Forbidden Fruit

When I arrive at the house it’s Friday afternoon. It’s an old English hunting lodge, established in the 18th century. Fabulous place, as you can imagine. Absolutely reeks of money and class. And it all belongs to Alistair, the art and wine dealer I’d met on my last visit to London.

That visit was the genesis of this weekend. I’d been invited to stay by Alistair – he suggests we can mix business with pleasure. What he didn’t tell me was that it would also involve a family wedding.

Caroline, his wife, is charming, sophisticated and cultured. She’s giving me a guided tour of the house and its grounds. The house has been in the family for over 200 years – the deer in the forest have been protected for a thousand years – some of the paintings in the lounge are worth thousands – so she says. Then she shows me to my room, in the west wing, overlooking the courtyard. It’s gorgeous. I thank her most profusely for her generosity and hospitality – and for once I really mean it.

On Saturday morning I meet their daughter. After breakfast in the dining room – beautifully decorated in classic English style – I’m about to return to my room. As I pass the function room, where the wedding reception is to take place later that day. I can’t but overhear the raucous laughter coming from within - five young women chatting and giggling at something. The laughter immediately subsides and the group disperse, save for one. What are you staring at, she says, hands on hips.

For once I am lost for words, and hesitate before replying.
I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to..it’s just. You’re very beautiful.
The girl tosses her mane of auburn hair and laughs.
You’re the French lady, arent you? Daddy’s told me all about you. She holds out her hand. I’m Miranda.
I’m still staring. It’s hard not to. I’m looking at one of the most delightful faces I’ve ever seen. The eyes deep and dark like pools of ink. The teeth white and perfect, like her delicate cheekbones. Then there are the lips, full and pink. A slender neck, and the cleavage of her bosom stretching the fabric of her dress. The outlines of her erect nipples, almost piercing the surface. An english rose.

I step forward and we shake hands, then trembling slightly, brush both cheeks.
My name’s Sandrine.
She smiles, still holding my hand, starts to drag me toward her.
Come on, I’ll show you my room. You can help me get ready if you like. For the wedding.
Of course, I reply, why not.

I follow Miranda upstairs, along the gallery, through another corridor, to her room. It’s even more splendid than mine, with a huge four poster bed, views over the terrace and across the front lawn.
Miranda is at her dressing table in front of a large mirror, in her scarlet bridesmaid’s dress. I watch as she carefully brushes the glossy auburn hair.
So, are you having an affair. With daddy, I mean. She giggles again, like she did downstairs.
Of course not, it’s strictly business. I’m trying to sell him wine, on behalf of my company.
Bet he wouldn’t mind though. Shagging you, I mean. You’re a lot younger than mummy. Her voice, whilst very upper class, has just a hint of coarseness.
I’m sure it hasn’t crossed his mind.
She turns to look at me. You’re not married are you?
No, still single.
I wonder why that is, she says, returning to the brushing. I mean, you’re so chic, tres jolie aussi.
D’you think so?
She’s staring at me now, smiling. Well. I’d fancy you. If I was a bloke, I mean. She laughs out loud, and her bosom heaves.
I want to kiss her. I want to roll her panties off and slide my finger into her, make her come. I want to caress her body, lick her all over, thrust my tongue into her mouth. I feel hot and moist.

