Every night, the unconscious transmits to you truths that the brain makes up when you wake up: I call it dressing. To remember our dreams as you really made them, we must peel the veneer, exhume the dead years, identify the protagonists … and grasp the lesson. I call it decoding.
1952
The dream she sent me unfolded incomprehensibly, in disorder: the fault was in the dressing. I relived through the menu scenes of my childhood that I had completely forgotten.
The first, I was 3 years old: summer holidays in Savoie, at Grand Bornand. My parents let me play with my elders, seven-year-old twins — the age of reason, supposedly. Boy and girl: false twins. To be fake, kind of sneaky and hidden, you could say they were. They still are.
Behind our shawl was a washhouse. It was very hot that summer. I wore a pink and blue romper, with lighter circles where bees were flying. My sister climbed up to the wash house. He needed a few inches to reach the slope of the roof. My brother climbed up to help him.
He stood on the sloping part of the wash-house, where the laundry is soaped. Were there any traces of soap left? He slipped. My sister fell. Her head hit a corner of the wash-house. She collapsed on the floor, unconscious. As soon as my brother ran to find mom. He was screaming at the top of his lungs, believing his sister to be dead.
I stayed close to her. The infernal trio of Rochefort and I placed my little hand on her mouth. Her breath came back. She woke up with a smile on her face. “I saw the angels,” she told me. “There was one who looked like you.” Her forehead was adorned with a pretty bump that she still has, 74 years later.
I dreamt of other forgotten scenes from my early childhood. In each of them, I was working miracles while an adult voice kept telling me: “Baby postman! All your life you will be a baby postman!”
Too Big For Me
At these words, it seemed to spring out of my little body to incarnate me in the gigantic body of an angel or an archangel. I am not saying that I was this angel, I had taken place in the consciousness of the angel and inside his giant body. And there I saw myself at different ages of my life, performing miracles, one by one.
I could see the years passing by on a paper calendar like there were years ago. Those of the PTTFrench historic name for Telegraph and Telephone Posts were the most beautiful.
The leaves of the days are being torn off at full speed, too quickly to be visible; I see the year in a fixed plan for a short moment, and now it’s time for a miracle. The scenes follow one another in a strange order, not chronological. When I had lived the initiation of arcane 13, I found about twenty lives, again with no logic nor chronologic order.
There is no time, one incarnates in the past or the future, and this is not arbitrary.
1954
1954 – I am 5 years old in the playground of the nursery school. A big, round boy is the laughing stock of brawling kids. They cry out to him: Big sloppy ball! The kid rolls on the ground and the laughter doubles. Big sloppy ball!! I intervene. I am as high as three cocks on my knees, nevertheless I disperse an armada with kicks and fists. I help the martyr to get up.
Through his tears shines a gratitude that expands my heart. His name is Jean-Claude, it’s him, it’s Devic. We immediately became friends with life, with death. Nothing could separate us. We remained brothers until his departure. And even afterwards. Always I will talk to him, I will listen to him, I will act for him as he does for me where he is.
To life, to death.
I’ve seen others, and still others. What’s the point of telling it? This miracle worker is the one talking to you 70 years later. I have never stopped working miracles. Let me tell you, it’s not my fault. Something takes possession of me in an emergency, calm engulfs me, I act clearly, clearly and precisely. I am acting. I am not the one doing it. Not me who knows.
JCF, XS, JCD : the Infernal Trio of Rochefort
Baby Postman
Me, sitting stupidly at the bottom of my consciousness, I have experienced it so many times! They have passed through my mind in a saraband, a powerful torrent that no barrier can stop. Who commands me? I call him My Captain. He’s the boss. He’s the one who always yells at me this nonsense: “Baby postman! All your life you’ll be a baby postman!”
Tonight I wake up at 3 o’clock. The image I just got is hilarious. I’m having fun on my own for three minutes without being able to stop. It’s not bébé facteurbaby postman he’s yelling at me. It’s benefactor !!
Benefactor ? Three-year?
The Author
- Xavier By Himself
- Self Portrait
- Who Am I?
- Tree Houses
- My father
- Cinephile
- My Awakening Path
- In Memoriam Devic
- February 14th
- Friend Devic
- Ten Years After
- Farewell Dear Stef
- Public Confession
- My Parallel Lives
- Rebirth
- How Lucky I Am!
- High Solitude
- Learning Her
- My Forty Inhabitants
- The Taste of the Madeleine
