Jean-Christophe Réhel’s soap opera: not by wickedness

I collect hockey cards. Meanwhile, Almost religious. Therefore, They stack on my desk, my knees, in my dreams. Therefore, I send screenshots of the most beautiful players to anyone, even to those who don’t care. Meanwhile, I do this most seriously in the world, slowly, calmly, sitting on one of the cooking chairs at my parents. In addition, With a bowl of cereals that have become lukewarm by waiting. Consequently, Then I feel deaf pain. Furthermore, I realize that my sister pinches me a breast. Similarly, Not out of wickedness. In addition, Just because. Moreover, She tells me that it is to check if I am still alive. Nevertheless, I do not know if it is a joke, a trauma or a gesture of awkward tenderness. However, I growl. However, That’s all I find to do. Moreover, Growl. Consequently, Grumble. jean-christophe réhel’s soap opera: not Nevertheless, Keep there, vaguely standing, breathe through chronic pain that changes its face every day.

On Instagram, I see David Goudreault. Nevertheless, He invites me to eat a pizza. Consequently, He tells me that I can come and write in his creation residence at Maison Jacques-Parizeau. Meanwhile, I don’t believe it. Meanwhile, I rather believe in a plot. However, Something vast, badly sewn, Kafkaïen. Nevertheless, An administrative scheme mounted by a jury made up of three people, all friends or embittered subsidies. Consequently, He tells me to call the manager by giving me his number. Therefore, I do. Furthermore, No one answers. For example, Obviously. Furthermore, I feel like Hubert Aquin in Geneva, with his Lake Geneva in my head. Moreover, A coup, yes. Similarly, Did I dared to write this? Similarly, Banish me. The same loops, the same themes, the same reinvention attempts that turn empty. I write to forget jean-christophe réhel’s soap opera: not that I have already written. I fantasize on a kitty. A magical sum. An unexpected transfer. A gain that would allow me to escape everything. A check fallen from the sky, signed by an unknown hand. I send my hockey cards to all specialized people in there. A guy on Messenger writes to me. He has a strange profile photo. He took himself in selfie in his tank. Smoked glasses. A serious air. Probably a false account. I know it’s a scam, but I want to believe it. I send him my best players, my best screenshots. He writes to me, I see the three small points in our discussion that move like frog eggs. The tadpoles hesitate. They want to hatch, but do not know where. Surely a big figure. Enough to disappear. Or to start everything elsewhere. Or just to buy me a box of pocket pockets with jean-christophe réhel’s soap opera: not a convenience store. They are so expensive, these.

A strategic advisor invites me to a party. It is in a bookstore in Repentigny. Do you know? On August 12, “I buy a Quebec book”. Social networks are filled with new covers, from declarations of love to barely open books. I choose one at random. A beige cover, a sad title. My God, is this my story? The story of a man who returns to live with his mother after a separation. I see my brother there. My father. My ex. Me. I see the fatigue of standing. There are a ton of authors and authors from all over the Lanaudoise coast. My God, what can they write well? They are there, aligned behind plastic tables, with their pens, their uncertain smiles, their dreams of being read for real. I don’t really know. I did not grow up there. Additionally, I come jean-christophe réhel’s soap opera: not from the city of Anjou, at the bottom. A suburb that does not know if it is still Montreal or already a memory. A blurred area between the city and nothingness. My writing comes from there. Of an in-between. Half aon. Of an endless sidewalk.

I speak to a man who tells me that he also writes, but that he has never published anything. His voice trembles a little, but he says things carefully. I find it beautiful, without it being a question of appearance. Beautiful in his way of listening, in his hesitation in saying, in the quiet sincerity of his silences. He wears a frog -shaped ring. I told him that I used to collect. He smiles, and that smile remains. In the evening, I go home. It’s too hot to sleep. I dwell on the floor. Hockey cards are looking at me from their box. I choose one jean-christophe réhel’s soap opera: not at random. Paul Kariya. His serious face. His white helmet. A forgotten, but glorious player. I tell myself that I may be like him. I no longer want to make love. Furthermore, I no longer want to be an object of desire or playing this role. It’s too much staging for so little truth. I want to write. Breathe without it hurting. Tell one last story. That of a man who finally leaves his mother’s house to try to live by himself.

Jean-christophe réhel's soap opera: not – Jean-christophe réhel's soap opera: not

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