Vieux con!

- Regarde – moi donc. L’heure est venu de l’admettre : je suis devenu un vieux con.

- C’est ainsi que va le monde, papa. Les jeunes rebelles d’hier sont les vieux cons d’aujourd’hui. Les jeunes rebelles d’aujourd’hui seront les vieux cons de demain. C’est dans l’ordre des choses. Tu ne voudrais pas aller contre l’ordre des choses, n’est-ce-pas ?

- J’en ai rêvé, il y a longtemps…

- Et vois ce que cela donne aujourd’hui… C’est pour cette raison que, afin d'éviter de tomber dans cet engrenage, j’ai décidé d’accepter dès maintenant l’ordre établi. Rien ne me révolte, tout m’agrée. Sauf ceux qui essayent de changer les choses, qui sont très biens comme elles sont.

- Je vois. De cette manière, tu seras, d’entrée de jeu, une vieille conne.

- Parfaitement.

- Ingénieux. … Et audacieux ! Quel bel esprit subversif !

- ... Et ça te fait rire ? Vieux con, va !

Le Château Hanté

Sur la flaque croupie passée en déréliction qu’est le Tout, fleuroite un printemps de plastique. Eclosent des bourgeons et des vers, naissent des sonnets de turpitude. J’éclos-meurs. Je ne dure pas.

Aux illusions infinies, je - torturée et secouée arc-boutée de larmes ectoplasmiques - désarroite impuissante.

Si brève, que mon heure déjà sonne et résonne et mes écoutilles assourdit; pour que je ploie, que ma sève se délite, que mon tronc, mon visage, mon corps - apprenti-Shiva des Rêves aux mille girons pourvoyeurs de pensées avortées - s’enfonce et se noie.
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J’essaye de flamboyer, intensément – mais cela même est entravé par la connaissance de mon propre flétrissement, la figeante certitude qui appesantit ce que je suis, la façon dont j’agis, sans plus l’ancrer pourtant à la vie - base de tout - qui n’existe pas (il n’est pas de « bon » état de présence au monde en cette sphère où voisinent étincelles éphémères et minéraux inanimés, qui nous certifient que quelque part, on inéluctabilise et réglemente sans pensée, ni conscience, ni vie).
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Je ne suis pas, je-ça transitoire. Je-ça passager. Moi, plante qui se dresse, haut très haut, puis me ratatine, identité-chose oscillante, tour-à-tour larmoyante, impavide, et -.

'Ca' définitif, beauté sans nul écho, absolue inanité, mon esprit, mes aspirations, ma nature contrariés, malheureux qu’on moque...

Mon ‘Je’ veut demeurer et jamais ne fût conditionné à être remis en considération toute sa durée et ce jusqu’à dissipation.

Monde-vie/château hanté d’ajournés, d’éphémères harcelants, qui sans cesse nous rappellent...

« Et memento mori »

En nous condamnant à une fin, vous nous avez voués à être, en potentiel, en permanence finis.

En nous condamnant à une fin, ils ont fait de la liberté un fœtus éternel.

...............................................................................................

31/01/09

6. Contextualisons: année 2009

... Qui reste encore à écrire.

Janvier, février: projets de départ en Angleterre pour des études de journalisme qui se précisent, grèves, anniversaire à venir (21 piges).

Haut et bas de la crise existentielle qui se poursuit.

Hiver: humeur pâteuse et molle.

About Unfairness (Clementine and the Man)

“Well, you know, I don’t exactly wish to deal with your so-called troubles, so don’t run on me saying you’re especially unhappy because, like, you see, we’re all part of this gigantic indescribable never-ending pointillism painting, just one of its billion touch of color, each having their own individual life, and then suddenly the Painter decides that we’re not mixing well together, especially little you there, ‘cause, you know, you have a shade too soft or too dark compared to the others surrounding us, like, you are too happy and too bright for the painting to work or hasn’t had enough of your share of troubles yet, so yes, someone decides to change that to make the canvas looks better, and then an individual that you know and care for dies on you or you don’t know them or don’t care for them and they beat you or rape you and in any way traumatized your for a fair amount of time and then thanks to that there is harmony in the painting again, until the next change of mood of the Painter and you can’t do nothing awhile but living your life as they set it and waiting in fear to see what might come next. And I don’t count in your own internal individual problems, like fucking bugs or fucking neurotical problems or fucking every known or unknown sickness that is going to make of what little time is left to you a fucking living Hell.

