lundi 19 novembre 2012

Mon coeur, de battre


Comment on fait, comment fait-on pour trouver dans chaque jour de sa vie la tension nécessaire? Et dans tension je veux dire énergie, électricité positive, ressource et nourriture du battement de coeur.

Je veux entendre battre mon coeur, trop fort, trop vite, à en rougir au détour des phrases où je devrais pas. Pas complètement faite pour la routine et le quotidien, et en même temps, il faut bien travailler, manger, rentrer, dormir. Il faut bien étudier.

Ce qui reste un plaisir, réel et fort, et tellement plus qu'avant cet été, mais tout de même, l'impression d'être ici, d'avoir la chance d'être ici pour en faire quelque chose de spécial, comme à New York, saisir la vie, la Manger, aller voir ailleurs si j'y suis, envie de vivre, de tout voir, sans presser mais les yeux grands ouverts, prendre prendre boire tout ce qu'il y a à boire, mais comment le faire, tous les jours et à fond, quand la vie s'installe un peu, et que c'est aussi, d'un côté, tout de même bien qu'elle le fasse?




lundi 5 novembre 2012

PARIS. (DERNIER TROMÉ)


INT. MILEVA’S APPARTMENT. NIGHT

White. A very intimate close-up. Slowly, we get to understand that what we see are white sheets, underneath which things are happening.

A square of skin, untouched, when the whole rest of the body is being caressed.
Breaths.

A hand, alone, on a blue sheet. Isolated, lost. Moved by sensations, like waves.

It closes and grips and opens, offered, and grips again the blue sheets, in increasing convulsions.
A foot on another foot, caressing, trying to caress, in chaotic abandonment.

Joined hands. His hand, pinning hers on the blue sheet. His hand dominating hers, squeezing hers, her hand gripping his, with all her passionate strength.

Breaths become short.

His hand lets hers go, to come to her long, voluminous hair. It caresses them one moment, to better take a hold of them, of her.

Their faces, so close to one another they could be confused. They are not united in a kiss, but their lips touch, their mouths seem to breathe together.

They look at each other with fear.

MILEVA  (V.O.) (CONT'D)
(so soft the audience might never hear it, like an unconscious mantra, a confession to herself.)
Mon amour mon amour mon amour mon amour

His free arm embraces her stronger still. His skin on hers, he encircles, imprisons her.

Her head is turned to her left, to him behind her, biting and kissing her nape.

MILEVA (V.O.) (CONT'D)
(again barely audible)
Faut pas- Je- Oh!

She’s interrupted by an intense pleasure wave. Incapable of controlling her emotions anymore, unaware of what she’s saying, in a whisper:

MILEVA (CONT'D)
Je t’aime!

And immediately realizing what she’s said:

MILEVA (V.O.) (CONT'D)
(horrified)
Fuck.

His lovemaking becomes brutal, more violent. And rises in her so strongly, that it leads them both to a deep, extremely intense orgasm.

Her breathing is mad, spasmodic, she bursts out in tears.

His head is against her arm, his forehead on the sheet, his body still covering her.
He tries to get his spirits and breath back. Stays lying there for a while, until he doesn’t move at all, his head still down, while we hear her trying hard to stop sobbing.

Suddenly he stands straight. Jumps over her, gets out of bed.

She is calm again.

She sits straight in the bed, draped in the white sheet.
She looks out the velux into the night.

He is sitting on the desk chair, naked. Puts on two pairs of woolen socks.

She turns to him, bathed in moonlight, supported by her left arm, against the blue sheet, her right hand abandoned in the white sheet’s pleats.

She suddenly looks younger.

MILEVA (CONT'D)
Leaving?

He puts on his jeans.

STAN
Yep.

MILEVA
Why?

STAN
(sharply)
Cos it's 5 in the fucking morning, and I need to catch the first metro.

Mileva doesn’t move, but looks at:
Her POV- a clock, standing on her book shelves.

MILEVA
(cold, provocative)
It's 5h15 in the morning. The first metro is at half past 5, you still have fifteen minutes to fuck me again.

Stan makes his shoe laces.

STAN
But I won't.

Mileva puts her chin up, brushes her hair out of her face by quickly moving her head.

MILEVA
Why?

STAN
Cos we already fucked and I wanna go.

Stan finishes doing his shoe laces, turns around towards her, already having lost his temper. The way he talks to her is over-articulated, as if he wanted every single word to hurt her.

STAN (CONT’D)
Didn't get it? I'm leaving. Cheerio!

Mileva has an angry move, and makes the sheet fall down on the bed, on purpose, to better reveal her  body.

STAN (CONT’D)
(as if to himself)
You're such a spoiled brat.

He gets very close to her, to throw his words in her face, spitting his attempt of anger and despise at her.

STAN (CONT'D)
I - AM - LEAVING - TO - DAY!

Mileva looks at him, and sends him a kiss with her mouth.

STAN (CONT'D)
Fuck you.

He looks at her.
And suddenly gets up, walks to the door.

STAN (CONT’D)
(without turning around)
You're a pain in the ass.

Mileva looks at him, beautiful, hagridden.
Then, a mask, again.

He has already opened the door, is out.

He turns around, sees her, comes back to her, puts her hands on her ears and temples, tilts her head back again, kisses her on the forehead, deep.

Mileva’s head falls forward as he parts.

She stays there, looking down at the blue sheet.

We hear the door close.

She stays absolutely still for a long moment.

Then, showing no emotions, she gets up, naked, lifts one side of her bed, revealing a hidden drawer, where converters, pillows and blankets are stuck.
She takes a thick converter, and a plane mask.

She goes back in the bed, under the blanket. Thickens the converter next to her, puts her head on it, her body against it, as if wrapping herself against another body.
And the mask on her eyes.
To sleep.