Dog's year

Happy New Year ! 喜悅

bab's back !

Introducing FB's short stories. A balcony on/at the Universe.

When we arrived there, FB took a picture quickly and said : "Look, it could be Greece! or Romania!... Yugoslavia ? (at this time still on the maps) or Turkey! - No way sir, and you know why. Stay here please. "

I had been hired by his publisher to spend a week with him (he was such a "prise de tête" man) to prevent him from dreaming. Yes, dreaming. I know, that's not a job is what you think. Don't laugh, dreaming for that guy just meant thinking to his next book. A mad man. Really. But he was a such a best seller in the usa. And by agreement he was obliged to change his mind when the publishers found it necessary. Isn't this a crazy world ? At this time i was crazy as well, as poor as i am now, and with the offer of a trip over there, i couldn't say no. - You see now how amazing this is, sir? You believe me now? I'm sure you'll be even more amazed in a while. - It has to ! he screamed. No buses, no taxis, no one on that f.. road, i have to walk ten kilometers and with you! gosh, you can tell everybody my brain's already empty. - Haha, you know very well that i can't say such a thing yet, it's part of the agreement. So please, keep on walking, we'll be there in a few minutes.

Here was the destination :

A little franciscan monastery in Corsica, away from any road. Ten monks living in their garden, their olive trees and any other trees. So the food was vegetarian, except on Sundays, when they served fish. A glass of wine twice a day : a mere torture for FB. Plus the "messe" every morning. Fortunately, or not, the prior was an American, i thought he could understand why we where there and help me a bit. Anyway, FB was obliged to stay, whoever he would meet, or not meet. When he saw the scenery, some sort of a smile appeared on his lips, i thought one point for you Nev. Shame! you know what i’ve heard? "Good frog , good frog", that bastard from nowhere just said! The very first night he managed to escape... and spent a week in the Plaza Hotel in Paris. I stayed a whole week there. It was really amazing. Thx FB ps : yesterday, when i sent this text, i thought it could be wiser to ask PG1 to "clean" it before i clicked. Mektoub, it was done! ... Gosh, when i received his corrections, i'm still ashamed. And then when he explained me everything (grammar, syntax, etc, etc) through "netphoning", i decided to dive again in my old english school-books. THX PG1 !

a new translation from our great PG1 :

Happy Saint Rémi's day!

This morning, a scenery that looks like a painting by Brueghel, less the snow. But the madness and the ravings are the same. I walk out of the bank, happy, feeling as rich as yesterday. Which means poor. After the double safety doors, between two pillars, the door between "really outside" and "almost in". I keep the door open for a woman to walk in, and in doing so, I can see a beggar sitting, his back on to the pillar, his hand held out. The woman is in her sixties. She's got grey hair, her make-up is too pallid for the day, and her eyes still soaked with chocolate and foie gras. She wears a scarf with stripes too familiar, and a trench coat. Come on, hurry, step in and keep silent. She is half pulling and is half followed by a very clean little white f... up french poodle dressed in an absurd green loden cardigan. Shit! Another five seconds keeping the door open for these ignorant heaps of cells. Morbid. -Thank you, Sir, you are very kind. This is rare enough to be mentioned. -It's nothing, Madame. Did she get it, the "nothing" hint? And "Madame", with an over-emphasized french accent? The one from Marseilles, which smells of Pernod and garlic after the traditional nap. I don't know why, I'm not even from Marseilles, but I couldn't help it. I look at the dog, a scampering clown, and I can see the beggar looking at it too, then leaning back on to the pillar to watch the sky, his sky, and crossing himself. Whether the dog is in or not, I'll let the door shut. He is no more than thirty and wears a beret from the Basque country (a sign?). His face is robust, his black eyes rather shiny despite the insult of helding out his hand at dog level. A newcomer, not yet lost in the mists of poverty, and who seems to be fighting with dignity. Through the glass door, I can see the poodle on its owner's heels, sitting. She's handing cheques out. The dog doesn't even look under the trench coat. Poor creature. -Please Sir, one euro for a bread. Slap! And the great turmoil of my emotions leads me into rushing straight back into the bank, machine-gun and grenades ready, first a few bursts at the dog and the owner to end their polluting ignorance and you, intentional slaves, keep quiet, I don't shoot the poor, the cash will go to this man outside. And you call him Sir! Thank you guys, nice ones! When I walk out, I pass him a bag full of notes, and the car keys, so he can drive far away, and then a burst at the cash dispenser, to draw attention to me. But how is he going to find the car, I don't know the street's name, not even the brand, I hesitate. Well, too bad for the motion picture. -Where do you come from? -Romania, Sir, with my brother and little sister. I pull my wallet out, thinking how to help him. I'm not going to offer the little shed, or the room under the garage, or the attic, why not a tent under the ginkgo? -Where do you live? -In... I don't find a work. It is very hard for us, and it is cold. -Have you got a proper place to live, at least? -No, outside Sir. -Outside? In the streets? -Oh no, we found a little garden, and with three like that -he points at the bus stop post- and plastic bag, I made our house. It's better than pavement. Good Heavens! Make me the last and final H bomb! -I know it is not good to do the beggar Sir, but I don't know what to do. I was about to offer to go fetch his brother and sister and make yourselves at home!, have a warm sleep, eat whatever you wish, this is your home, live, live. And forgive us. But look who's passing between us, guess who! The fucking ignorant poodle. Obviously followed by the cunt that comes along. And don't say swearwords are not nice, not polite, because what's next is terribly ugly and exquisite. She sees me and the Romanian too. The look in her eye turns dirty, very dirty. She stinks. -One should not help those people, Sir. They come here whereas there aren't enough jobs for all of us. I want to eat her skull, and begin with her feet. And don't say anthropophagy is not good. It never stopped. I try to think hard of the sounds that soothe, chill out, enlighten. And I wrap my head in these. -Are you a Christian, Madam? -Yes I am. So what? I am french above all. -And your poodle is? Same as you? How many times does it eat in a day? Does it go to your hairdresser's too? -You are too sensitive Sir, think about it. And then she puts on the serious look of a considerate moralist. The dog pulls on the leash. -I would have loved to discuss philosophy with you, but I have no time for it. -Enjoy, Madame. I have better things to do, giving shelter to lost human beings. I turn back. The bomb has blown up, the sky turned upside down; the Romanian was gone. I go back home, I don't feel like buying anything anymore. In front of the Post Office, sorry, the Postal Bank, at least ten people are waiting by the only cash dispenser. Obvious, considering this is the day the dole is paid into accounts. The dole, RMI in french, hence Saint Rémi's day as they say. Those people. I open the tap to wash my hands, if not my memories, and the water goes down, down into black plastic tubes, then in others, bigger and darker and bigger and stinky, down to the place where, mixed up with the filthy and deadly, it will be "cleaned up" in a so called refining plant. The molecules that touched my hand, they are in the dying pond now. What a world, what a world! Some tea and "The Coming Community" by Giorgio Agamben to read again, it's all that's left for tonight.

