THE PICTURAL STORY

by Pierre Wat

A pictural story written by Pierre Watt

Chapter IX

I haven't been going to the big white wall in a few days. Not that I miss the desire, but because I feel without really knowing why a need of another nature. If I went to the wall every day as I have become accustomed to doing, I am sure that She would reserve for me new surprises, always different arrangements of objects likely to give me unknown emotions. I love this experience to madness, which invades all my senses! However, I noticed after a while, that I needed, to keep in me this avarice which is each time like a new explosion, to take breaks, to remember better. Thinking about what I experienced in front of the wall, trying to bring out the feeling of the shapes and colours it has placed there, is as delicious and necessary as the first experience. In the exercise of memory, something is sedimented as if, beyond oblivion, the essential comes to nestle in me.

To think about what I saw, I go to the cliff, a rough place, on the edge of the world, where nothing blocks the gaze or the thought.
Then, when I was standing in this limestone blocks that I remember and dream while looking at the sea afront of me shaped with fantasy.

A few days ago, one of its strangely shaped blocks caught my attention: was it due to its oddly geometric shape? - It was a parallelepiped with sharp edges, which seemed freshly carved by nature. Next, to him, a small stone lay, as if waiting for the hand that would come to grab it. I took it over. It was a soft and sharp flint. Its shape followed the palm of my hand. Then I started: moved by a deaf necessity, called by the force of the stone that pulled my arm, I began to attack the parallelepiped, to give it another shape - the shape of my memories.

How long did I work without seeing anything of what I was doing? How long have I been doing this, blindly, guided by my only feeling?
Were the images of the high wall that were continually appearing before my eyes real? Little by little, I saw. And soon, I understood. These hollows, these niches, these passages, these new angles that I brought to life with flint, were all places for Her: open spaces in the high wall so that she would come, tomorrow and every day, to have new objects generating dreams and memories, again and again.

I worked for a long time, no doubt because when I looked up from my work, it was dark. Above the cliff, the sky was zebra blue.

Continuation of the story next month !

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Chapter IX

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Chapter VIII

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Chapter VII

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Chapter VI

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Chapter V

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Chapter IV

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Chapter III

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Chapter II

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Chapter I

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