dear readers, to the presence of other humans, to my amazing peers. I don’t want to get off the treadmill of life. Maybe I’ll stagger or even fall at times, but I’ll get back up no matter what. I’ll certainly experience loss, burn a batch of cookies, miss appointments and lose my keys. The important thing is to never forget the human in an encounter, an emotion or a simple curiosity. Could this be my way of escaping loneliness? With my old superhero costume, will I resuscitate my forgotten memories, the free flow of words, the link between my ideas? Most of all, what can I do to slow down the growing absence of these precious words? Would a small comma suffice to change my life’s course? The fog clears, morning is rising. A few vague dreams are still teasing my toes. So many words are falling into the void; so many sentences are fighting to be heard. These aging days have opened an abyss of stupor, sluggishness and dismay. My body leans over my hands resting on the small sink, and the mirror reflects a once pretty face now inflicted with dark circles and wrinkles. I search for a nice word, a good idea. A grimace appears in the mirror. A murder of crows fills my big apple tree, I stay warm in my retreat, peeling off the frocks of apples to make a dessert. What a talented cook I was, the creator of so many delicious breakfasts! I’m almost certain I’ll be feeding the angels and archangels in heaven. The euphoria of possession fades quite quickly. Same goes for obstacles that are just a series of lessons to be learned. Could I have been a little too hard on myself? I always tried my best. I didn’t write to perform, but to express my love for my readers. How can I survive when my reasons for living are shrinking? When work and family no longer need my effort, when my abilities are no longer solicited and I seem to be increasingly useless though I have so much time on my hands and a little energy still. How do you live without desperately hanging onto responsibilities that younger people or others do better? What meaning do you give a life that’s fading? A few wise philosophers speak to me about a new life, a life with no other reason for living than life itself. No more temptation from desiring, hoping, achieving and pursuing success. I only want to be alive, able to read and hold a pencil to write or draw. I promise myself I will change my modus operandi. I’ll soothe the old lady with a few lines of poetry, a few haikus, I’ll take up drawing again, go on road trips in my Mini, maybe even visit the Gaspésie again. Day after day, l’ll continue to observe and describe my small pleasures, my panics, my surprises and my little slips of memory. Calm and willing, I wait until the day’s dying light illuminates the stars! Cora ♥️