Le journal d'Eye-Ollie

Le journal d'Eye-Ollie

Peoplelized : Vendredi 5 Août 2016




Pour que ceux qui doivent traduire ne soient pas toujours les mêmes.

Vendredji 5 Août 2016 :

On request of my friend Heather, I'm writing this column in English. I have promised her, so "je l'ai dans le cul" (Which means I’ve got it in the ass!). Apparently my (french) writing contains too many idioms and other slang or invented words. Well, yes, I'm proud to say no machine is able to translate my wit, not even the latest iGizmos from the world's fancyest Apple company. Either way you know, or you don't. Uncool right? So here's a few words for all those who don't speak french fluently. Sorry to say that I'm not capable to be as lively ("langues vivantes") as I would be in french, but let's go!

         This morning, like every morning, my only wish is to communicate, above all else. My head feels like wood, the rosé wine last night didn't only make me cough like hell, it also left me with a hangover. But it ain't a big deal : I’d rather have that than sleepless nights. Actually wine is great against insomnia. Françoise takes off my billion dollar man bionic arms (wrist splines), and seats me in my "ordinary" wheelchair with just a single buttoned silk shirt on. No trousers, no shoes, it's mid-summer and I enjoy having breakfast outside with my bollocks breathing the open air too, nothing is better than this! While coffee is being brewed, I listen to the cars passing by. I recognize quite a few by their sound, I can tell who goes where, and if they're late too. It's one of those things you develop by becoming a passive observer. They should recruit ALS patients for submarine sound tracing and recognition. Today, my eyes are lazy and the sun is bright, but my ears are impeccably tuned, so I sip and puff with my eyes closed. Yes I still smoke. What's better than a cigarette after a black coffee? Only people that have never smoked cannot understand (and are forgiven). Fortunately today's day carer (Françoise) smokes too, so we share that moment with great complicity.  Tomorrow, it will be Julian (the She will be a He), an inexperienced young man and kind of different : how should I say? He has no clue of what a first cigarette means, and sits next to me holding an ashtray nearby, in case my dick goes on fire or sumptin' like that. Totally boring. I have written an email to make a few points clear, otherwise "it's not gonna do it" as we say in french. Today I'm being given cereals, I have the choice between these and a huge so-called vanilla dessert cream. They are both like astronaut food, enriched with proteins supposed to be "hidden" by flavours... I have have a feeling it’s made by Union Carbide, or something. I'll soon be jumping around like that Duracell bunny. Each meal has now to be complemented by these artificial food add-ons. I look forward to the gastrostomy, when they connect a pipe to my tummy to avoid the throat.  It sounds to me like a fuel cap. I'm gonna ask the doctor whether I have a choice of the model, because I want a large chromed one, chopper style. It's my belly! Pimp my ride. It will be much better : everything that has a bad taste will go through the cap...Logical. No more false-routes, no more endless coughing.

         August has come quickly on the doorstep, with all it's "unmissable" events. Let me tell you, I'm already sick of it! Sometimes I wish I had only two friends... I love all my friends, but why the heck do they all have to _urn up at the same moment? It's unfair, I can't give them all the attention they deserve... Well, maybe I shouldn't say that, maybe it isn't politically correct, maybe it's rude, maybe it isn't done, well you know what?  Yes, you guessed right ! Camille came to see me several times. Being just the two of us , she and I, is always great. She asked me five hundred questions, to which answers would be yes or no, very clever. I prefer one on one relations, much better for privacy, slow talk, and the ability to focus on the person I'm talking with. The Wagners have arrived from California (without suitcases of course, welcome to strike-country), which was the reason for my drunken head this morning. I'm always happy to see them arrive with littl' Lars who has now become a big boy. His main goal was to see Claire again, how sweet! Dave from Italy is gonna turn up soon, Raf from Paris is in town, Vero said she wants to pass by, Kevin & Ina from London should be here, Bob & John have arrived from New Zealand, Kate & Graham must be back from India, Jay is a week at his parents... you name them, there's zillions.  But I lost track, where was I? Oh, yes, breakfast.

After the shower is my favorite moment, because first of all, I can sit down again. Françoise brushes my hair and cleans my ears, which when you have no more arms to reach itchy places, is delectable. Then, only then, I am allowed to reach, what I call my Cape Canaveral, my control station, the communication post. It's about nine thirty, my priority is to write to Nath the important things I have not been able to tell her since I left my communicator. Then, check my e-mail quickly, and reply according to what is urgent, leaving the best for later (the best is never urgent).  But here comes the chiropractor. I haven't finished "talking" to my wife, I'm pissed off. Another half an hour gone. I'm trying to come back to my writing, but knock-knock on the door. Here comes Michel, who I haven't seen in a while, what can I say ? Fuck it, I'll write later. By the time we've had a puff together, it's noon. I MUST eat now because, it's noon, whether I'm hungry or not. Goodbye morning, I wanted to do this and that... 

         I'm having a little nap, falling asleep on my desk. At four o'clock, our friends are already there, time to leave. Nath bullies me into the stifling hot van, and there we go. The idea was to go for a vineyard visit, a renewal of a former visit that had been great last year, (I could still walk then). I had suggested to my friends that they drive my van, but they didn't feel quite comfortable with that, so Nathalie drove. The place is in Flassans, domaine de Peyrassol, a huge 900 hectares vineyard, with a beautiful outdoor display of world famous artists' sculptures, all over the place. The tiny winding road to Flassans, passing by Carcès' lake makes me sick, the electric wheelchair bounces a lot sideways and it's hot, and I need to go to a crapper asap. Shit happens. Once on the spot, we start our stroll through the vineyards, but the cobbled tracks happen to be awfully painful to ride on. The damn thing came with wide tires, but I was never told that it would be a neck-breaking rodeo. But here comes the cherry on the cake : my battery runs flat in no time, from full 100%, to red-blinking-alarm-empty. Well, it kind of aborted the whole excursion, ‘cos there’s not much you can do with a 150 kilos unmovable dead weight! The little café tender told us it was too late for a drink, and too early for a meal. Well, let me tell ya folks, THAT is typically french! When will they ever learn ? So we (were) pissed off, back home! What a catastrophe. At night I had a little argument with the trouble and strife, and decided to go to bed without taking my pills. Another mistake. Sleepless in Cotignac, with Ollie Brenkman and awful cramps in my whole body. I have a wooly jaw from yawning machine-like every other minute. Swallowing my saliva makes me cough,  and a feeling I can't breathe anymore. Il y a des jours comme ça.

         Tomorrow I'll seize the day.

         See ya later alligator.

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