you could also call it : “the country of no return”
those lying
those gliding along
those on vacation, so sure of themselves
gliding, forever gliding
always-already-dead, their breath held
in the white corridors
of organized mountain
mass leisure
coming in, going out, climbing up, sliding down

a funny game
an army of skiers, soldiers in trenches
the Mont-Blanc of languages
vanilla or chocolate cream fancy pens
internationally white
of childhood
in Europe
did that stone on the road kill any of them?
ultra-sophisticated cars at the foot
stuck in traffic
say, dad, what’s a modern man?
a film at war
come on, kids
I’m not English!
why is the instructor talking to me that way?
in 1890, everything was there
the stage was set
the movies didn’t talk yet
keeping silent
letting time speak for itself
seeing factories
the erosion
they have taken everything, we have
citizens work to their own consumption
we work
oh, look
the cloud took away the landscape
there are still clouds
there are still clouds that won’t let go
saute-ma-montagne, saute
we were talking about things that are impossible
and any real landscape was also impossible
hell-packed snow
to rework each night
packing down
total security
total safety
there is wind in the mike
the avalanche
the angel of the story
is a skier
a storm from heaven swirled
swelling the wings of the Angel
he can’t fold them back
this storm carries him into the future, to which the Angel keeps turning his back
as the debris
in front of him flies to the skies
we name this storm progress
Walter couldn’t take it
in Port-Bou
progress came to a halt
to German workers, prisoners
who made weapons to kill their own brothers
to fiancées with aluminum rings
to resistant shells that chose not to
who is responsible?
the skier with the red balaclava
has he killed the mule
the last mule
the ice skating woman makes figures
puppets inhabit the white space
take it easy
like in science-fiction films
like in advertisements
it works
from 1 to 10
and again
we have facts
the 1938 strike
as your Friend and Boss, I’m counting on you
water machines
Americans know the tricks we
have colonies
the world is ours
the white world
everything to be taken
learn savage what taming means
pourtant que la montagne est belle
comment peut-on s'imaginer

dancing dogs
the frozen dog in Nanook
impassive in the frozen air
did Flaherty pay Nanook in fish?
the shadows keep gliding
Kellerleleux in its postcard
I can see the factory
the bridge
the Russian staircase
from here
you can see Moscow
now bosses don’t even have to see
their worked to become invisible
on the left two colored parkas a bus goes by
going through a tunnel
the voice that speaks
the voice / history
shadows pray in the snow
at the sign
ballet in the fog
scraping snow off the fake landscape in order to see the hidden peaks
the end of the roll
blanc de blanc
to what ends?
going to Asnières 7 minutes trip
I’m reading Walter the Moscow diaries
And then, as there were only a few minutes left, my voice became unsure and Asja saw that I was crying. Then she said: Don’t cry or else I will start crying as well and when I start crying I don’t stop as easily as you. Then we went back up to the reception desk where there was nothing to do (but I didn’t want to wait for the sovietduchi), the maid appeared – I escaped without tipping her, I came out of the hotel with my suitcase, and Asja, carrying Reich’s coat under her arm, followed me. I had her call me a sleigh by phone. But as I was about to board and having already said goodbye again, I asked her to come with me to the corner of Tverskaia. There, she got out, I pulled, even as the sleigh started off, her hand, one more time, here, in the open street, to my lips. She stayed still a long time and then waved. I waved back from the sleigh. First, she seemed to walk back and then I couldn’t see her anymore. With the large suitcase on my lap I went crying in the twilight through the streets to the station.
skiers come out of the metro
sticks ahead
happiness manifesto (end)
all’s fair in love and snow
let’s go together
white prairies
of our memories
frame taken
no more virgin territory
the leisure of industry
ski lifts
cable cars
ski slope professionals
larticifial snow
toboggan in tropical flowers
a sliding mass gathers no moss
cosmonaut mass
heavily equipped
highly watched over
always someone slowing down
someone holding things back
the man with dynamite
like pierrot







Nathalie Nambot
September 2005



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