from Sunny Girls

Sandra Moussempès


The heat of trays, we can extract this heat.
“Your body holds up a night-light, you are languorous.”
—title of the first dialogue—

The hero says he’s captivated.

When you are in this Santa Monica hotel you have
a view of the ocean, you are in the interior of a décor purchased
by more than 900 TV channels.

You like the blue that makes positive thinking easy, the white-
ness of the walls recalls Greece but in LA it’s never
too hot or too cold “I like the quality of
life, our kids go to a private school” or any other
dialogue on sale would do the trick.

She walks on the beach, that ocean is not actual-
ly a place for swimming, we find sharks there and
also what Californians believe sharks to be.

—We travel by car, I see, you don’t like
the car, you’ll have to make it work, that and the sports hall.

The red light intensifies, the faces frown, 1979
or maybe 1982, no mass movements, the Cocteau
Twins are big with young Californians of
the era, in LA there were some fake punks who lived in
luxurious villas, they organized parties on the patios
of their plastic surgeon parents.

[I met a brunette there who resembled Mia]

But also some arty director and some rising
actors; sometimes the servers became stars, shortly
after, but no one really knew to disappear
like here.

Dialogues numbered 1 through 13

—I want to re-read some books, books stimulate me and
make me stronger, at the cinema (the image makes everything) there’s
this condensation on the camera that prevents seeing in-
depth, it is very tempting to be guided by an atmosphere.

—It’s possible to be lured by silence and to wish for sound
to guide us.

In LA two women were kissing, I remember
this moment; was it only a trailer for a vintage
porno in faded colors (a popular aesthetic in
the field of design)?

—I watched these two blonde women, naked, who had
maintained long pearl necklaces, in a wicker chair,
the light was blue, their blondeness was blue, and this blue
became tangled in many layers, with their legs and their
ankles to become mauve on the photo once magni-

Red desk-blotter, first window

Rectangle, transparency, dark edges—
The heroine became a supporting actress of no importance
labeled as an emerging pinup, in this independent film, she
slaved away (the quality of the image makes everything).

—We’ll call her Mia, blond, father German, mother Ir-
ish, physique Hitchcockian but without the ambivalence,
full curves, Mia wears a brown wig that brings
out her blue eyes and the paleness of her complexion.
(In this boarding school, no one knows who is who, no
one knows who is I)

—But all the same it’s the same woman, I’m sure I
recognize her.
—Yes actually, but the image doesn’t make everything.

So, various hypotheses

—I did not go to the cinema for years but I
included myself in my list of unfindable films

Questioning, question marks
Reprise of the final sentence
Motives, elimination of adjectives

—The final scene did nothing for me

                                    if, in fact, she is crushed
                                    in a sculpted house

3 o’clock, in front of the housing development barely out of the ground,
the residents come to get the keys, they open the door of
their apartment

A form of submission
They freak with each other

I had repetitive dreams: I am almost superstitious
when I keep quiet

No sentence seemed really positive despite the
“Coldly received”

Cast in black
Theses of survivors fed up with
Aliases & reminder to forget them
Something welcome: the replacement of the
rumor with a strident note

“You enter a new cycle you’ll see nothing will be
the same, or maybe you’ll see nothing because
everything will have changed”

Nothing needs to be explicable if the explanation is the only
thing that stays

Something shorter
—“this bitch ripped you off”

Features other than direct access to the sea: waste
collection is becoming decent
We could say boiler if everything hadn’t been
taken away

With me like extension
I bet you are
Smiling I feel that you wish me well

translated from the French by Hadley Sorsby-Jones