Mud and André’s shoe merchant

Now, where we live, we live with the mud. There are some very logical reasons for this: we live in a humid environment, near ponds, swamp forest, in an old mill. Every day, the small dirt road in front of the house sees scroll tractors and lumber cars.

To tell you, I even had to bring myself to have my own pair of shoes in my car!

The ponies are having a field day. Once grooming is over, it’s back to square one with beautiful rolls in the mud. Sometimes just a tiny caress to have on the nails … and yes, I love the grattouiller.

So yes, I often have mud solid nail (when it is not full of paint.)


I wanted, dear sir of the shoe store to tell you what I could not tell you immediately (mixture of timidity and probably shame.) You looked at me with disgust and I saw the movie place in your head. I saw your foot from behind even before you decide to turn from me. You divert your dirt we learned to judge as unhygienic. I could pass you cholera, who knows?

In fact, I could pass you worse than that: the feeling of being alive.

For this mud means so much to me. Let me explain.

Do you know that the earth and mud were sacred for thousands of years? The land for Life, the one that feeds you, day after day? Mud, in fact, was so revered that the Bible has drawn the legend of creation of man, of humanity, of you, then. Yes … God had slipped his hands into the clay and would thus carved Adam. No doubt he found himself with mud under the nails!

When I look at my hands, I see these nails, I see all that I have made my day. I see my chance. I see the neck I hit. I see the wood that I sought before returning it in the living room. I see Prussian blue that I applied dancing on Florence + the machine. I see the pants of my child, covered in mud and so wet that I had to remove him (and he does not even helped me, he squirmed and cried of happiness to return.) In short, I see a dream come reality.


But you have not had the chance to see it all.

And it’s not really serious.

But you made me the trouble, you know. Because I thought that the wild woman has not an ideal environment to make a comeback.

She is strong, you see, it will do just the same.

She will launch her bra to the wind.

In his heels planted in an old stump and leave them there.

Then she will run, realizing that she had never really felt the beating of the ground beneath her bare feet.

She will take on the right, following a hoot that it alone will have heard.

It will fall and still recover.

And fingers stained with mud, it will try to untangle her hair. It will leave fallen, because she crazy now.


And you too late that includes mud that can even be super sexy … you will have no job, you will sell more shoes to these free women and barefoot in the mud.

(Me ?! Oh, me all right! I fell in Minelli instead …)