Il avait toujours fait les choses dans l'ordre,

l’ordre des choses, sans se laisser choir.

Agriculteur, il trimait du matin au soir. 

Reprenant l’affaire de ses parents, 

Élevant ses enfants avec dignité.

Sa femme ne l’aimait plus depuis bien longtemps. 

Mais lui, lui ne faisait jamais semblant. 

Il était toujours engagé ; dans chaque relation, chaque projet. 

Ses sentiments n’étaient pas un feu de paille. 

Sa ténacité, de l’ordre de l’obsession. 

Il s’impliquait, vaille que vaille. 

Soldat pas téméraire, souliers de plomb. 

Mais un jour, il découvrit quelque chose d’un peu fou. 

Quelque chose à mille lieues des contraintes et des engagements. 

Lui, lui qui avait toujours eu la tête dans le guidon… 

A force de lever les yeux au ciel pour échapper à sa réalité, 

Un jour, il tomba nez à nez… 

Avec un avion. 

Un jour, comme semblant arriver de nulle part, il accoucha d’une passion. 

Quelque chose que tout un chacun s’accorda à trouver aberrant. 

Mais quelque chose qui le rendit vivant.

We all live in a small, remote village in the depths of Missouri. Our parents all work more or less together. They all have jobs that are, as they say, "ordinary," but yet so useful ! Farmers, teachers, nurses... No engineers or magistrates, just people who do their work more or less conscientiously and who, when they come back from work, like to be in nature. Returning to this somewhat remote village, a little removed from the rest of the world and which sometimes seems to have been wiped off the map... Just like the other surrounding villages, moreover, lost in the heartland of America. The wide open spaces also keep them from going elsewhere. They like to breathe the fresh air, like their ancestors, and it was often the houses where our grandparents already lived that we live in. Large, thick wooden huts, with wide, generous porches, where our parents tinker, protected from the sun on the days when there was some.

We are a community of simple people who just want our peace and quiet, far from noise pollution, visual pollution, and even pollution in general ! But Nicolas was even more marginal. He was American too, but it was as if he came from another planet. No children, no house, no car, no credit... He lived in a sort of bungalow, at the edge of the forest, where we all liked to meet to hunt or have barbecues in the summer. We didn't really know how he made a living, because he didn't have a job. At least not an official job, because some in the community said they had seen him selling drugs, or at least some kind of herb that could have been illicit. Others said he fixed things for people, that he tinkered in general... But hey, all of this was just rumors, and sometimes spread by people who didn't like him, who thought he was crazy. And we didn't try to find out more from him because he commanded far too much respect from us to allow oneself to do such a thing... What was certain was Nicolas didn't need much to be happy and he had chosen an even more atypical path than our parents or our grandparents... And he fascinated us all, in a way.

We young people loved to play by the forest in the evenings after school. Playing country children's games, building huts and fishing for little fishes in the river, often releasing them, as there wasn't much to eat there ! This happened more or less naturally... Nicolas often gave us tips for building or repairing our huts, often seeing us hanging around nearby. Once, he even helped us build a small boat to go upstream in the river, while warning us that if it happened to be a waterfall at the end, or if any problem arose, he wouldn't take responsibility, that it was at our own risk... He had a dark sense of humor and a great wit, but he was always kind-hearted. We also sometimes confided in him because he was more easy-going than our parents, and didn't judge us for the stupid things we used to experience. No, he listened to us one after the other with a patient ear, us and our not always very exciting teenage stories !

And that's how it was, as we grew up, and later on, when we were about 16 to 20, that we got into the habit of gathering around the fire on Saturday nights, quite late in the evening. We would grill things to eat and some would even bring their guitars. But above all, we would all look forward to hearing Nicolas' stories. The fire brought us warmth in the cool, damp night air, but it also made his stories much more vivid. He would talk to us all night long about the results of his research. He called himself a "truth seeker." An investigator, but certainly not an official or conventional one. One of only unexplained or hidden phenomena, such as secret societies, Satanism, chemtrails, or even civilizations practicing white magic that would have ended up in the dustbin of history... We looked into the flames and could distinguish the faces of the creatures that Nicolas described... As if he knew these creatures intimately. The distortions of the flames made them appear in the hearth. It must be said that he told his stories very well…

Other young people and even girls from other surrounding villages who had heard about our evenings around the fire even joined in. They came in old, restored cars or on mopeds. We were all fascinated by the realism of his stories. He also sometimes said that many of our leaders were not of human origin, that some were fallen angels in the service of Freemasonry and Satan, when they weren't just holograms ! He often scared us, but he gave us so many explanations and details each time that we couldn't help but find it all coherent. Nicolas said he was reeducating us, making us informed citizens, and not docile, naive, and sleepy consumers. Independence was his credo, almost an obsession with him... Some parents in the community prevented their children from coming, arguing that this Nicolas was nothing more than a dangerous fascist or worse, a cult tout, but we knew very well that he had nothing to sell or offer... As a matter of fact, we always saw him alone. Both his parents had been dead for quite a long time, and he didn't even have a partner, nor real friends, apart us, of course. But Nicolas also died, the victim of an accident that still seems strange to us to this day : A car allegedly hit him head-on as he was crossing the road to go get a drink at the hostel, 400 meters away from his home. And this, two days after he told us that he had had an extraterrestrial encounter with a peaceful civilization from the Andromeda galaxy.