The thing is, I venture boldly, it’s not your father I fancy. I’m looking her right in the eye, but she doesn’t bat an eyelid.
Wow, she gasps. I mean, that is bloody amazing.
I find you very attractive.
I had sort of guessed that, she says. The way you’ve been looking at me.
You didn’t mind?
She shrugs. I’m pretty laid back. Its not like it hasn’t happened before.
You mean…
Oh no, I didn’t mean that. I meant, other girls have fancied me. It just never developed.
You didn’t want it to.
It didn’t feel right.
I swallow some wine, a lot. What about now?
I don’t know, she says. I mean, I like you, and everything, but it still feels strange.
I take a chance, run a finger through her hair, feel her pulse quicken, a shudder. I’m watching her face in the mirror, keeping my eyes locked on hers. I allow my hand to trace the nape of her neck, the curve of her breast, heading towards her nipple.
You’re so beautiful. I want you, so badly.
Her eyes are closed, as my fingers close around her nipple. I start to kiss her neck and run my other hand through her hair. Her breathing becomes shallow. Shit, she’s saying, oh god.
Then she breaks away suddenly.
Not now, she says, not here. I just can’t. I’m sorry.
It’s okay, Miranda. I need to make some business calls anyway. Perhaps we’ll see each other later.
She shrugs. I wouldn’t be surprised. We’re both here for the weekend.
But the cool English rose now looks very flustered.

The Artist as a portrait of a young girl

There are two ways of dealing with bad karma. Either you run away, or you can confront it. This is my way of dealing with it.

Maybe I’ve been guilty of putting Sandrine on a pedestal. But I’m not her, I can’t live up to that ideal. She probably had flaws that I never discovered because I was too young.

I’ve always found that mixing with creative people helps me. Maybe I borrow some of their ideas, but tell me who doesn’t? I used to spend a lot of time hanging out with artists, posing for them, that kind of thing.

I met a lot of dubious characters on the way. It’s how I ended up like this, with a cracked personality. That, and the accident.

The thing about Art, with a capital A, is this. Everyone thinks they’re an expert. But really all opinions are subjective. Despite appearances to the contrary, there is no consensus. Plenty of people hated Picasso when he first started out, for instance.

It’s the same with literature. But the problem is, there’s so much out there, you need some way of finding your way through the maze. Which is where the critics come in.

They’re only doing their job, which is actually quite an important one. They act as a filter for people like me who just don’t have the time to read everything. In any case, you get to know which ones to trust, who you can rely on. Personally I’ve always found other writers to be the best guide. So I’ve read Foucault’s study of Roussel; Deleuze on Foucault; Badiou on Deleuze; and so on. You get the picture.

What these books all tell me is that there is always another way of looking at something. What I want to do is put together my own collection of the finest writing I know, as my own guide to literature. It’s going to take some doing, trawling through the archives. It might take some time, I may never finish it. But it may help me establish some kind of perspective.

I’m not going to be prescriptive. Any kind of writing will be considered. Don’t expect a typical list, some of these names may not be familiar to you. I don’t apologise for that. These are my personal choices – yours would be different, no doubt.

La Piscine

This is a must have here in the midi.

In the haute saison it can reach 40 degrees on the patio - and it's about 100 km to the mediterranean coast.

The pool belongs to the gite where I'm staying. During the summer it's let as a holiday rental, but maybe not this year.

The patio is south facing and a total sun trap. There are no neighbours in sight so it's ok to bask in the sun sans maillot (and swim naked too).

Looking forward to the summer when I can get an all over tan.
Must try and find a photo of me by the pool.

Toujours, nous aurons Paris

Of course, Parisians will always tell you
Paris isn’t what it used to be
It's not the same
Not like when they were young
With Sandrine, it was the Sixties
Demos, riots, sit ins, love ins
Hippies, la nouvelle vague
You get the picture

With nana, it was further back
Paris before la guerre
les Deux magots, cafe flore
Sartre and de Beauvoir
Edith Piaf and Aznavour
Then came the occupation
And the whole world changed
Let alone Paris

My own Parisian memories?
A suburban childhood
Glimpsed through train windows
Frenetic arrival at Gare St Lazare
Crowded platforms, sleek new trains
Shopping at Printemps and Prisunic
Lunch in St Germain, and later
Long walks in Les Jardins Luxembourg

Above all, Paris belongs to Sandrine
To the places we used to go
Haute cuisine, haute couture
Mostly I remember small things
Like her lustrous hair
The sweet scent of her perfume
The immaculate cut of her dress
Her unhurried air, her style

