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Lolo CD1

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This is my place in the Mile-end neighborhood
in Montreal, Canada.
Everybody thinks I'm French Canadian.
Because I dream, that is not what I am.
Because I dream, that is not what I am.
Those who trust only their own truth,
call me Leo Lozeau.
They say he is my father,
but I know I'm not his son.
Because this man is crazy
and because I am not.
Because I dream, I am not.
SOMEWHERE IN A VALLEY IN SICILY.
Because he was partly hidden,
I never saw the face of my real father.
What are you doing to my tomatoes?
I'm giving life to your fucking tomatoes!
Stop it, asshole, you're gonna ruin them!
Who gives a shit?
This load is going to America.
A FEW DAYS LATER, IN AMERICA.
Faced with my mother's panic,
the doctor didn't dare tell her she'd been impregnated
by a contaminated tomato.
Since that dream, I've demanded to be called Leolo Lozone.
No one has the right to say I'm not Italian.
Italy is too beautiful to belong only to the Italians.
Between my room and Sicily, there are 6 889 kilometers.
Between my room and Bianca's place,
there are 5,8 meters.
And yet...
she's so much farther away from me.
Bianca, my love...
It only takes three words to write: Bianca, my love.
I took the shortest way.
Leo! Go to bed!
''Leolo!''
''Leolo Lozone!''
My name is Leolo!
Shuddup, bozo! Shut the fucking door.
It's freezing.
I don't try to remember what happens in a book.
All I ask of a book...
is to give me energy and courage...
to tell me there's more to life than I can take...
to remind me of the need to act.
lt was the only book in the house.
I never wondered how it got there.
It was thick.
The words were pushed together
and required enormous effort and concentration
to yield their secret.
At home, I never saw anybody read or write.
Television and billboards cluttered my brain.
At the beginning, I read the underlined passages
without really understanding.
I remember wanting to give up
because there were no pictures.
I find my only real joy in solitude.
Solitude is my castle.
That's where I have my chair, my table, my bed,
my breeze and my sun.
I sit in exile.
I sit in fake land.
Because I dream, I am not.
Because I dream, I am not.
I had started writing down everything that crossed my mind.
My family had become characters in a fiction.
And I spoke of them as if they were strangers.
As far back as I remember,
it was the smells and the light
that solidified my first memories.
My grandmother had convinced my father
a shit a day kept the doctor away.
Don't cry, my darling.
Do like mama.
Push, Leo.
Push, my love.
''As far back as I remember
it was the smells and the light
that solidified my first memories.
My grandmother had convinced my father
a shit a day kept the doctor away.''
So, every Friday,
we got a laxative shock treatment
to purify us from all the diseases of this world.
Leo!
Come, Leo, come to Daddy.
Come, my boy, it won't hurt.
Shit had become a family obsession.
As far back as I can remember,
there was a rat in the bathtub.
And then, one night, there was also a turkey...
that my mother had won at the movie theater.
It was fat and filthy.
Its remaining feathers were damp and stinky.
Don't cry, my darling.
Do like mama.
Push.
Push.
Push, my love.
Don't cry, my darling. Do like mama.
Do like mama.
Don't cry, my darling.
Do like mama.
He was the worm tamer.
The tamer spent his nights digging in the garbage of the world.
Only letters and photographs interested him.
He carried every smile, every glance,
every word of love every separation...
as if it were his own story.
The tamer believes that images and words
must mingle with the ashes of the worms to be reborn
in the imaginations of men.
You have to dream, Leolo.
You have to dream.
It took me a long time
to understand he was the reincarnation of Don Quixote.
And that he decided to fight isolation
and protect me from the black hole of my family.
Because I dream, I am not.
Just the paper.
Leave the trash.
You can't do anything with this, it's broken.
Even if the record was broken,
I remember I kept the album for its cover.
Leo, I'm paying you to work.
Hi, Mo.
Hey, Mo...
