A housewife

Let’s imagine her life. She has two teenaged daughters. They look like her and her husband. They have her lips and his eyes. Her mother is Srilankan. Her father is American. She grew up in London. At 25 years old, she met her husband. He was handsome. They got married a few years later. She got pregnant at 35 years old with the first child. Then the second one at 37 years old. She gave up her model career for him. She followed him to his country as his career was more important for him. She was happy being home and raising the kids. They spent their vacations in Australia, in India, in England. When the kids were small, they lived a happy bohemian life. They could travel around Asia by motorbike for months. They spent Christmas and New Year’s Eve in the mountains in Switzerland, in the village where her husband was born. Ten years ago, her husband got an important contract in Spain. They decided to move to Madrid. They bought together an old flat in the Old Town and he renovated it into a loft, keeping the structure of the flat but adding a few modern details for the kitchen. There were no separation between their bedroom and the bedrooms of the kids. They lived in an open space, husband, wife and daughters. Their kids could sleep and play wherever they wanted to in the flat.

Eventually her husband started to become well-known. He got more and more contracts. His design in architecture and ideas of keeping raw concrete material in construction were appreciated. He opened two more offices in two other cities in Europe and started to travel more. At the beginning he stayed two nights in a hotel where he first opened his office. After six months, he said he was tired of travelling back and forth too much and asked her if she would mind if he rented a room in one city where the second office is. She said that she would understand if he found it more convenient.

The next two years, he moved from the room to another studio in a nice house. Same city. He practically only came home to Spain on the weekends. She did some charity works, mostly unpaid. She took care of the kids alone during weekdays. The weekends when he was home, he was invited to work events and networking parties. She followed him everywhere they were invited. She dressed up for him. She did not feel particularly happy about it but she imagined that could help him to show an image of a happy couple. People seem to fancy about how beautiful and harmonious their life was. She could not do anything about it. People always seem to think or imagine something. Would anyone imagine her in the laundry room during the week, in the kitchen, cleaning the bathroom, ironing his shirts? Would anyone imagine how it could be to sleep alone four days a week, in the master bedroom designed by him? People could imagine their lives and love life and marriage life as a successful life. No one could imagine the loneliness and the resilience that she has accepted to live through these years.

Eventually, he moved from a studio to a bigger two bedrooms apartment. He built the building and kept for himself the flat. He always came back home. He was more and more tired. Ten more years passed by. They talked during dinners on the weekends. They went to events, still. They went on vacations where he had the construction sites. Their sex life was nothing special but hygienic.

Eventually, the arrangement suited them. Their feelings were fading away or were a pale memory of what they were before. But there were the two beautiful kids and there was the celebrity that kept them together. She imagined and knew that he had mistresses or lovers elsewhere. A divorce was out of the question. It would cost them a lot emotionnally to decide for a separation, even though it might have cost them more to stay together all these years.

She imagined her husband with other women in his room then in the studio then  in the big flat. What did they look like ? What were their professions? How old were they ? He chose them carefully enough. They would not bother her, or them, or her couple. They slept with him and left. He gave them nothing. He took from them nothing but their bodies. He gave her nothing either but took from her everything.

Why did she accept ? As a mother to her kids ? As a wife to her husband ? She knew there were other women. He tried to be discreet, not only to protect her, but also to preserve the marriage and the family. She never knew why he would do that ? Their marriage was not what it used ot be. There was nothing bohemian about their lives these last years. What kept them together in this loft built in concrete walls was merely the laughs of their kids. And the idea of being a family, in a traditional way, a husband, a wife, the kids, the father, the mother. What he did outside, in another country, in another flat, had nothing to do with her. Or it had everything to do with her but she preferred to ignore. All these women whose faces unknown to her. As long as she could not imagine them more than some vague associations of images and fantasies of her mind, she preferred to ignore their existence. That was how she opened the door every weekend and greeted him with a smile. A sad one. But enough to preserve a family.