I had only been waiting on this chair in the reception hall of the community center for a while.

"Would you like a cup of coffee?" she asked, lowering herself slightly and looking me in the eye, a faint smile on her lips. "Finally, someone who looked me in the eye", I thought, almost amazed at the situation. People almost never looked me in the eye. Not even my own parents, busy in the kitchen, doing some work, or staring at the computer screen. My own father himself never looked away to greet me, when I used to come back home from high school. Was I too old to receive any attention from him now ? He had turned away from me when I pasted childhood. I was probably no longer cute enough for his taste and I had become a burden, revealing the reality that he had actually never wanted children in his life.

One day, when I was rebelling for the umpteenth time against his passive-aggressive attitude and his contempt, he told me that if I wasn't satisfied, I could leave. It must have been burning on his lips for a very long time to tell me that. He must have been waiting for the perfect opportunity to spit those words in my face, hidden in the shadow of his manipulations, so to keep my mother and the house all to himself. So, that's what I did, I left that house. A small bag under my arm and 30 euros in my pocket, I took the first train to the capital !

Yet often, when people looked at me, it was as if they were not really paying attention, as if their gaze was stumbling upon the surface of my face like a fly stumbling upon a window. Their gaze wasn't penetrating, and it was a safe bet that they saw only eyes, a nose and a mouth, without ever feeling what was beyond.

I mumbled something so that she wouldn't see how much this small attention disturbed me: "Yeah, why not ?"

"Sorry, I didn't understand your answer." She continued, still staring at me. Her tone was a little firmer, but her smile had widened. I could read in it a kindness that wasn't feigned, something pure that had no interest in the matter. And this firmer tone that she had taken sounded like an invitation to pull myself together and get my wits back. I mustn't have been the most lost person in this social center, nor the person in the most difficulty. I had European papers, health, youth and I wasn't the stupidest or the ugliest either ! I was going to get through this in the end...

This lady was surely used to haphazard answers and lies. She must have seen many unstable or strange people pass by... But it was as if she made a point of honor not to trifle with clarity.

“Yes, I would like that, please,” I replied with my best smile, straightening up in my chair.

"Perfect", I'll come back and bring it to you."

A coffee. It may not have been much, but presented like that, it already warmed my heart a little. I felt like I already existed a little more, in this world. A coffee and a lesson in good manners. That's how my life started again.

Dominic Cummings had always been the man in the shadows. The one whose one collects the advices, just like this, as if it wouldn't sound that significant, between two meetings, between two conferences, yet whom one keeps preciously close at hand, as if hidden in a drawer like one's Rolex watch, right ?

He had always been the ghostwriter on duty, the one who wrote speeches for one and all, knowing full well that they would not apply a quarter of a tenth of what could be mentioned in his electoral prose...

He had read Kipling, Rilke and Poe, and finally put them at the service of a populism of which he could no longer be proud. He had long since lost faith in what he was doing, and writing meaningless speeches had, over the years, plunged him into a kind of disillusionment that he could no longer disguise with the veneer of social events and so-called recognition.

So much so that when he was asked to counter his own mates in the referendum for "yes" or "no" to the European Union, he changed course and naturally took control of this campaign by means of which only him would have the secret.

These people were putting conservatism where it was not needed and abandoning their principles where decency was required. Outdated conservatives or millionaires who thought that independence could be bought... This was the fine team with whom he was supposed to work to regain England's freedom ! Inconceivable. He was going to counter the trend, that was for sure. It was time to dust off conservatism and anti-Atlanticism. Using algorithms and technology to target the electorate and bet on popular and sober communication, nothing to do with the ineffective flashiness of Nigel Farage's millionaire friends ! It would be a struggle between the small and great, but all the rage accumulated during all these years of good and loyal work service would serve as his driving force. Who said that autistic aspergers did not know how to be formidable in cunning ?

He had been allocated an office in the middle of London. The old-timers in the Conservative camp had paid for the first three months of the lease, as if he were on trial. What they didn't know was that this damned hovel would soon become the place of their own competition, because Cummings was determined to turn the tables and make his own way of doing politics heard for once.

Elle se dressait là, énigmatique, sur le canapé. 

Mais que regardait-elle ? 

Elle se dressait là, imperturbable, les yeux vers un ailleurs dirigés. 

Vers un ailleurs dont elle avait le secret. 

De grand yeux verts en amande, contemplant un ailleurs, 

Un entre-deux suspendu sur le fil de la réalité. 

Marchant en équilibre entre matière et éther, 

Sa toison tigrée tendue sur un petit corps rigide. 

Fierté d'un autre monde ! Assurance sans être arrogance. 

Quiétude qui sait déjà beaucoup, 

Connaissance toute animale, n'ayant pas besoin d'arguments, 

Pour renifler la où le mal se loge, prudemment. 

Sagesse féline, de bout en bout. 

Position maîtrisée, regard affûté. 

Elle se dressait là, telle une statue d'argile. 

Sa toison châtaigne se découpant dans la lumière ambrée du salon. 

Somptueux dégradé de marrons. 

Elle se dressait là, tel un Spynx, sans autre prétention. 