You still buying from the little frog brothers?
Listen. Listen, Mo.
I can get you all the paper you need at a better price.
No. I'm serious, Mo.
Pick up the rest, Leo, and put it in the car.
Kid's a good worker, isn't he?
You don't listen.
Paper is my business.
You can't go on hurting me like this, you know. Deal?
Lozeau...
Listen to me, Lozeau.
You'll have to pick another alley,
'cause this one's ours.
Fernand!
Since that day, fear had given my brother Fernand
a reason for living.
Kid, put some more rock. It's gotta be heavy.
Pour it on. It don't matter if it spills over.
Fernand would no longer fear anyone.
And when my brother becomes a mountain,
I too will no longer be afraid.
And I shall walk the alleys of the world
and tell the wretched of this earth what I think of them.
Cursed be those who will not bow as we walk by.
Even the Arabs and the Jews will fear me,
so tall will I be on my brother's shoulders.
I'm an early riser.
Awakening is brutal as I crash-land from the kingdom of dreams
unto the runway of reality.
I sleep with Fernand. I always have.
A large bed, my grandparent's bed,
Worn out by my parents and abused by us,
my hand scratches wads of gum underthe mattress,
from the time when my father was afraid to wake my mother
with his boozy, beery breath.
''Cursed be those who will not bow as we walk by.
Even the Arabs and the Jews
will fear me,
so tall will I be on my brother's shoulders.''
If you wash your hands, you can sit down and have some pie.
Don't worry.
It's like brand new. Still wrapped in plastic.
My grandfather was not a mean man.
Yet, he'd already tried to kill me.
Children, be careful not to splash grandpa.
Come eat some chips.
Grandpa!
I remember not being afraid.
And dreaming about the beauty of the treasure.
Perhaps because l knew I was already dead.
I mostly rememberthe whiteness of that light
that I saw forthe first time.
Albert! Let go of the kid!
Let go of him, Albert! You're gonna kill'im!
It was a frightening cry,
a huge ''I love you'' that resonated from the depth of her soul.
I love you, Ma.
My mother had the strength
of a frigate plowing through troubled waters.
Albert! Let go!
Try to be nice, this time, Leo.
''Leolo'', Ma! Leolo Lozone.
Sure, Antonio.
But talk to the doctor, it's for your own good.
Sometimes, at the hospital,
there were also my sister Nanette...
my sister Rita...
my brother Fernand...
and my father.
As if my grandfather's legacy had exploded within the family,
and that little extra cell
had lodged itself in everybody's brain.
Good morning.
Who talks first today?
Why not you, Leo?
Because my name is...
Leolo Lozone.
And because you don't talk about people you don't know.
Egged on by her mother,
she cried for Sicily.
Her plaintive voice was close to good.
At the time, the few years between our ages
seemed to me an impassable frontier.
And I lived my desire...
in silence.
We were rarely together at home.
And we looked like a real family.
Will you stop day-dreaming?
You're better off studying than scribbling.
My father was a man like many others.
A dog that bit his bitch of a life.
He was small, stout, jolly,
with red cheeks.
Wrinkles line his face
but reveal nothing but the age
that dug them.
Somewhere between good morning and goodbye,
an eternal, untouched moon pricked by a sliver of time,
a forehead that stretched beyond his chin
into a neck that clung desperately to bulging shoulders.
Nanette...
My pretty Nanette.
I'm not mad at you.
At times, their lunacy is harmonized.
And it was easy to visit them in the ward on Sunday morning.
At other times,
you had to go everywhere to see everyone.
And the corridors were immense.
Sometimes, it took an entire day.
They stole my baby, Leo.
They stole my baby.
Those were our beautiful winter Sundays.
Strange...
harrowing...
stinking...
with no friends...
and no light.
Hidden in the bowels of the earth,
my sister, Queen Rita,
had become the curator of my bug collection.
Rita.
Rita.
Trois fois passera
La dernière la dernière
Trois fois passera
La dernière y restera.
