Hạt cát hay cục phân? :D

Có những ngày, dài ơi là dài, mệt ơi là mệt. Tưởng như riêng chỉ năm mười phút đọc đề thi tốt nghiệp chính trị của bà giám thị trường Học viện Cán bộ cũng dài như miên man không biết bao giờ mới hết. Thế rồi cũng hết. Chữ đã chép, thời gian cũng đã bỏ, bài đã nộp và người đã về nhà, nằm trên giường, có tí men. Mà cứ nhìn cái ánh sáng mờ nhạt từ khu đối diện hắt lên trần nhà, in bóng hai cái chuông gió, phất phơ. Đêm, gió ngoài cửa sổ thổi mạnh đến mức cả cái chuông gió nặng bằng đồng của Trung Quốc cũng đua nhau kêu với cái chuông sứ của Nhật.

Chẳng biết từ đâu, hình ảnh một vũ trụ quay quay nhảy đến trong đầu. Rồi thì thế nào nếu hai vũ trụ va vào nhau? Hai thiên hà va vào nhau? Hai hành tinh va vào nhau? Sẽ vỡ ra và rồi chẳng còn gì ý nghĩa nữa. Thật sự. Cứ nghĩ nếu như trong một thứ bé tí teo như nguyên tử cũng có bao nhiêu là hạt, biết đâu cả vũ trụ cũng chỉ là một thứ hạt trong một nguyên tử, nguyên tử của một hạt cát dưới biển một thế giới nào, hay trong cục phân đang trôi theo dòng nước xối ở một bệ xí nào. Lúc ấy, rõ ràng là hạt cát ấy hay cục phân ấy, không ai ở đây hiểu được. Làm sao hiểu được thứ lớn nhường ấy, nếu cả vũ trụ chỉ là một cái hạt, trong một nguyên tử, trong một hạt cát hay trong cục phân ấy. Thực ra, hạt cát ở đại dương nghe đẹp hơn cục phân. Nhỉ?

Thế rồi, tự nhiên đầu óc lại lang thang nhớ lại buổi trình diễn thơ chỉ mấy tiếng trước. Rồi tưởng tượng: ta sẽ làm gì nếu lọt vào vòng trong ở Hà Nội? Thực ra, việc viết lách và bình luận, và chia sẻ với người hướng dẫn về ý tưởng, về cái gì làm đầu óc có những hình ảnh đó, ý ở chỗ này chỗ kia là gì, thì rất thú vị. Nhưng khi lên sân khấu, thì đã là một cái gì đó thật khác. Hết cả cảm xúc, hết cả tự nhiên. 😀 Chả hiểu sao…

Lâu lắm rồi mới viết bằng tiếng Việt. Khi bắt đầu viết bằng tiếng Anh, nó trở thành thói quen, các câu cứ thế nhảy múa trong đầu bằng tiếng Anh trước, viết ra, đôi khi tra lại từ điển, đôi lúc sai. Tiếng Pháp thì ít tự nhiên hơn, tra từ điển nhiều hơn.

Chả hiểu sao, một ngày dài ơi là dài, cứ nằm nghe chuông gió kêu rồi nghĩ đến cái vũ trụ là cái hạt gì đó trong một nguyên tử trong một cục phân, hay một hạt cát?


On ne s’aime jamais. N’est pas?

Je me couche dans mon lit, mes yeux fermé, il me semble que l’obscurité dans laquelle je suis plongé est interminable. Je resens encore le goût sucré de la bière persister sur ma langue. Je m’abandonne à la fête d’étoiles de l’intrus. Les bruits dans ma tête n’ont pas aucune forme, en train de mourrir à l’instant où ils sont nés.

On ne s’aime jamais. C’est pour le désir de posseder quelqu’un d’autre, le besoin de satisfaire son ego que l’on se tombe amoureux. Quand on entre une phase de l’amour non partagé, on est triste, pitoyable, on a beaucoup de chagrin parce que la personne qu’on aime n’éprouve pas les même sentiments à l’égard de nous. On est triste de notre part, pas de la part de l’autre. Même quand on a un amour réciproque, on ne dit pas “l’un que j’aime”, mais on dit “mon amant” “ma chérie” “mon petit ami”, qui attribuent un sens de possession, que, à son tour, on fait de notre mieux de toujours conserver, pour lequel des menaces sont inacceptables. Les escarmouches sont pour but de démontrer et rétablir l’ego et le sens. Et on a des attents, des déceptions et tous ça. Parfois, on se trouve qu’on est perdu, le passé déserté, les pensées interdites et délaissées, pour l’échange des plusieurs produits chimiques qui s’interagissent dans notres cerveaux et corps, dopamine par exemple.

Quand lui, la personne qu’on aime, il est mort, on pleure, à chaudes larmes, même si on ne comprend pas comment la mort importe à lui, mais on pleure parce qu’il nous quitte, et depuis ce jour, on est seule dans ce monde, on pleure pour notre angoisse, notre solitude et notre choc par la tragédie. C’est sa mort quand même, pas la nôtre.

Après tout, on est égoïste. Ce qu’on aime est soi-même seulement, sa position imprenable d’un gagnant, d’un vainqueur.

On ne s’aime jamais. N’est pas?

Est-on un seau de chair, moulé et marchant?