Il faisait chaud, ce jour là. Tellement chaud ! Nous étions arrivés tôt sur le terrain, il n'y avait pas un chat. Tout était calme, en ce dimanche matin. Nous avions les lieux pour nous tout seuls mais le soleil, lui, était bien présent et ne comptait pas nous laisser tranquilles. Il commençait à cogner... Un mois de juillet à Paris, en somme. 

Je m'étais levée très tôt. Sylvain qui d'habitude bombardait, bombardait encore plus. A peine le temps d'un échauffement de 20 minutes et nous étions déjà en conditions de match. Sylvain ne me lâchait pas. Il était exigeant, certes, mais c'était aussi un petit jeu de surrenchère entre nous. Coup droit, revers, revers, coup droit... Il me faisait cavaler, comme dans notre relation, d'ailleurs. 

Mais voilà tout, c'était pour cela que nous étions ici, après tout, performer ! Immobilisée pendant plus de cinq mois, nous en avions, du temps à rattraper, tous les deux. Du temps sur le terrain mais aussi du temps dans notre bulle de symbiose, dans notre furieux délire où les émotions se mêlaient à une tension sexuelle dans laquelle Sylvain me poussait dans mes retranchements, et où je répondais systématiquement, comme pour lui démontrer que je ne lâchais pas. Que je ne lâcherai jamais, petit bout de femme que j'étais. Corriace et à la hauteur de mes prétentions professionnelles... La force et la technique, oui, la force ET la technique. 

On m'avait bien répété qu'il ne fallait pas mêler le pro et le perso, que ça n'était pas sain, seulement, voilà... Sylvain et moi avions toujours été sur la même longueur d'ondes, même si sa technique avait toujours été moins bonne malgré le soin presque obsessionnel qu'il pouvait lui apporter. Alors que chez moi, la technique était comme une respiration, le prolongement de ma manière de bouger dans l'espace. Quelque chose de naturel qui n'était pas feint... Alors c'est tout naturellement qu'il était devenu mon entraîneur. 

Le soleil cognait mais je m'en fichait, je jouais comme si de rien n'était, avec cette même hargne qui m'avait habitée pendant des années avant cet accident de cheville. 

Je me dirigeais vers le filet pour lui mettre une râclée. Des gouttes perlaient le long de mes tempes pour aller se faufiler en dessous de mes lunettes de soleil. Sylvain, l'air de ne pas y toucher, matait mon corps luisant de sueur, ondulant à l'intérieur de ma robe de coton blanche comme l'aurait fait son sexe dans ma bouche. Il ne pouvait pas savoir que je le matais aussi, cachée derrière mes lunettes noires. Alors, j'en profitais pour faire de même. J'avais toujours eu une vue excellente et à cet instant précis, étais sûre de percevoir un tronc se dessiner sous le tissu de son short beige. L'ombre projetée par le soleil ne laissait aucun doute là-dessus... Sylvain bandait. 

Je sentis, quelques secondes plus tard, ma jambe ployer sous le mouvement de ma cheville droite lancée à toute allure. Ma jambe s'écroula littéralement dans la poussière de la terre battue. Ce moment de fantasme me fut fatal. La poudre se mélangea à mon sang, sorte de baptême ethnique imprévu... Ma cheville n'était pas guérie, mais je n'aurais échangé pour rien au monde ce moment de fantasmagorie contre une cheville intacte. Après tout, la prochaine compéttion n'aurrait lieu que dans quelques semaines, et il me suffisait juste d'être un peu plus à mon affaire pour la gagner. Cela était sans doute injuste, mais cela était un fait : Je n'avais jamais eu besoin de travailler des masses pour gagner une compétition dès lors que je le voulais. Et il n'y avait que Sylvain pour ne pas en être jaloux !

 He looked at the clock face that stood in the living room : 00.00 AM. A feeling of completeness invaded him. This big clock gave to the total silence that reigned in the room a kind of content, almost an hidden meaning. The piercing December chill was silently knocking at the door. "Life is a cycle," he thought, looking at the icy drizzle that had settled on the windowsill.

It was officially Christmas. December 25, 2014. Actually, in people's minds, Christmas was more likely to take place on December 24, with the gift-opening ceremony. But he was a purist and only referred to what the texts he had read so many times said... So much so that he had been called a rigorist. No matter, he no longer gave any importance to any belief whatsoever.

The death of his companion in a bicycle-car accident had stunned him and brought him back so violently to the very material reality of his absence that all his certainties had collapsed. He had never been close to death until then and when it had come to crash into his daily life, shattering his habits rooted in the affects with a wave of the hand, he had found himself speechless, astonished by the violence of the brutal end that had been given to this nascent story by the life. A story that had, slowly but surely, taken root in their beings with that unique shyness that hearts have when meeting. Without promises, but always with the whole world on the edge of their lips to share in the silence of the depth of a gaze.

No rational or spiritual explanation had been able to overcome the dull worry that now permeated his heart. This worry that the light was not finally at the end of the tunnel. That something greater and more beautiful did not transcend human stupidity and that any harmony in the world was only accidental, thus condemning the entire universe to agnostic penance as well... 