The connection


Beyond feelings, beyond love, she realizes that there is something even sweeter, more meaningful. It’s the connection, the link she has with people around her. People who are close to him first. People who are his loved ones. But there is more about that. It is not because of the love she feels for him. She does not come to them because of him.

The precious link like a thin invisible rope, yet strong, unique and magical which connects her to his loved ones. She has built with them a connection. Beyond him. And even if not with him. There is no such importance. His presence or absence in the connection is not to be considered. And even though she could not define the relationship she has with him. She can define the thing she has with his close ones. It’s all about connection. Far beyond him. Far beyond love. She appreciates seeing his loved ones and cares about them. Like her own family. She has adopted his loved ones. Not because of him. But she likes the way human beings care about each other, develop their relationship, strengthen the link, let grow the affection.

When she shares moments of her life with his family, she is glad to have met such nice persons. She has never thought that because they are his family. And this has nothing to do with love. And that is magical touch of the connection part. There is something extremely delicious in connecting. When she receives the good intentions from his family, she knows she is lucky.

Of course when she talks about him they see that her eyes are sparkling, her smile is more nervous. Of course that is unavoidable. She never wants to hide her feelings. Whoever in his family can perceive it, this is fine with her. She just never discusses with them about her relationship with him. Her love is kept in bashfulness, in decency. She would never discuss anything like that with them. Of course she is the one who could analyze him in details because she knows him by heart. And his loved ones can feel that. She could share a lot with them. Her childhood. Her memories. Her emotional injuries in the past. But not her love for him. This, they would have to guess or see only in her eyes. Or perceive it in her silence.

On both sides, what is delightful is the connection. The sharing, the sweet delicacy between adults, between human beings.

The link is marvelous and not fragile. The connection is easy. Far beyond love. Tenderness it is. With or without him in the equation. That is very important to her.

What is sweet about hometown

I haven’t been back in my hometown for exactly six months. I had been quite unfaithful, traveling around the whole summer and autumn and never had time to go back.

But today I am back

And you know what is sweet about hometown ?


Hometown is

First school – First party – First boyfriend – First kiss – First fight – First break-up

Hometown is

Old streets – Old friends – Old jokes

Hometown is

The good smell of soap of my pajama

Waiting for me on my bed

At my family’s place

Hometown is


This small dog “who” is my godson because I picked him up in a small farm when he was two- weeks oldphoto lilou

Hometown is


The shadows of my life

“Why do people have to be this lonely? What’s the point of it all? Millions of people in this world, all of them yearning, looking to others to satisfy them, yet isolating themselves. Why? Was the earth put here just to nourish human loneliness?” (Sputnik Sweetheart – Haruki Murakami)

Yesterday I went to see a movie with your parents. I had to pick a movie, they told me, anything except an American blockbuster. I chose “360”, the movie from the Brazilian director of “City of God”. The movie is a mish mash of different short stories. Different characters come together at some point and some don’t. Even though the stories were quite uneven, I did like the way the movie served the cause: showing the nature of human relationships and the human loneliness, showing how people change or evolve. It started with a scene with Jude Law as a business man, on a business trip, waiting for a call-girl at the bar of his hotel, and in a second decided to stay faithful to his wife and walked away. Although during the whole movie, it seemed like nothing great or important was going to happen, I still enjoyed every minute of it. I liked the way a random encounter could change one’s life.

I spent the rest of the evening with your parents. Talking about life, things and you. You were far away. I have always seen your parents when you were away. It was like an agreement. And of course, when I left them, it was always a bit hard to stay for a moment in the past, with memories and things. About you. It was sweet and weird at the same time that I have always stayed in touch with your parents. As if they were the link between us and not the other way round. I think if we took you out of the equation, we would still see each other without you. And it was exactly what we did. We saw each other and you were never there. Though you were very present during the whole evening. Sometimes I just wonder why I have imposed to myself such bittersweet moments. I haven’t thought of you for days, weeks and I have felt peace. But then I knew that seeing your parents would put me back, right there in a form of sadness and nostalgia. Still, I accepted to live that moment, of pleasure mixed with tiny sensations of pain. My heart once again was brave. On the way home. I could hear its voice: “Why would you do that to me, each time? What did you want to prove to yourself? That you are strong and courageous? “. I could hear my heart complaining.