The thing, which isn’t that brand new but needs to be stressed out a bit to emphasize my saying, is that you have actually no choice in the matter of your death and thinking otherwise is a huge mistake. Suicide is not that great of a “choice”. Suicide, all in all, is just oh-so-choosing to make your life shorter than it should have been without your efficient will of killing yourself. Which by the way, is in itself pretty futile, seeing from that big fat far away point of view of the Times and the Universe’s boundaries and great void and all that jazz.

We are, all of us – the well-off and the deprived, the pretty and the ugly ones, the lucky and the unlucky - those pathetic poor little dogs that innerly can’t help but think they will do different from their ancestors. Like, as if, no matter how big a thing they’ll manage to achieve in the time they are allowed, no matter how deep feelings they will be able to feel, and great stories and great celebrity they’ll live through – in the end, they weren’t going to die too and be remembered only by a very, very small part of one, maybe two generation after them and then, forgotten like the thousand billions of people that lived and died before us and that no one knows about and will most likely never. And there, you will object and tell me about those some men that thousand years after, we still hear about, and yes, that is indeed fucking great for Nero or Plato to be still spoken about in our own days except they don’t know it, ‘cause they are, like, dead you know, but still, this held something great, or at least, this would be fucking great anyway if we were able to think of them as actually “them” and not some monstrously distorted picture of them that, no matter how hard we will try, centuries after centuries, to refine, will still be a dreadfully distorted picture that we won’t never be able anymore to fully understand, and saying the other way may just be like talking to a corpse for long years while studying it with scientific means and then claim that you actually know the person, yeah, totally, ‘cause in the end, you are doomed to acknowledge the fact that there will still and always miss that irreplaceable things known as ‘I’ that is so amazingly ephemeral and that once ones dead, you’ll never get back and is lost forever to you, and to them above all (as there isn’t any “them” anymore); after all, what do you really know of Nefertiti or Akhenaton true feelings and doesn’t their so-called “character” seems to you a little fuzzy? These people, you may try, you’ll never get to know them, as the vibes of their lives isn’t affecting anymore the way the world turn. They left behind them great deeds that, for some, still have something to do with our times, and that’s grand, but that’s grand for the living. For the dead we are talking about, well, like any other dead, they are just so fucking dead, you know, and I have to underline the funny little fact that they’ve been dead way longer that they’ve ever been alive and so have been way longer told and thought about as dead people than as alive ones.

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So, yeah, do tell me, sweet, little and still-so-young Clementine, why do you keep struggling and crying, philosophizing and wondering, letting random passion fills you in, when eventually and in a ridiculously short time, you will be old then dead no matter what?

And I would sincerely appreciate you giving me a good, valuable answer, thus proving me the fact that there is, actually, one.”

.. . . . .. … . ………………………………… …………….. .… .. .Hush, hush, my lovely, reality isn’t worth any of your shiny little tears to be shed.

.....................................................................................................................28/12/08

La Fin

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Le scabreux désamour

Voguant sur les fluides qui de ton corps s’écoulent

Un instant se dissipe

Et voici que je replonge dans les élans abrupts de la passion.

Je n’en sais que dire….

Je n’ai point de gorge pour scander ce renouveau d’intensité.

Elle a déjà trop servi pour hurler, sa pulpe en feu ne laisse plus passer les mots d’amour,

Qui sitôt pensés, sonnent faux et tristes et l’imposture.

L’instant d’après, je ne suis plus tant dévastée que les ravages de toi sur moi

Me feraient encore songer comme une autre, dont la tendresse ne serait pas déjà flétrie.

Je passe à autre chose.

........................................................................................07/12/08