No words were of any comfort and did not persuade him of the legitimacy of inhabiting this world now empty of his fellow, empty of meaning. Nothing that had happened found the slightest valid excuse in his eyes to exist, nothing justified the pain endured, initiatory spiritual journey or not. Him who had spent so much time consoling people in the confessional where he once worked in the parish... He had been wandereding for a long time, wandering from one religious or spiritual belief to one another, and when he undertook to think about the slightest thing, he always did so in an intense and profound way. He had been wandereding, had even traveled a little around the world, had merged a few beliefs together to find his own path to God or whatever original force could explain the architecture of life and its philosophical essence... He had carried out this work of deep introspection and research, like a rabbit digging its burrow, in a frantic and rigorous way, rationally, to say the least... Until he settled down, until he joined the church.

And just as he had emerged from this existential fog, having found a sort of mental stability with these charitable rites and habits, this accident occurred. This accident that had forcibly removed him from this relative state of appeasement the one he had imposed on himself by force, as one would impose a daily bodybuilding exercise on oneself. Finally, this accident had brought him out of a certain spiritual torpor, an artificial sleep from which he had abruptly emerged, more skeptical than ever as to the reason for his presence in this body of flesh and on this Earth.

He had been looking for signs that could have put him on the path to the reason for this accident, abandoning mental methods and other rational turpitudes in favor of the famous "letting go" that the New Age keeps drumming into our ears. He had tried the path of providence. Watching for a mirror hour, a white feather or some music reminding him of the moments shared on his sofa bed listening to various pieces that made them float, transporting them both into a kind of bubble...

He had worked in this parish for years, receiving anyone who came to him, conducting consultations from this kind of wooden kiosk, away from the benches facing the hotel. Of course he didn't count his hours, nor the hours he gave to each of the people who came to see him. If they needed an hour, so be it. If they needed 3, that was fine too. So much so that sometimes there was a queue in front of the confessional and the priest was obliged, kindly, to be strict, asking these gentlemen and ladies to wait their turn discreetly outside the church or even on a bench in the church.

He didn't just listen, and sometimes he also allowed himself to give advices. Advices that never came from him, but that he received, so to speak, very intuitively. He knew that he knew and that was it. If only he could have been endowed with this same intuition concerning his own person, here, right now... He had nevertheless continued to work in the parish, even if he was no longer animated by this same passion, this same faith, this same spiritual hygiene. He felt empty, but he continued nonetheless, so as not to abandon those he had helped before and perhaps also a little so as not to tip over himself...

He found himself, so to speak, speechless before his own fate. Him who had consoled so many people, of all origins, social classes and even religions ! Because yes, it happened that women of Muslim faith came to ask him for advice, by one means or another... Wasn't it ironic, after all ?

So, tonight, there would be no celebration at all. He hurriedly left the living room and behaved in the most atheistic way possible. He went to the kitchen to make him some hot tea, as if it could warm his own heart.

 C'est ce matin que le drame s'est produit. 

Je n'ai, non, je n'ai pas pu profiter de ta chaleur, 

Si familière, celle qui me réchauffait autrefois le coeur... 

Cette chaleur un peu ouatée, déposant ta vapeur délicate sur mes yeux encore endormis. (Je suis pas du matin)

Mais c'est le coeur lourd que je prends aujourd'hui la plume.

Ce matin, en effet, il manquait à l'appel ta texture, ta substance de miel. 

Ce matin, il n'y avait plus de laine qui tienne. 

Alors voilà quoi, j'ai fait sans, vaille que vaille ! 

Regrettant par ce froid de canard sa douce maille... 

Oh rage, oh désespoir ! Dieu sait que j'avais l'air hagard. 

Mais que dis-je là, mes mots ne seront jamais assez forts, 

Pour décrire ce profond sentiment de tristesse qui m'habitait ce matin,

Les oreilles à l'air, comme ça, déboulant dans le froid, 

C'était comme d'avoir le cul à l'air mais en un peu moins gênant, 

Alors me voici, me voici présentement, 

Plongé dans le noir, 

Sur mon lit à l'abri des regards. 

Je respire à fond, contracte mes muscles uns à uns pour tous les relâcher, 

Faire le vide en moi...

Un profond sentiment de bien-être m'habite désormais. 

Je suis to-ta-le-ment CALME !

Et je visualise les délicieux moments passés ensemble,

Et aussi de cette joie si joyeuse, ressentie à ton contact si laineux.

Je visualise en détail ce rituel, ce doux rituel du matin, quand j'enfilais ta capote sur ma gueule enfarrinée avant de partir au travail... 

Tu me protégeais du froid comme une louve couve ses petits. 

Et n'as même pas bronché lorsqu'une souris morte chassée par mes soins a entâché ta belle couleur rouille. 

Tu n'avais pas peur d'affronter le froid pour moi, et luttais contre les bourasques de toutes tes mailles !

J'ignorerais sans doute jusqu'à mon dernier souffle la raison de ta disparition, 

Aurais-je fais un mauvais pas, quelque chose ayant pu causer quelque contrition ? 

Ou peut-être t'es-tu enfuit ? 

Ne crois-tu pas, ne crois-tu pas que l'amour peut faire peur, parfois ? 

Toujours est-il qu'en posant ces mots sur le papier j'ai la gougoute à l'oeil, 

Alors je m'arrêterai aussi simplement que j'ai commencé cette humble prose, 

Oui, je m'arrêterai ici simplement,

Pour te dire, cher bonnet, 

Merci... et bon vent ! 

