I do not know why I thought about that today. But it came back. As a big whiff of nostalgia. A memory write. It is certainly my most Beaus memories involve writing my first manuscript. When I got the idea. When I finished it. When I held the first paper in my hands. Some also when I found the subject of my second manuscript. Anyway, this one is just beginning. Oh! also this book that I have. Some drawings, writing rough, uneven and crooked. My "first book". I do not know how old I was. A history of cats. But I always think to it with great emotion.
But today is another memory I have reconsidered. There are times that I must write. Not a desire. No obligation. Unrestrained and violent. A bit like the inspiration that made me write my text Scars I published last Tuesday. A text that I wrote while walking. Then standing in the subway. An emergency. Something that comes in under 10 minutes.
I had maybe 15 years I think. I worked in a field of strawberries and raspberries this summer. I picked up a lot, I sketch a few. It tasted of summer. I remember I was singing all the time. I always loved to sing. That day, the first sentence came to me suddenly in the head. I could not tell you why. I do not have it near me. But it was smashing. So I repeated it once or twice. Came a second sentence. So I repeated a few times the two sentences. The beginning of a poem. The problem? I was at the other end of the field and I wanted to finish my pot before returning to where there would be paper and pencil. So I did what I should do. I composed in my head. Whenever I added that line, I repeated the whole poem. I am made more than a dozen lines like that.
If it is a poem that is worth? Must see. For my age, surely. Except that the memory stuck. After the brown paper bag on which I wrote the poem too. It spoke of love.
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