Sometimes, it is, in fact, how trains of thoughts are running in my head. Sometimes I would be wondering if there are any other ways around to interpret it. Yesterday evening while I was washing and then hanging my clothes, I stood upright for a moment or two, to watch the vault of the sky at night already to find out that it was not totally dark but there was some red hue in it, reflecting something mysterious. A breeze was drifting when I came back to my room to go to bed in some minutes that followed.

Un autre

dans ma chair le temps passe, en soufflant

vers la vide le miel du matin s’écoulait

le soleil brille

en pente, les poussières volent au vent

les corps sombres rassemblant

“Est-il beau?” – il m’a demandé, un autre

Qui m’apportera les fruits d’été


dans le forêt au paradis

mes jours se fanent

tremblant, par terre

ponctuel, d’un éclair au rendez-vous dans la peau éphémère


Today morning, while I was riding my bicycle to the office, dans ma chair le temps passe, en soufflant came to my head and lingered. Et voilà, un poème! For me, a self-labelled Francophile, French is incredibly poetic, much more so than English, I believe. Even merde sounds cool. LOL Well, it is the first time I compose a poem totally on a computer, the task which I finished with a great maiden delight.

Anyway, I will read the poem in SLAMPoésie at Institut Français Saigon later in the evening. 😀 On croise les doigts.

a crumbled building

On the fifth day of the Lunar Year of Rooster I was on the southward train to Saigon. There was only me in the carriage when the train pulled out. Dusk was falling and the sky was grey. I had a little rice liquor and was reading Soseki, whose prose, I find, has something that resembles that of Pessoa. Soseki is a Pessoa with the delicacy of a Japanese. The train was running bizarrely fast, without much stopping at passing loops while I was daydreaming, thinking myself as a writer in, say, nineteenth or early twentieth century who would be writing on a train like this. It was perfect as I was alone in the carriage, I had the idyll, time and space of my own, not to be annoyed by noisy kids. Woolf was so right to insist that one needs to have a room of one’s own. Then in a flash, I conjured up images of two guys making love on a train that was gathering speed and wondered if there were many people that have such a salacious mind.

A person who is waiting alone on a village road that cuts the railway when the train passes instills a picture in my head, blurring. On the homeward train a week earlier, I had not thought as much as previous times. I just stared out the window, and watched the passing landscape. The mind had gone back to train voyages just seconds before it came to my home on the afternoon of the second day of the new lunar year when the sun was retreating from the room where I was sitting and reading. The room used to be my neighbour’s, whose son was my close friend since I was a child, yet we have not said a word to each other for many years when I went away from home to study in high school. The neighbour left for Danang, where her relatives live and gave the house at my parents’ disposal. It has become my hermitage almost everytime I come back home for holidays, when I need nothing but a brief stay from others. The way the sunlight was fading in the room had something inexpressibly haunting. All of a sudden, dozens of past memories were jostling around in my mind: the vegetable garden before my house where I would, every summer, spare some room to grow peanuts and some climbing plants and flowers, just to harvest the former in autumn and see the latter die in winter; the kitchen utensils that are even older than me, still used by my parents; the remains of the open shallow ditch in the front yard where I would, when it poured down with rain in the summer, play in the running muddy water which I would call a river, and on which I would make and push out a paper boat, and in the ground beneath the river I would catch worms to feed ducks, whose gargantuan meals I often watched with an uncanny euphoria.

Why is the flow of thinking called “trains of thoughts,” I wondered. Is it that because it resembles a moving train? And while I was sharpening the pencil, my flooding memories were hiding away…

If it could be like this, I could even go around the world by train. But it lasted only two hours before a party of people joined me at Nam Dinh Station. After being seated, they talked incessantly, and their conversations gradually became trivial, repetitive, garrulous and cantankerous. And it was all the more unrelenting that no one would hear another, they were all raising their voice, in chaos, with the dying need, in unison, to be heard, all in vain. I was perplexed at how on earth people could talk like this, and whether it was the way people communicate.

When the night finally fell, everyone in the carriage had been sleeping, I was watching the shapeless images running fast over the window. The sweet rice liquor was a salvation, and I recalled the talk I had with a friend from schools ealier in the morning, only to find out that my memories of the past, dwarfed in comparision with hers in clarity and exactitude, were just shamefully patchy, yet beautiful and shining, mosaics of the past of which I was a part.

… Every, this included, passing moment is a black hole, I feel. And at the same moment, from nowhere, a picture of a crumbled building was summoned up in my head…

The train arrived in Hue when it was raining hard outside. I was lying and wondering what I would do if I (with twenty-six years of age) managed to come back to pass, once again, every single moment of all previous years in my life. The squalid schools on top of hills and cold winters; the long, tedious summer days and nights; me playing in the moonlight with peers in the neighbourhood when the electricity was out; and so forth, all these with their own smells came to mind…

It was passing Quang Ngai while I was staring, blankly, at the dim sunlight swiftly squirting against the backdrop that was the wood ceiling of the carriage. I imagined myself in a train making its way through Swiss mountains, deep covered in snow, my eyes wide open. The magic mountain came to mind.

The night fell again, my last night on the long-distance, crowded train. I also fell, asleep, fast and sound, and in my dream, I was a young boy gazing at the clear sky in Tibet.