 Chers petits Nenfants,

Je vous écris depuis ce magnifique village où l'on m'a fait élire domicile... Eh oui ! Plus d'un demi-siècle que je vis au milieu des sucres d'orge géants en plastique et de la neige synthétique qui recouvre ma chaumière en carton-pâte... Heureusement que j'ai la vie (presque) éternelle et que mon contrat avec Coca-cola et Disney se termine bientôt, c'est moi qui vous le dis ! 

Honnêtement, même si je commence à en avoir plein le cul de ce décor un peu kitch, après 50 ans de bons et loyaux services au système capitaliste, mes elfes et moi n'avons pas trop à nous plaindre... Répondre à vos innombrables lettres de complaintes et perpétuer la légende de mon existence fantasmagorique (oui parce que c'est vrai que c'est du boulot, vous croyez de moins en moins en moi !) pour le salaire que j'touche, c'est pas trop demander ! 

Parfois, je me dis que j'ai vraiment les boules que mon traîneau se soit crashé sur la Terre... M'enlevant ainsi d'une planète où tout ne tournait pas autour de légo, de l'image et du fric... Et puis je me dis qu'après tout, j'aurais pu tomber plus mal que sur votre espèce. Au moins, vous savez ce que c'est que la bonne bouffe ici, pas vrai ? Alors à défaut de remplir mon coeur de joie, je remplis mon estomac. En attendant qu'un beau jour, peut-être, une fée ou un gnome vienne me délivrer de ce merdier... 

Non, mes chers enfants gâtés-pourris, vos complaintes ne sont rien à côté du destin funeste qui m'a frappé il y a un peu plus d'un siècle maintenant, lorsque ce putain de renne s'est trompé de ligne de temps et a échoué au Groenland... C'est le nom que vous avez donné à ce bloc de glace, si je me souviens bien ? 

Mais lorsque je pense aux enfants condamnés à extraire des métaux rares pour que vous puissiez jouer à Candy-crush, je me dis que ça relativise un peu. 

Le Papa Noël

 Martha had planned this day down to the minute. Even though her daughter was born on December 24th, there was no reason to merge birthday and Christmas and celebrate everything on the same day. No, both had to be celebrated properly and so the little girl's birthday would be celebrated at noon and Christmas in the evening with the grandparents. Her daughter was not to be penalized.

Truth is, the grandparents in question have never gone for more than only single gift since Lily was born. As for Christmas dinner, it was always rationed and Martha and her daughter could be already consider themselves as lucky to be welcomed to celebrate Christmas like this. Them, who were so tired of life, them who already took it upon themselves to put on a great spread on this cold winter's day ! And Lily had only to behave herself ! No touching the trinkets that proudly sat on the mahogany buffet in the dining room, and even less the porcelain angel that the grandmother had placed on the table. This was not a toy. No tree, either. Too bulky, right ? So Martha prepared a tree in the small apartment. The apartment she had rented in haste a few days after her ex-husband had pulled out a knife to threaten her. A very small tree, but still big enough to put a star on it, and read in Lily's eyes dreamy and fascinated thoughts. The atmosphere was still as austere since the birth of her daughter, and things were certainly not going to improve with her father's hip problems.

Martha's heart ached at having to spend Christmas in her parents' big house, where she had always been half-welcome. This house that had seen her born and grow up... Spending Christmas under their questioning gazes that were surprised at the mess Martha had gotten herself into, well... How could someone who had received such a good education let herself be taken advantage of in this way by a man ? They preferred nevertheless not to openly express their perplexity, contenting themselves with touches of humor or acid remarks here and there to half-heartedly make the young woman understand that she was not really up to the task.

Martha, one weeknight, while Lily was at her father's, was looking at that ridiculous little tree blinking in the middle of the living room, which was also a kitchen and a bedroom, and she felt very lonely. She sometimes hesitated to go back to the family home and turn back and pretend that nothing had happened. Or maybe they could start couples therapy ? Then everything would be so easy again, so fluid, wouldn't it ? Like on the first day, when he sung to her with a mischievous air this song by Bob Marley with these words, which quickly became distant memories: "I wanna love you, and treat you well, every day and every night"... At other times, she would pull herself together and remember that the price to pay for this fluidity was very high. Promises never kept, lies, denial and he had ended up raising his hand to her when she had wanted to chase him out of the house. But it was her who had finally left, and in a hurry ! It is estimated that a victim of domestic violence will have to make an average of 7 round trips to become aware of the dangerous situation in which they find themself.

J'ai 33 ans et toutes mes dents. 

L'âge de Jésus, me direz-vous. 

Un miracle que je n'aie aucun statut. 

De famille, je n'ai pas. 

D'enfant, non plus. 

Sans travail fixe, sans voiture, sans bien immobilier. 

Sans reconnaissance sociale, sans garantie, sans mari sur qui compter.

Sans "situation" sur laquelle se reposer. 

Mes pilliers prennent racine dans un souffle sans cesse renouvelé. 

Le souffle d'une inspiration jamais clairsemée. 

Inspiration puisant précisément sa force dans la fragilité, 

Agilité d'une résistance pas si singulière, 

Résistance face à ce qu'on devrait, devrait faire... 

Injonctions de la société. 

Nous réduidant en poussière.