Last night I wanted to write to you. But I realized I had nothing to say to you. I had all your news from your parents. Instead I wrote to a man I met recently. Someone who had entered my life in a particular way. An accidental encounter like in the movie. And somehow it has changed my life. Just simply as the fact that I wrote to him more than to you. I think of him more often than of you.

When I fell asleep, I realized that nothing had much changed. I might have evolved a bit since the day we said goodbye to each other. But so far my loneliness of a Sunday night stayed exactly the same. I could hear my heartbeats, for you and for this new person in my life. Same rhythm of melancholy and a certainty that both of you will always be just a sweet eternal shadow of my life.

For my cousin Alex (1)

I took a day trip to visit you at the hospital today. Visiting you was the least I can do right now.

When I arrived you were watching a movie on YouTube. You looked a bit better than the last time I had seen you. They took off the bandage of your left eye. You asked if I had seen the movie “The debt” with the actor of “Avatar”. I said yes and we both agreed  that the love story between the young spies was quite nice. On your bare chest, I could see a tattoo with the first name of your father (who is also my uncle). I had never noticed it before. You said you had it done in Vietnam a few years ago.

You started to eat the rest of the pasta “a la carbonara” prepared yesterday by your girlfriend. You talked to me about her for the first time. You said she was much older than you and she wanted kids. You asked for my opinion on love and relationship between young men and older women. You wanted to know if I was against it or not. I did not have time to answer your question because a nurse came by at that moment to check on you.

You told me there were moments you went nuts in the hospital and just wanted to escape. When you get better, you probably will go back to Thailand for holidays – a country which you adore for the relaxing lifestyle and the beautiful beaches, but more because of the easygoing Thai people – you told me. You said you dreamt to relax by the beach, watching the sunset and the sunrise and not thinking about anything at all. You had so much fun the last time you were there, alone with your father – you said. This time with your girlfriend if you plan to go, it will be even better, more relaxing, quiet. You would appreciate even more the sunshine – you added.

It was good to hear you making plans and most of all having dreams. While plans can change because of the unpredictable in life, dreams are necessary to escape sometimes from life and routine.

Listening to you talking about plans and dreams, I suddenly remembered what I had always remembered. Our grand-father, when still alive, used to share with me one of his dearest dreams. He had always dreamt to walk with me down the long Champs-Elysées Avenue in Paris and to stop somewhere for ice cream where we could sit facing the “Arc de Triomphe” and enjoy the view. His dream had never come true because grand-father passed away before we could make it to Paris. But I could tell you something. Each time I walk down the Champs-Elysées Avenue, I always think of our grand-father and his dream. And this thought had been enough for me to feel instantly a breeze of happiness and a profound certainty that I was born and raised in a great family.

This is to say that the next time I come to visit you, I will tell you about some of my dreams. It is our family tradition: sharing our dreams.

In the meantime, I wish you some good night sleeps with less pain and above all, don’t forget to DREAM !

Fiction or reality?

My friends keep on asking me about the part of fiction and reality written in my blog. Is it all fiction or all reality or half and half. Do I love that much? Do I suffer that much? Am I that sad? My friends ask me a lot: “Who is the HE in the blog?” or “Who is who?”.

How can I answer? I am not sure I want to reveal what is fictional and what is real in the blog. You can imagine whatever you think is right and suitable for you and your moods the moment you read the post. What is certain is I am sincere and so are my words. Now, if I love that much, if I suffer that much, if I am that sad, sometimes yes, sometimes no. I still have to live, to work, to eat, to drink, outside of my blog. Sometimes I am sadder than my words and sometimes I am a bit less. I also know that I think much more about different things in my life than all these feelings of love expressed in my blog. But this blog is dedicated to love and all the complicated situations one can meet when in love. So of course, you will read a lot about love.