"To enjoy a thing exclusively is commonly to exclude yourself from the true enjoyment of it." D. Thoreau

所有事情都連繫著

Here are some other texts translated in english by our great PG1 (well, you know people, i say that guy's not enough known, for sure)

Translated ? not only. Transformed, pro-reformed? How i should i say? Recolored from mind to mind to keep the same color? Probably, rewrited from the oneself-aside point of view. When professor PH1 will come back, (nice trip eh?) we'll try to explain that better. If it's possible. And credible.

Related pics on the french blog. Don't hesitate to play feedback.

12.23.05 and off goes a decade of silence(s) to be continued next year or not and if you like to play Santas, be the "Solidarity Santa" The requirements are pretty simple:

"- Fewer useless presents, fewer gadgets that break in a day and go to the bin, fewer polluting plastic items, less crazy rates of production imposed on workers from poor countries, fewer fashionable things that quickly turn démodé, less difference between children swamped with gifts and those who have none, less spoiling, in short, a little less buying and more attention payed to the social and environmental qualities of the products bought. - More interest in choosing where you buy from, more buying from small producers and organic farmers, from fair-trade and independent shops and partnerships, more subscriptions from environment and citizenship publications, more cooperative games, more imagination with presents, more personal commitment in the creation and making of the object given, more exchange, more shared time, thus, more social interaction."

courage and peace of mind 12.21.05 Sol Invictis. 18:35 UT: winter solstice. The Sun comes back to life from the shadows. The Oak beats the holly. The wings grow again. The wheel turns on. etc Wish a beautiful enlightened Winter to every man and woman. and a thousand thanks to Yaovi for the pics and the great journey to both Pythéases from Kalamansi as well, for the adventure live 12.20.05

