Jean-Louis Bouzou – Text Bubbles

> Where can one be better off than in the bosom of one's family? Jean-François Marmontel With folded arms, walking with my eyes lost in the starry night, I listened to the sound of my footsteps crunching on the gravel path. Once again, I had felt the need to go outside and embrace my solitude. Although I was very fond of my friends, their usual smoky post-dinner discussions—where everyone strove to assert their point of view with plenty of gestures and volume—had once again irritated me. I knew full well that, as always in these cases, there would be no winner; the arguments put forward were just as valid on one side as on the other. "Why spend so much time and energy on useless feuds?" I thought. For my part, I had long since thrown in the towel; I no longer had enough ego for that. When I pushed open the French window opening onto the park, Pierre had asked Anne: "Is Juju sick?" I had smiled… As I moved further away from the pavilion, a sense of calm sett...

When passion is truly strong, there is no dam nor wall that its current cannot sweep away. Émile AUGIER, Gabrielle It was a true pleasure to see Natacha’s agile fingers dance a jig upon the ivory keys of the old Steinway. Listening to her play her Turkish March in such a lovely manner, Mozart would have wept with joy. Playing like this transported her soul; she would leave reality behind to soar and wander into the past, toward the distant lands of her childhood. She owed this voluptuous and playful style of playing to her mother. Tatiana Ivanovna had once been a renowned pianist who had traversed the world's greatest concert halls, charming the ears of the high society, until she met Jacques Lapierre. Natacha's birth froze her career forever. As soon as Natacha could move her pretty little fingers, her mother sat her down in front of a piano, and very quickly—proving that blood will tell—she revealed a natural talent. Tatiana liked to say that Natacha had learned to play ...

A month already that I had been working on this canvas. I had no one to blame but myself. I—the impressionist, the fauvist, the color enthusiast—had challenged myself: “I bet you’re not capable of painting realistically.” “Well, game on, I can do it,” my alter ego had replied, always loving a challenge. So, I got to work. I had decided to paint a portrait of a woman reading. To do this, I asked Sophie, one of my childhood friends and neighbors, to pose for me. * Tiny and cute, a brunette with azure eyes, Sophie is always dressed to the nines; her cheerful and playful nature charms more than a few... What I appreciate most about her is her energy, so much so that when we were kids, I dubbed her “Jack-in-the-Box”—which earned me, more than once, the painful red imprint of her hand on my cheek. Yes, between her and me, it’s a lovely story that goes back to early childhood. We’ve always been very close and see each other often; I can’t go to the market without running into her, as she ru...

After washing himself on a dining room chair, the well-fed cat delicately rested his head on the tip of his tail and fell asleep. Standing by the window, sipping my coffee, I gaze out at the horizon.  Spring is taking over the world. Day by day, the lush greenery nibbles away, leaf by leaf, at the blue of the sky and the distant coastline. The shore has almost vanished from the panorama. Now, only a small patch of sea and a few scattered rooftops remain.  The 7:22 seagull is right on time. On the final meters, as usual, he slows down with a loud rustle of wings before landing majestically on the windowsill. Happy, I open the window panes, greet him, and bestow upon him a: “How’s it going, buddy? Sleep well?”, to which he replies with his classic: “Pa! Pa! Pa!”, which I interpret that day as: “Yes, thanks, and you?”.  I love this morning rendezvous. The two of us have been seeing each other for a long time now. He’s no longer afraid of me. While he pecks at the cat kibbl...

I have the feeling the fire is going out… Lately, I even thought I would like to see you once more, just for one last conversation, to shed light on certain shadows—but today that no longer even seems necessary. With time, silence loses its importance, or perhaps it swallows everything… 

A few years ago, when I discovered Ho’oponopono, I put my life under a magnifying glass… During my workdays, as I was sweeping, cleaning, and washing on the outside, I was doing the exact same thing within myself… By accepting one's past, one breaks free from it, and remains far more grounded in the present. Later on, I did the same with my fears, to free myself from the future, but that is another story… This work did me a world of good, which showed as a permanent smile on my face. Since I thought I was done with myself, I practiced this technique on everyone close to me from my past: parents, grandparents, friends, acquaintances… Knowing a few major events in their lives, I gained insights into their wounds and the reasons behind their personalities. From that point on, many things changed, and my evolution was quite positive. I then felt an immense peace and a constant joy that I never would have thought possible. Awakening is not a one-time event; it is a process that, o...

Maybe I've had enough of dressing this silence with words, and of hearing the toll of "what's the point?" ring against the walls of the rusted bell of hope. Intuition, maybe I should dismiss you for lack of results, and before leaving my memory, cover my feelings with white sheets. Maybe I should focus on the spark I shelter within, and turn it into light. Behind every maybe, a new path begins…