If I want to give a reasonable answer, I could say, a bit of everything happens in my life right now is in the blog. The love for the loved one (s) is always true. And that is all that matters. I share to you a bit and a lot of me with pleasure and honesty. The loved ones can recognize themselves in the blog or not if they ever come to read the posts once or twice. For me, it is more about the people who read my blog all over the world and whom I don’t know personally. It is much more important to me if you, my readers enjoy the blog. I have no intention of sending any particular messages to anyone who might recognize themselves being described in the blog. They are all my inspiration and of course I have loved them for having inspired me. But that was all. I don’t aim anything particular in this blog except for the pleasure of writing and sharing to readers some feelings about love, happiness or sadness.

For those who care about me like my family or my mother, I want to tell them not to worry that much, I am fine. Maybe sad sometimes but totally fine. Because I have come to accept that I cannot have everything and sadness is part of life. For those who do not care and who might think that the blog is about them, God forbid they should not become arrogant and self-sufficient, fiction is a great part of imagination and creativity of a writer.

I hope I had answered the question about fiction and reality.

To the readers, thanks for reading and following me.

For the lovers, ex-lovers, friends and people who inspire me in this blog, thanks for being someone who has once counted in my life.

For my cousin Alex

If only I knew that

Bad things and bad luck happen to you all the time

I would order a guardian angel

To watch on you

And to take care of you.

I would cover your road with leaf clovers

I would put a horseshoe in your pocket

I would ask you to wear a necklace with the laughing Buddha

But I think you are strong and finally you won’t need all these mascots.

But a guardian angel would still be nice

To keep you company.

Prayers for my cousin

My two last posts were about motorcycle. What an irony ! My cousin of 21 years-old just got a very bad motorcycle accident. Right arm and hand paralyzed. The news came to me tonight from a mail from my uncle. When the doctor announced to him the bad news, my cousin closed his eyes and did not say a word for a while. Then he said: “No more guitar playing”.

Last week he put on Facebook his status: “yeah, I got a summer job with a desk, a computer and a view on the mountain”. He was proud. Friends and family thumbed up “Like”.

I don’t know what to write tonight. Life is short and in less than a few minutes, your destiny and life could change. Things cannot be rewind.

My summer seems sad, sounds sad. The news hit me when I said good bye to the mother of my lost love. We had dinner together. She was so nice to me. We have a beautiful connection. I walked back home through the Old Town, the cathedral magnificent and proud, illuminated. I was already sad, even before I received the news.

I don’t know what to write so I texted to my cousin: “don’t give up, don’t give up and don’t give up”.

I don’t cry when I am sad. I write instead.

I don’t usually pray. But tonight I pray for my cousin. I hope he won’t give up. I hope you join me to pray for him too.

I hope summer ends quickly so that bad news won’t come anymore.

For those who have a good father

His father was a respected politician, known as a man of consensus with numerous human qualities, loyalty, reliability and honesty, more than  any usual politicians. He followed his father’s path. It seemed obvious for any son. I, personally, don’t think that things could be that easy. I don’t think everything was offered to him that easily because he was “the son of…”

I had a chance to know him through some friends. He was much younger than me though. We became friends. Quiet friends. We got in touch when our love life seemed to look like a storm. We gave each other a hand. We listened to each other until the storm allayed and went away.

The first time we met, I believe we were having a drink with some friends of mine. He was discreet and very polite. He was by the time a trainee at a law firm. Unlike a lot of trainees of his age who pretend to know all after a first job as a practiced lawyer, he did not talk a lot and observed more during that drink. He was the kind of guy who, I think, would prefer to disappear in crowds rather than making a noisy entry when entering a room. He was neither eccentric nor egocentric. That was why I had never noticed that he was handsome while usually this kind of detail never escaped me. That was because when you were with him, you listened more to what he said than to pay attention to his look. He had a kind of beauty and charisma you recognized more and more with time. And a kind of intelligence you would even be more and more convinced of with time. The more you met him the better you knew you haven’t made one mistake about your judgments.