How to go to the region where the very idea of region dilutes, disappears? You just need to touch with your finger the infinite universe at the bottom of your heart, Louis said to me. Who? Where? A flash of lightning shot at me from his sharp blue eyes. I still remember it as if yesterday. A painless but horribly vivid fracture. Two years have gone since then. The cold of winter, the blizzard still at rest, the sky so close, I thought I was in the pot that cooks winter. It was the first time I had gone to his place on my own, to this little woodhouse surrounded with pinetrees and black spruces near the lake of Sables, a Beautiful place, so good. It wasn't so far, ten miles at the very most, but I hardly knew the roads of the countryside in the Laurentides. Although they were obviously well maintained, shortcuts were preferable -everybody used them- and I had to remember to turn left after that broken maple tree, or right before this yellow house, and most of all not to miss the right track at the edge of the village. As the day promised to be long, we set off towards Val d'Or to meet a man who could still talk to wolves and bears. When he told me about him, I was doubtful, so he wanted to have us meet. "Just come to my place on Saturday morning, we'll take the car". Damn it! A coupé so squat it compressed your spine after a couple of potholes, what will I look like after a four-hundred miles' drive? I was hoping for two stops. Not at all! he said, it's not so far, we'll be there long before nightfall! You know, I drove all the way from Montreal to Vancouver and back in only six days once, and on my own, so Val d'Or is not that far. And we'll be back by Monday. The son of a Dutch couple, he grew up in Djakarta, studied in Antwerp, and always wanted to be a painter. A Quantum mechanics and Neuro-psychology fanatic, a respected water diviner, a traveller, a former racing driver, a polyglot translator, a survivor from WWII, and a concentration camp, he's a transmitter in times of chaos. And he can't stop painting. His béret tight on his head whatever the season, his clear-seeing eyes on the alert, he acts like a prince, from the top of his 86 years of age. Precisely at ease. An unexpected tour, following, listening and watching for three days long, I accepted happily. Saturday was the next day. On this winter, I was caretaking a friend's house -he had gone travelling. Three months to spent almost alone between sky and snow, in a small woodhouse with snowshoes and a pair of skis, a car to go visit friends in Montreal in case of unbearable loneliness, a road map the size of a farmer's dining table to make dreams and fly away, and most of all, to start writing Louis' book. Three months to conjure up his tracks. 7 am, -35°C outside and a 40°C shower just long enough to turn scarlet and splash! a jack-knife dive in the snow by the front door. Waking-up like an angel, I had been dreming about it since long. I didn't find myself an angel (no thank you, with hunters all over the place) but with an energy only those who do it can recognize. Breakfast was local and huge for the day would be long and Louis is not much of an eater... Just to take the car out, you already need burning a good amount of calories, clearing the snow between garage and road, ten cubic yards, at the most, with a big shovel and breath, for there are no smoky or noisy machines around here. I love it, and clearing the snow from the roof even more. Just imagine swan diving from up there! Next time, I'll bring a better camera. A professional one. At least.

12.19.05

Think Know Do Keep silent Breathe

How many frontiers do we have to cross before getting home ?

This morning, a cold beautiful sky. The Mistral finishes its nap before waking-up.

Happy Birthday FB !

go there : http://www.humanclock.com/ isn't that pleasant ? and how easy and comfortable is becoming the idea of acting in the non-acting... :)

Here are some translated texts from my blog in french. In one word, as a ghost-writer, i need to keep my own garden of words and ideas. Synchronicity fr/eng. will be established in a few days (sorry christina:). Reasons? The main, my own ignorance in english, i should say "amglish", and the vacations of my prefered translator (PG1)... 12.18.05 Writing in somebody's place could be considered a "surrogate action" in which listening, combining and recording are the basic tools. In this aspect of writing, the swap does not mean making for what the speakers lack or correcting their errors but rather it is mainly about exiling into them as what they are, within and without the bounds of their discourse (becoming ignorant, curious or stupid, or "fada" (meaning "fairy" in Provençal, thus "touched by fairies"...) in the very area of existence of their project (becoming the ideal fitter) which is itself enclosed in their personal structure, and finally, but the list is not sealed, making sure of the amount of transmitted data. This principle opposes an unconditional substitution with no possible representative or representation to the hypocritical and suicidal fictitious unique nature of the individual (the client and/or the ghost writer). A subsititution made for re-creating oneself, in this totally unrepresentable community, at the very moment preceding the act of writing. 12.17.05 How do you write when you're doing the ghost, Fatoumata asked me. My jaw dropped. To do is not to be, and the word "ghost" needs a different lightning from its common meaning, but "how" I write, this is quite a question! A daily activity always brings up the necessary synthetic rearrangements in order to point at what needs to be changed or not, what has been changed or not, etc. I will try here to depict this writing drill which consists in defining what has become one of my major activities. To travel, to touch the earth, to meet with men's worlds, to learn all and everything, all things pretty easy, but writing in somebody's place... First of all, which place is that? I spent enough time looking for the paths of an idea of liberty to be able to guess what identity can still be suitable for me. Actually, I hardly have one any longer. Or a few images. Traveller, permaculture gardener, neo-hygienist vitalist, buttler, life-term student, penpusher, writer-compiler, and, let's go for it, why not, Artist! There would be aquarius as well, wood-and-poplar-made goat, I am still looking for my Aztec sign, and my Babylonian. But this is too heavy. Plus my forehead turned allergic to stick-ups. They short-sight me. Passing time-passer-by I could like, and then again an exhausting fraud full of sofa traps. I live with and within a body-shaped skin bag between sky and earth, and that is something already. And I work in no time or place. This morning, the Mistral, the northern wind, started blowing up furious and eager. The baker will certainly say it is the season for it, and the grocer that she'd rather have wind than dog days. 12.16.05 What a country! This morning, I woke up with strong Mistral. If I can say wake up after a few minutes' sleep, mice, our charming ceiling neighbours, having celebrating the full moon as they never did before; they're just starting chilling out. I can see no other solution: thoughts are soluble in the present.