J'ai 33 ans et n'appartiens à aucune famille, aucun foyer, aucun pays, aucun clan, aucun groupe, aucune communauté. 

Mon existence a ses racines dans une stratosphère, 

Cet espèce de vide existentiel entre le monde et l'éther. 

Cet entre-deux où de créer l'on se permet, 

Interstice d'expérimentation, de liberté, 

Espace intersidéral, toujours latent,

Tendre, amoureux flottement. 

Fabuleux coup de pied, 

Coup de pied dans la poudrière, 

Toujours prête à exploser au moindre soubressault de frustration. 

Celle de devoir s'identifier à... 

Pour, dans cette société, disposer de droits. 

 Odile, 

Tu m'as demandé de te raconter New-York et ce stage d'anglais hors de prix... Tu voulais des détails sur le graal de ma future ascension sociale. Eh oui, à ce que tout le monde dit, sans l'anglais, en 2024, on ne fait rien ! 

Le stage était bien, oui. Le lit était confortable, check. Les cours, intéressants, check. Les gens gentils et blablabli, et blablabla. Tu me diras, pour le prix que ça coûte, ce genre de stages, il vaudrait mieux ! 

Honnêtement, je n'ai pas vraiment envie de tergiverser sur cette machine à fric, et encore moins sur les conversations vides de sens que j'ai pu avoir... Parler pour pratiquer l'anglais... Parler pour parler... Tout cela me laisse songeur. 

Pour tout te dire, j'en étais même arrivé à me demander ce que je foutais au milieu de tous ces gens auxquels je devais faire la causette pour apprendre la langue. Tout ça pour obtenir une promotion dans une boîte que je maudis tous les jours un peu plus... Elle m'a à l'usure, cette salope, et ils m'ont tous à l'usure, ces collègues et leurs gentilles ambitions emballées dans de gentilles intentions, emballées elles-mêmes dans de gentilles habitudes. 

Parfois je me dis "vivement la retraite", et puis je me dis que ça revient à dire "vivement la mort". 

Pas parce que les gens qui arrivent jusqu'à la retraite meurent d'une maladie grave avant d'avoir le temps de profiter de la vie -quoique c'est vrai aussi- mais parce que bien souvent, ceux qui y parviennent sont déjà mort de l'intérieur, ont déjà eu le temps de se faire rouleau-compresser le coeur et le cerveau par les contraintes sociales qu'ils s'imposent à eux-mêmes pour donner à leur vie une putain de direction. (Oui, c'est à dessein que je n'utilise pas le terme de sens.) Il n'y a qu'une seule chose qui tienne à peu près debout au milieu de ce gloubi-boulga égotique... Certains l'appellent "l'âme". Quelque chose qui observe, quelque chose qui apprend plutôt que de s'engouffrer dans la mêlée. 

Mais, trêve de digressions ! Il y a eu cette ascension là, Odile. Cet unique moment qui a légitimé le pourquoi de ma venue ici, sur cet autre continent. En à peine 10 minutes, les 10 000 euros ont été amortis, ma vieille. 

On nous a fait entrer dans cet ascensseur immense et avec ces parois entièrement faite de verre... L'Empire State Building. Cette cathédrale d'acier et de verre, temple de la finance. Oui, j'y étais. Cette tour, munie d'une arrête qui déchire le ciel... "Skycrapper", ils appellent ça ! Celle que l'on voit sur le mythique album d'Oasis, le tout premier en date. 

Et tout le monde, pour une fois, était silencieux. Tout le monde fermait sa gueule. Plus de dictaphone, de corrections, de coachs de je ne sais quoi... Tout le monde se taisait et regardait. Regardait cette forêt métallique à la fois terrifiante et inspirante, produit du progrès humain. Le soleil perché dans un ciel bleu qui se reflétait sur des centaines de milliers de vitres, peut-être des millions... 

Mais lorsque nous avons atteint le 86ème étage, il n'y avait plus de progrès humain qui tienne, et même plus d'humain du tout, d'ailleurs. C'était moi et le ciel, un ultime tête-à-tête. Cette attraction pour grands enfants m'avait amené plus loin que prévu. Et le vertige était délicieux, car il me rappelais que j'étais toujours sur Terre, dans cet enfer conscient, mais que je m'en éloignais, que j'étais à mi-chemin de quelque chose. Quelque chose de spirituel, je ne sais pas, mais au moins quelque chose de cosmique. C'est sûr, j'avais côtoyé, quelques minutes durant, mes hauteurs.

La colline semblait attendre, au pied levé. 

Elle ne se dressait pas comme une montagne, non, elle attendait. 

M'attendait moi ? 

Non, sûrement pas !

La colline simplement s'élevait un peu, en contrebas. 

En fait, elle n'avait pas besoin d'impressionner qui que ce soit. 

La colline simplement se tenait, là. 

Vainqueur parmi les vainqueurs, 

Couronnée par un parterre de fleurs. 

Pissenlits, fleurs des champs et violettes. 

Plantes sauvages, coquelicots, pâquerettes. 

La colline n'a pas la folie des grandeurs. 

A ses pieds, un petit étang. 

En son centre, le soleil se refléter, 

Oeil céleste. 

De la vase habille ses extrémités. 

Malhabile celui qui n'en serait pas en reste. 

