Pontaillac, June 1986
It’s been a while since I’ve not written to you. I didn’t want you to be worried during your exams , but I thought on calling you several times.
There are some news for me , goods and bads I fear; but you’ll tell me. I need your positive state of mind.
I’m not accepted in the musical session, but I’ll be in Dautet High school next year however. I’ll be in bilingual german class which relieves me even if I’m a little disappointed. I think I’ll never be a musician.
My sadness comes from elsewhere, what to expect next year. Parents don’t want me to be full boarder, I’ll have to live by a woman and her daughter , who mum and Edouard know. I guess they don’t want me to meet you and all the friends , as dad suggested after I tried to steal the Erasure’s 45 rpm , you could have a bad influence on me.
And my sadness comes from elsewhere. I saw them, they were at home yesterday. This woman, the kind of elegant and emancipated person, divorced and self-confident. Not mean, but quite indifferent. And I saw her daughter ; Sixtine.
We’ve got the same age, but she’s been accepted in the musical section , her. A perfect girl, not that tall, blond and without roughness. A perfectly clear and pure skin, a perfect discreet air of intelligence. And in me that whiff of shameful jealousy, Alb; this tetany of despair that I always have, I must confess ; in front of all girls. Why am I like that ?
And my sadness comes from elsewhere again.
They both came , and talked ; it was like I didn’t exist at all. Attention, it seems , was concentrated on Colin who looked at them silently during all the time they were there with an air of extremely hostile contempt. Especially when Sixtine played the piano for us all.
“ What for comes this stuck-up cooze , who allows herself to take my instrument and do the show here? “
But it is not him who will live with her, and I don’t want to be like that.
I don’t know why, but I don’t want to start this new life in constant rebellion and in constant competition.
I thought about running away last night, and then I thought of you to calm down.
And I’m writing now , and listening to my “shabby tape” taken from “High Meanders”
I’m in love with the voice of this guy. It seems that cords, and those inflexions who change octave with such agility dress my sadness and give it a more combative tempo.
So far, I haven’t found anything better than to melt my being in this rhythm, and write to you at the same time.
Have the best week Alban, I hope to see you at Depeche Mode’s concert in August.
Loads of kisses