What is this language that I speak in Quebec, and is it different from the one written down in my plays - I must say immediately and without putting the question mark that body and language are one, they have the same name and reveal the same nature, I may add, writing that leads somewhere is only the extension of an experience lived, dreamed, imagined. I plunge my Quebec-body into the ground, to take root, to wonder about the language, my mouth full of earth and lakes, am I an ideal of inhabited worlds far from the cities, are theatrical languages now divided into two groups, towns and countries, am I a glossary of a few ancient words and a thousand Anglicisms interwoven into a tasty, juicy French kiss, am I a dog who calls to other dogs to bark in a rock language so that the order of the "word-ish" can grow to become a fusional tree, to live heaven and earth, while a part of the world breathes in an endless movement of worry, is my rambling writing seeking autochtony of our anchorages, the theatre takes me by the belly, virulently, TO SAY WHAT TO WHOM, in this place where an image of public understanding is created, the last entrenchment of any possible "dream-ish", so where is the departure point of the fable to be told, and in which language. In a dreamed past, I discovered that the "word-ish" language was lodged in the left foot, in a darkened room, a luminous left foot enters, a left foot beneath the coral waters, a left foot of black blood-veined stone walks in a field to be gleaned, mine, the left covered with greenish mildew decomposes, putrefies, liquefies into a red ink blackened by oxygen. The speak-theatre, if it exists, starts from the ground up to the mouth of my mental hand, is written on fable paper up to the memory of the actors who, through their lips let out from their throat clouds of humidity that are so dense that such a concentration of successive waves of the said elements will give rise to violent turbulence leading to an archaic tempest, invisible for some, felt by others. I don't write, the theatre of my language is a humid act, which tries to build miniature forgotten oceans, to spread its nets there and to bring up to the surface swarming, scaly words with nourishing bodies, in order to try to understand better the rages and the cries of help for love of the community of my landowners.