Plonger, plonger en lui pour plonger en soi, 

Plonger, par une après-midi d'été, et tant pis pour la vase !

Plonger pour contempler ses pronfendeurs, un zeste de foi. 

Un écureuil traverse les sous-bois. 

Un écureuil, sans crainte aucune, à petits pas. 

Une araignée cachée dans la touffe d'un cèdre, 

Crottes de bique séchées, odeurs de lilas. 

Partons à la ceuillette de sensations, 

Sans savoir, sans histoire, partons. 

Il y a toujours une danse à mener, 

Pour partir à la recherche de la beauté. 

Quoi de mieux pour laisser, laisser ainsi, 

Dériver, digresser, divaguer, l'esprit ? 

Quoi de mieux qu'une après-midi ensoleillée pour ce genre de petites choses ? 

Oh, bonheur que de n'avoir rien d'autre à faire de laisser, laisser ainsi, 

L'âme pénétrer le vivant... Et sa prose. 

There was this little village that everyone was talking about, I named Matala. This little village lost itself in the south of a small island, Crete. Small piece of rock, abandoned in the middle of the Mediterranean sea, like a dotted line. There was this hippie village, whose colorful streets rolled out the red carpet to all those who ventured there... Undulating esoteric shapes, words of intoxicating freedom, devouring colors in abundance... It was summer, in high season, and small gigs were fully swing on every street corner, in the warm darkness of this village... Raggae concert here, performance there, songs a little further away... There was something for everyone.

And for sure there were people in this village, which was bubbling with life, this little cauldron from which escaped laughter, and everything that you want looking like nothing more nor less than joy. The small village was celebrating, and the tourists mingled with the local artists without any problem. Everyone spoke simply from the position they occupied, without pretending to be someone in particular, and that was just fine.

An old man suddenly emerged from the hill, in front of a dreamcatcher shop. He came down straight from it, emerging from the shadow of the bush that lined the sidewalk, something in his hand. He did it nonchalantly, and a thick beard covered a large part of his face, worn by time. One could read on it many things and nothing at the same time, because it was as if his gaze blurred the tracks. A sad gaze, but which nevertheless carried within it a strange glimmer of hope.

He noticed right away that she was eyeing him up, maybe even since the moment he started to run down the hill, a sort of lost sheep in patched pants and wearing a lumberjack's shirt. He moved closer to the young woman, going around her to stand right next to her, facing the stage decorated with garlands. She stepped back to the side, a little embarrassed.

- Can I invite you for a coffee? I have two euros, enough for two coffees, he asked, waving the coin, a half-smile on his lips. 

- Why not ? She answered thoughtfully. After all, she had nothing to fear, there were people everywhere around her. 

They attended together the small psychedelic rock gig that was taking place on the square. A few knowing glances and a few jokes were exchanged but it was too noisy to speak of a real conversation. 

They took a few steps together once the concert was over, then sat down on a bench, a little away from the surrounding tumult. 

- Do you know why we gave names to the astrological signs ? Instead of numbers, for example ? He asked her. A mischievous look lit up his tired face. 

- Uh, no... Her, telling the truth, looked more questioning and taken aback. 

- Because they are Gods.

- Who do you mean, Sagittarius, Libra, Scorpio, etc. ? Are they Gods ?

- Yes, Gods who have been traveling between worlds...

- Worlds ? What kind of worlds, can you explain to me ? She asked, without trying to hide her skepticism. She was rather open-minded, but right now, she felt kind of lost.

- You can address me informally, you know... It's been a long time since anyone talked to me this way ! I don't live in Paris anymore, and will never go back ! Ahahahah. He spontaneously burst in laughs.  

- Okay, so what worlds are you talking about, then ?

- These Gods have been traveling between dimensions, if you prefer. And there are an infinite number of them, so it's fair to say that they have wandered a lot, like cosmic knights... Before coming here, to this planet, and putting their names on it...

- But for what purpose, exactly ?

- To make themselves the most powerful of the Gods...

- Oh really, they are not the Greek or Hindu Divinities ?

- No, certainly not... Because they have managed to do what no Divinity had managed to do before, which is imposing their own calendar on us ! And this is quite logical, cause they are entities that emanate directly from our solar system. They constitute its essence... 

- Really ?

- Yes, but these entities can no longer travel now. See, they are condemned to remain in our solar system to watch over men through the zodiac calendar... And they have made it by means of the calculations of this science that we call astrology. This way men can go back to their existence and thus know it. The Fibonacci sequence has also put us on the trail of their existence, but also many crop circles that they have imprinted in the ether before their sacred geometry struck matter with its seal... All these are only messages transmitted by them to make them understand that they are not alone in the multiverses, and that Galactic brothers are watching over them.

She listened to him like this for a good hour and a half, expounding on this theory that could explain the reason for zodiac signs to exist. Then, she spoke again timidly, hesitantly, to venture a question :

- You, you...

- No, I'm not homeless, he anticipated her. I live in a small cabin over there in the hill and I live a bit of a day to day life, but I'm not homeless. And not drunk either.

Et c'est comme cela qu'elle fit la connaissance d'Yves, qui n'était pas ivre, mais libre. Ou alors seulement ivre de ses jolies histoires...

Sur le parvis de l'hôpital La grave, les feuilles ondulent, 

Odeur de noix. 