Yesterday, we saw each other after a busy year of absence. He has grown up. Intellectually speaking. He is almost a full-time politician now. He endorses new responsibility without becoming rigid. His vision of how to contribute to our society has not changed, instead more affirmed. He seems to know how to take risks and to be forthright unlike other politicians. He talked politics, giving me insights on what was going on in the city where I used to live. He has become a real man. Not that I was considering him as a kid up to now. But he was so calm and serene in his way of explaining things and informing me about his life. He has matured and he did it well. He has become a good man and will become a very good one in the future. Sure thing.

So many people had compared him to his father. Though I did not know his father personally and I only got the chance to perceive him through newspapers in the past, I could not help wondering to what extent intellectual heritage and an excellent education from parents, in particular from a father, is essential to us and to what extent individual developments of personality might play a more important role?

In his case, probably both factors contribute to bring out his best.

I never had a father, sometimes I just wonder what it would be like to be guided by a strong male figure then to decide to go on one’s own, with one’s own determination and a substantial luggage: the father’s spiritual support.

Yesterday I very much envied my friend’s strengthened balance.


Friend to friend

Him to me (extracts from some mails over 15 years…):

…You want unconditional and absolute love with a “wild” man, not a “down to earth” one, free but yet caring. In the world of detective TV shows, you want “The Mentalist” type of guy with a lifestyle of a “Colombo”.  I have seen none so far. If I once saw a guy like that, I’d let you know.

…You are rich in past and in reflections, trying to find ideal solutions to a permanent existential hesitation. You try to search for logics. Solutions offer themselves to you, one day perfect then suddenly not anymore. It is not because of your mood. Just because you can’t live in lies and hypocrisies. In doubt, you feel the need to question things, to fight back. Till you are completely exhausted but you never give up.

…You try to be an emotionally rational person, but you can’t. That is why we love you. I don’t think a “sex friend” approach would ever suit you. You go with your heart and your soul. The “sex friend” thing is a half-way deal. Not for you.

…To not be depressed, just look at yourself a little bit in a mirror. Not for your look, but for your soul. You are a good person and there are few. You are generous despite of your perpetual egocentric desires of love. Your personal story is complex and difficult but you came out of that with rainbow colors. Sometimes aftermaths in life are just there for most of us. Yours is a dichotomy: “I deserve continuous pleasure but I also need stability at the same time”. Such quest would leave you K.O.

…You consume the flame of your love – sexual and emotional – as quickly and desperately as it consumes you in return. You are back to square one in a snap.

…You know that happiness is not reality, unless you are a fool.

…You are generous so when in love or when in the upward phase of your auto-persuasion of what love is, you really go beyond the line of duty to accommodate your partner. You could play the forbidden mistress, a perfect housewife, you went camping and hiking. But although you claim to do all this free of charge, on account of your unfaltering love, deep down you require and request reciprocity, refinement and sophisticated attentiveness.

…Beneath your sexy and submissive Vietnamese envelope lies a solid western woman. Indeed, should our personalities become anthropomorphic, you would fit more in an Uma Thurman’s exoskeleton and I would have looked like an older version of Freud.

Me to him:

Thanks for these kind words. You know what is good when you have smart friends, their intelligence rubs off on you and you benefit a bit of that with very few efforts. You forgot to mention that I have been a profiteer too and not only the generous one.  Don’t you see that I have taken advantage of your intelligence all those years? I listen to your advices and grow up.  You are cynical in a beautiful way. Things are important for you but not heavy. I take advantage of that lightheartedness too sometimes. You see all situations with the eyes of a banker and a poet at the same time, which makes a perfect balance. You were right, you are like an old version of Freud, but you are not obsessed with theories, at least not the boring sexual ones. You are the pragmatic one. ”Take it or leave it. Let it go”.  You are more like that. It has been good to have you around as a friend. Yesterday I posted a piece on my Persian brothers. I did not include you in there maybe because you are Greek. But today solemnly I designate you as my brother too. The Greek one.