The market at Clignancourt
And the things she’d buy me
Sunglasses, a colourful blouse
My first pair of stilettos
Reading Paris Match in the salon
Listening to the gossip
Of the ladies of Paris
Smiling to myself

Picnics in Luxembourg
Ice cream by the Seine
Cakes from the chocolatier
Croissants from la gare
Sandrine’s hand in mine
Never wanting to let go
Just wanting to grow up
And be exactly like her

No, Paris isn’t what it was
It'll never be the same
And now there are others
Making their own memories
They'll grow older
And when they look back
Maybe they too
Will always have Paris?

Photographic Memory

Driving a small car too fast
Through streets I don’t recognise
I seem to know where I’m going
Pedestrians leap out of the way
I ignore traffic lights, zebras, other cars
Park in a quiet side street
Outside a block of flats

I’m upstairs, in a large room
There’s a big tv, double bed
Wardrobes, dressing table, shower cubicle
The view is panoramic
Partly obscured by a block of flats
In darkness I see figures
Watching tv, talking, fixing dinner
Maybe they can see me


I sit by the window
In a white linen dress
Bloodstained and torn
I slip off the dress
Start brushing my hair
Painting my nails, applying make up
I’m wearing black underwear
A tiny thong and a bra

Glancing out of the window
I see a figure, staring
It seems to be looking straight at me
From the end flat, third from the top
Turning my back to the window
I slowly remove the bra
Then I turn out the lights
Slip inside the bed covers

Now I’m knocking on a door
A blonde woman opens it
She reminds me of Helen
We shake hands
She starts showing me the flat
The previous owner has left in a hurry
I glance out of the window
Looking into the flat opposite, my own

I discover a locked door
Ask the woman what’s inside
She says it’s a dark room
The occupant was a photographer
I ask to look inside
She finds the key
Inside are two entire walls
Covered in black and white images

On one wall are photos of a girl
Combing her hair by a window
Dressed in black underwear
Then partially naked
On the other wall, blown up
Are photos of an auto accident
I recognise the photos
And nausea starts to overcome me

bonjour

bonjour.

Welcome to my world.
Its talking in the dark, poems in the dark, many things.

Its author - a mysterious enigmatic creature known only as sandrine

Many people and events have influenced this blog.
Above all its been inspired by an english gentleman - a confidant and friend. Despite our never having met in the flesh.
It was you that encouraged me to become a blogger - or should that be bloggette?
You know who you are.

Its main purpose is to get my poetry online - in lieu of finding a publisher - this is tres difficile!
Also to let off steam, I guess. Let me friends know im still out here.

Maybe not many people will get to read this. Thats okay. I'm not into world domination.
But I'd like to reach out and touch somebody with poetry. Even just one person. Its a start.
Life can be lonely for the tortured artist.

I haven't always been a poetess. It began after the tragic death of my parents. This was in my early teens.
I guess at first it was my way of voicing anger at the world, for depriving me of my family.

You could say im not religious. But then, i've good reason for not believing. Unlike my friend Helene, who comes from a strong catholic background. It didnt stop her sleeping with a married man quite recently. She wont mind me saying this, I know.

The blog is also about the place I live, in the midi. Deep in the arriere pays, lost in provence. No-one will find me here, which suits me fine. The tranquility helps me to work.

My host is the svengali-like figure of E.
He's been many things to me over the years - teacher, guardian, guide, lover, brother etc. He'd probably be horrified to read this. its a risk i have to take, for my own reasons.

To understand where im coming from its necessary to go back to the beginning. For me, it all goes back to the accident - or was it? - that orphaned me.

Last year I was admitted to a psychiatric hospital. This was in la suisse, where they are experts. My shrink's name is Gerhard. he still keeps in touch. I'll never be totally cured of my condition, the trauma was too great. But he suggested that writing would be cathartic.

This blog is part of my solution.