Oui, sur le parvis les feuilles fabulent, 

Toulouse se noie. 

Au milieu des confettis oranges qui s'agitent, crépitent, tournoient. 

Tournoie Toulouse, ville de soleil, 

Transite vers un nouveau cycle,

Arbres vermeil.

L'automne s'est déjà invité, 

A la table de l'été, 

Ténébreux trouble-fête, il nous impose son carnaval.

Quant à elles, les feuilles par miettes, poursuivent leur route,

Se bousculant en rafales, 

Elles viennent, elles courent, tracent de nouveaux sillons, 

Elles tournent, tatillones, tapent toutes en rond.

Elles viennent, malmènent le vent... Puis s'en vont. 

Les feuilles slaloment entre les visages, 

Elles papillonnent entre les lignes, 

Pour ensuite vous prendre au dépourvu !

Vous faisant le plaisir de délires saugrenus... 

Elles caressent vos mines, vous faisant croire à des signes, 

Pour vous larguer... Dans vos propres abîmes. 

Introspection forcée, n'est-ce pas ?

Plus tard, elle s'en repartiront plus loin, 

Dans le soupir d'un vent polisson. 

Rien que le soufle divin, 

Qui jamais, jamais ne dit son nom !

Un peu plus tard encore, elle s'en repartiront, 

Prises de hocquets. 

Et leur course, venir se terminer, 

Sur vos pelouses, votre terrasse, que sais-je, les champs de blé !

Formant un fabuleux tissu fermenté, 

Une nappe humide où l'on s'apprête à déjeuner. 

A table, c'est l'heure, l'heure d'y goûter !

Aujourd'hui, au menu un nectar d'automne. 

De sa terrine de bruine, accompagné. 

Le tout agrémenté d'un pain un peu spécial, 

Le pain noir, diront certain.

Mais ne pas aimer l'automne, c'est comme reprocher à Dieu la mort. 

Cela n'a aucun sens.

Alors, vous reprendrez bien un peu de poésie de saison !

Et ne croyez pas que les feuilles soient mortes. 

Car faut-il encore quitter un peu sa basse condition, 

Pour comprendre, que dis-je sentir, que tout dans ce bas-monde est conscience. 

Non, ne croyez pas que les feuilles soient mortes. 

Regardez-les, regardez-les donc danser avec aisance ! 

EXCERPT OF A DIARY STORY LOOSELY INSPIRED BY THE JOHN CARPENTER'S HORROR MASTERPIECE "THE THING" :

Balloté.

D'un monde à l'autre, ennivré. 

D'une rive à l'autre, à travers les flots, 

A travers mon être, mon si petit être, 

Un grain de sable dans l'océan. 

Un grain de sable dans l'univers,

S'en retourne dans le néant. 

S'en retourne d'avant en arrière.

Mon corps si friable s'en remet à ma carapace, 

Ma meilleure amie, ma meilleure ennemie. 

Elle me protège des prédateurs, oui... 

Cette carapace qui me protège du monde, autant qu'elle m'en coupe. 

On dirait bien qu'il n'y a personne, à l'intérieur. 

Toc toc toc, l'on frappe à la porte de ma conscience. 

En ai-je une d'abord, mais qui suis-je, seigneur ? 

Et pourtant je ressens, je resserre les liens, 

Entre mon être et le reste du monde, les miens. 

Sublime cosmogonie dont je ne connaîtrai jamais le nom. 

Cosmogonie que je ne peux mentaliser. 

Cosmogonie, tissu confus de sensations. 

Cosmogonie marine, du fond de ma coquille que j'explore... A tâtons. 

Laissons le sel transpercer mon corps friable, fragile, frivole, de parts en parts. 

Et le long de ma coquille lisse, lasse, le sel m'enlacer ! 

Je me laisse entraîner, souvent contre mon grès, dans cette danse, la danse de ma propre vie. 

Mais que puis-je faire d'autre, depuis ma tour d'ivoire ? 

Sublime vulnérabilité. 

C'est sans doute Dieu qui l'a voulu... 

Ce démiurge un peu fou qui me brinquballe dans cette existence !

Mes sens entre les mains des clapotis des vagues et des remous. 

Et parfois, je me retrouve à genoux. 

Au grès des mouvements, des courants tourbillonnants, 

Voilà que j'échoue.

Oui, j'échoue ! 

Je dérive vers la rive, et de fil en aiguille, le vent m'emporte sur la plage des pommes. 

Vers une plage plus humaine, de partir on me somme ! 

Ma coquille luisante s'enfonce dans le sable humide, 

Elle marque le monde de sa patte, empreinte limpide. 

Mais je ne ressens plus grand chose, à bord de mon bolide... 

Si je ne retourne pas vite bien fait dans les profondeurs... 

Le soleil, même derrière d'épais nuages, aura bientôt raison de moi, 

Bientôt, il assèchera mes tissus... 

C'est dans la lumière que je me noie !

A quand la marée haute ?

Parfois, on me prend, pour me laisser juste après... 

Les enfants ne me veulent pas dans leurs collections !

Ma chair est blanche, et le teint de ma coque bien pâle.

Par chance, on me balancera peut-être à la mer...

Balloté, d'une rive à l'autre de l'existence, petite chose que l'on branqueballe.