I'm keeping your jar of bugs.
Oh no, Rita.
Not my deerflies. Here, take this, but not my deerflies.
Leo!
Wait, 'pa!
Don't push, pa! Don't push! You'll be pleased!
My father was as gung-ho as a baseball coach.
My turd made him as proud as if I'd come back from war.
My love!
My beautiful love!
She was warm and loving.
My only love.
I loved it when she pulled me into her fat.
The smell of her sweat soothed me.
One night, my father discovered our hideout
and barred the door to the cellar.
Trapped in the daylight,
alone...
without a kingdom,
without the teaming bugs to calm her down...
my fragile little sister, Queen Rita,
drifted away.
When he was younger, Fernand had problems in school.
In grade 5, he was put into a class of retards
with schizophrenics, psychopaths,
a set of epileptic twins, a transvestite and an albino.
Even there, he'd failed his exams three years in a row.
Mme. Lozeau.
One day, a visiting counsellor asked him to draw something.
After an hour, Fernand gave him a blank page,
insisting he'd drawn a white rabbit in the snow.
In the snow.
On both sides.
But it's here! Can't you see? Right here!
But, Mr. Principal...
Counsellor, madam. Not Principal.
Mr. Counsellor.
Then counsel me
about a 14-year-old
who won't go to school.
I'm sorry, madam, it can't go on like this.
Sorry.
Come, let's go home.
Three days later, he started working at Dominion Glass.
Asshole!
You went to school but
you shit and stink like me.
I could've gone till I was 40.
If the old man hadn't fucked me 15 bucks for rent.
Who'd they think they were?
Shoving me in a class for dildoes.
Didn't think I was normal.
Anyone hassles me
today,
I'll hit'em between the eyes.
Don't get smart, punk.
We come from the same shit hole.
And I got here before you.
Don't play with the food.
It'll soon be spring.
The birds are endlessly bitching about winter.
Fernand pipes in with a snot-filled snore.
My stomach turns every time he breathes.
He lies in the fetal position,
his little nightshirt barely guarding his decency.
He rests, oblivious as usual.
Two hundred pounds of muscle,
a beautiful little baby got too big.
The room is split in half.
My side, and Fernand's.
His side swells as his biceps bloom.
There's his radio and my record-player.
Fernand's radio has priority since he pays rent.
And his muscles mute my music when he gets angry.
Bianca my love.
My beautiful love.
My only love.
My ltaly.
No... Not that. Not like that.
I don't like that.
You know what I want.
One last time. -No.
Please! -No.
Bianca...
Bianca... For me.
Leolo!...
Leolo!... Come...
One night, I finally understood where that light came from.
It was Bianca who, for a long time now,
had been singing to me from the back of the closet.
All I had to do was take the time to write.
Bianca my love.
My beautiful love.
My only love.
My Italy.
John has one nose.
John has two ears.
John has two legs.
John has ten fingers.
John has two arms.
John has two legs.
John has ten fingers.
John and Mary were our guides through English.
They were models of propriety.
John has one mouth.
At school, I thought I was the only one upset...
The only one anxious because some details were missing
on John's and Tintin's bodies.
At 12, I knew what nose meant
in English.
And that the Congo was a former Belgian colony in Africa.
But nobody talked about that tail that swelled between my legs.
It was absent on the chart of John's organs.
I didn't know the English nor the French word for this thing.
And for a long time, I believed the Anglos didn't have any.
Casablanca.
Capital?
Dakar.
Country?
Senegal.
Dammit.
I'm coming!
Open the door or...
I'm coming!
Wait!
Wait!
Enough!
I'm coming!
Now!
Just a minute!
I'll bust the fucking lock!
Open the fucking door!
Open up! -Coming!
What's going on?
Nothing. I was taking my bath.
The water was hot, I fried myself.
Smells funny in there.
No...
Well...
Anyway,
shit, or make it shoot!
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