Colère Ensoleillée

Plusieurs de mes collègues de travail me font part de leur fine analyse de mon comportement, de façon tout à fait intermitente. Et quelques-uns d'entre eux s'accordent pour dire que depuis mon retour de voyage, je suis beaucoup plus "zen". Une colère sourde envers la connerie humaine gronde toujours en moi, mais je l'extériorise beaucoup moins. Ma patience a atteint un nouveau plateau. Je ne sais pas si tout ça est authentique, mais c'est du nouveau pour moi. Car on a toujours vertement critiqué mes opinions arrêtées et mon peu de tolérance envers les faiblesses d'autrui. Sans être impitoyable, j'en attends beaucoup de mes confrères humains.

Et c'est tout à fait normal ! Je ne crois pas que la planète survivrait si on se fiait seulement à la masse de bovins apathiques constituée par "l'homme moyen". Sans jouer les professeurs insistants, je suis ébahi lorsque je retrouve des journaux ou divers papiers dans la poubelle de mes voisins de cubicule, et je ne me gêne pas pour leur faire savoir. Toute conversation portant sur une émission de télé-réalité m'irrite. Je ne veux pas gouverner les choix culturels de mes proches, mais je leur souhaite beaucoup de bien, et ça me fait donc un peu de peine de les voir se polluer eux-même l'esprit avec de telles fadaises.

Je me lève toujours de bonne humeur; c'est ma journée et les gens que j'y rencontre qui détruisent peu à peu mon optimisme. L'impossibilité de jouir de toute quiétude me dépasse - il y a toujours une voix qui retentit quelque part, toujours quelqu'un qui se trouve intéressant et qui raconte sa vie, ou qui éprouve un tel besoin d'attention qu'il interpelle tout ce qui bouge et qui ressemble vaguement à un être humain.

Je suis conscient, de façon douloureusement aïgue, que le temps file et que les accomplissements que je vise à atteindre sont dangereusement menacés par ces intrusions. Je ne sais pas à quel niveau ma concentration est affectée, ni à quel point ma créativité se trouve amochée par la moindre interruption, mais je me doute que le prix à payer pour côtoyer mes collègues est fort élevé. Bien entendu, je vis sur une planète qu'il me faut partager, mais ai-je au moins le droit de choisir avec qui ?

J'ai appris, au fil des ans, à évacuer ma colère à mesure qu'elle s'accumulait, pour éviter toute accumulation pouvant mener à une explosion. De toute façon, comment rester fâché devant une splendeur telle que le "Pacific Highway" que j'ai récemment emprunté en compagnie de Mr. Finances ?



Cette route, que nous avons décidé de prendre en revenant bredouilles d'une tentative de visite du Hearst Castle, serpente jusqu'à San Francisco sur deux voies effrayantes, à flanc de montagne, où les garde-fous sont rares. Sur notre droite, une paroi montagneuse impénétrable, et sur notre gauche un ravin menant droit dans les houleuses vagues du Pacifique qui s'écrasent sur les rochers. Ajoutez à tout cela le nouvel album de Swayzak, un coucher de soleil resplendissant et un souper de pizza gourmet à Big Sur, servi par une sosie de Nelly Furtado affublée d'obus 36D, et ça ressemble presque au bonheur.

The Return of Bruno

I know many weeks have passed, months even, since I last updated this blog. Let's not linger on that and concentrate on the present. I'm not lazy - just busy. I just came back from three weeks off in a row and I must say it's quite painful to be returning to work after all that happened. In the course of my multiple journeys, I forgot how idiotic and tenuous customer service can get, and how supremely annoying my co-workers could be. It might be the blandness of my workdays, but I feel like everyday is the same here, and the voices just keep on getting louder, making it impossible for me to concentrate on anything. My focus has been steadily destroyed by the calls I get at the most awkward moments, for example as soon as I put food in my mouth. The fact that I cannot decide not to answer has a lot to do with the numerous headaches I suffer from. A call comes in, and whatever the fuck I'm doing at that precise moment, I have to take it.



I might have been slow to react, culturally, to many things lately. That fact can be explained by another fine corporate reaction at my workplace. One month ago, before leaving for my three weeks holiday, a supervisor with nothing better to do came to my desk while I was on break and shuffled through my computer. He discovered that I had lots of unrelated website pages opened and that I was concentrating on anything BUT my work - which is so fuckin' true it hurts, considering the extremely low level of emotional implication I feel for my job. I was then prohibited to go online.

Going online, though, is pretty much the only reason I'm staying in this shit hole. The work is not involving, the customers are more often than not retarded, and the paycheck is pityful. I don't have any insurances even if I've been here for almost four years now (ouch) so the only explanation why I stayed here so long is that I was always able to work on my "side projects" while being paid to pretend working. But since that utopia is no longer, I have to say the envy of quitting is stronger every day.

But enough about work already - living it is no fun, so I can imagine how reading about it feels like.

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Before narrating my trip in all its juicy details, something I've been meaning to do for a while, we have to talk about the third (yes, third !) remake of Don Siegel's INVASION OF THE BODY SNATCHERS, opening this week and starring Nicole Kidman and Daniel Craig. Any thoughts on why this story keeps on being remade ? Ferrara's version seemed quite fine, no ?

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There has been something boiling in my veins since I came back from California. An interest in anything foreign. A true desire not to spend too many time in a city I already know too much. Whenever I hear about somebody going away for a while, jealousy arises. I wish it was me. I wish I had the balls to throw everything away and start anew somewhere else, or just become a traveling monkey that doesn't care about materialism.



The only problem is... I don't have an inch of an hippie soul. I'm all for peace and love - but you're never gonna see me in overalls, hitch-hiking towards BC.

I like my confort too much. Wish I could spend the next 100 days buried under an ocean of pillow, watching movies and reading. Ordering books and DVDs from Amazon.ca and not answering the phone. Stealing music from the internet and letting my inner autism take more and more space in my life. Sending hand-written letters to those that matter for me. Letting the superficiality of Montreal's nightlife slide on my back like rain.

I have decided to eliminate compromise from my life. If something doesn't look fun and / or doesn't pay well enough, I'm not doing it. I'm not doing any more favors to people I barely know just so they think I'm a nice guy. Why should I give a fuck ? Do they ? Nice people are notorious for being taken advantage of. That's my everyday burden. Being nice, wanting to please, hoping everybody will like me. What kind of weakness is that ? Wouldn't it be nice if everybody was like me ? Of course. But that's not gonna happen. because there will always be parasites, bloodsuckers finding a way to exploit your sweet spot.



When I was younger, I was on the lookout for weird albums. I knew some of my favourite actors were also musicians, and I seeked out their recordings. My girlfriend, in 1996, bought a very expensive imported CD of the collected "hits" of John Travolta. No kidding. It set her back about 30$, which represented way more than you might think for a 18 years old girl with no job. I also knew Bruce Willis had recorded a mythical pop-ish blues album, "The Return of Bruno". I never could put my hands on it, unfortunately. And now that the golden age of internet would normally allow me to find it in a few minutes and download it at absolutely no cost through a peer 2 peer program, the interest is gone. What's left of it is an impression, a vague and out of focus memory - that will never be corrected. My desire is gone, and has been replaced by another.

And so the wheel turns.