I heal serious diseases, I mend wrong lives, I repair wounds, I cast out demons. Who am I to do all this? Yes, who? I need to know!! Silence, one answer rings in my head: You can do it, so do it. Do what!? Shut up and do it!!!!
I’m not doing anything, seaside!! I’m just standing there like a stuffed cabbage. I’m waiting for it to happen. And it happens every time. It’s enough that I’m there. I’m not involved, that’s all. Everything is done by me. But without me, what.
The guy who is speaking to you is not a prophet. He’s not a guru. He’s not a healer. He’s not a life coach. And don’t take me for the founder of a new religion. All the world’s misery comes from religions and politics. Both are the first cause of discord between humans. I’m no believer. If I trust anything, it is beauty.
Beauty is sacred. My only guide. My idol. My quest. The beauty of gesture, image, words. The beauty of poetry. Beauty of strong ideas. Beauty of yesteryear sages, geniuses of tomorrow. The fact is I can come and go all along the timeline. It helps a lot.
The giants of before, the great figures, the sublime goddesses: their beauty fascinate me. Interior or not, visible or hidden, all beauties move me. Fish out of the water I deliver them at your door, alive, freshly picked. They wriggle and grab the air, round mouth and surprised eyes. Swallow them quickly, you’ll bring them back to life.
Here is my only talent: to pass the relay without s. I know how to smell the favorable winds, the invigorating perfumes. Hop! You get them. And your morale is back. I do that well. I work hard and spend all my time doing it. Imagine the joy that one can have of making the pass, of sending the ball to the judge, without knowing who will catch it, but reassured in the bottom of knowing that it will not fall to the ground. Nor in the wrong hands.
Every innocent joy is a remnant of Eden.
But how to heal? How to make miracles? Are there schools for that? I didn’t go. What subjects have I studied at universities! On magic I have ignored. Oh, I have met her often on the roads of the world, by land or sea, by plane. Flying carpet. Astral flight. Through the gate of intention. On the spiral wing of scalar waves. In the middle of the pack of my flying wolves.
There are a thousand ways to transmit. It is enough to want to pass the relay. The rest is no longer my responsibility.
When I tried to enter the school of miracles, it was closed. The school was closed. The teachers did not want me. Too bad. My path has taken me where the heart can sing. I always have a plenty of songs in my head. I hums constantly. In French, English, Spanish, Portuguese, even Lakota. And of course in Breton. The cry of a gull to give me the tone.
I don’t know what I’m doing except it’s very effective. It’s not me who flies the plane and yet I’m in the cockpit, installed at the controls, the broom handle in the hands and only master on board after God. But as usual, God is busy elsewhere.
So WHO is flying the plane? I would like to know. If someone has the answer, he has earned my most considerable consideration. An offer to consider. Let’s go there right now. The other day you told me that my powers came from one of my previous lives.
Earlier you mentioned Theorima, the teacher of Pythagoras the Pitrian. In my first vision of this true story, I thought that Theorima was a man. Wrong choice. I had named him Theorem. His brutally cut life made such a beautiful title: The Theorem of Pythagoras. Even if Theorem became Theorima, the beautiful title remains.
You’re pure love.
More seriously let me
tell you this. I am mad. My
folly is all my wealth. I patiently
learned to control it, as He Pao* will
do in 15 albums. You can’t do anything
without madness. Powerful antidote to reason
dominant, it alone allows to shift assemblage point.
You’re crazy too, otherwise would I have chosen you?
You learn to control your madness. When you do, you will
be much better than me. I have say, I do repeat. Aren’t women
superior to men in all areas? Without women, there would be no men.
Without the men, there would be women. Happier probably. More warriors.
More noble and more luminous. You are the palm tree in the scorching desert.
Allow me to sit down in your shadow to savor your dates. Hail my ria full of grace.
*Le Moine Fou, by Vink, 10 albums + Les Voyages d’He Pao, 5 albums.
Between your legs I see the light.
Look at me: I’m like you. What do you see that’s special? Frankly, nothing. Why do I have these powers? I still don’t know the answer. Why all these gifts? Why do they increase in such proportions?
I look like everyone. I address each one. We dance in the moonlight. No regrets, no grudges. What do you say? I didn’t hear anything. Me too, makes the wind. Someone says: Why not? This someone on my steps that I do not know.
Why do we see so many wonders?
By touching me people heal.
Seeing me people wake up
and the prophecies are fulfilled.
Why pretend to be modest?
Age makes me speak truthfully
The foolish pride is gone
If I was lying, we’d see it.
(Hildegarde Von Bingen, adaptation XS)
Why? This is a nagging and treacherous question that embraces me in the morning, that pushes me towards evening. At night, my nightmare. I meet a giant who knows me too well. He says, why not? He knows a lot about me. He doesn’t answer.
Endlessly I ask him and he always keeps silent. To scoff at me, he plays with me. He makes disoriented, senseless remarks. He often talks to me, I reply: yes but. I would like to stop him, gag the animal that is doing so much harm.
The unknown of why not? We can answer that when we don’t know why. The unknown doesn’t know why. But he knows I’m the animal! At first I didn’t believe it. I thought he was wrong. There was a mistake about the person. Why me? Tell me? Why HIM?!?
This god hurts me too much. This carnival king has mistaken admiral. He reaches me, it is fatal. I call myself sick. He broke the walls of the jar for me. Oh, dirty! He honors me, he sets me up like a king of Nepal in the heart of his stall as on the threshold of a palace. A Nepalese decor to which I cry “encore!”
His heavy words weigh me. He has the obese pride and I am uncomfortable. Cat taking shit in the embers. Monarch turning plumber. Why did he choose me? His musty babble, his taste for heresy, his devastating outings… The phrase is flattering so I do not listen. Hello there? Can’t find me. I’m off the line. Fine ally finally?
Know that in a duel no holds are barred.
His heavy subterfuges! I cannot stand. My earphones on, I wave my hand. But he insists. From all sides he stops my ride. He’s on the top. When will he stop?
His harangue has no end. Too agile a tongue for a speech too long. If I can, I kill him. This famous king of whores. Better ride my horse. Storm rider beats me up. He searches me, touches me, and coaches me. Why always me? When there are lots of proud assholes.
Legions of idiots content with themselves, sure of their importance, who doubt nothing: the visa of morons. They will applaud anything he says. Everything he writes. He troubles and annoys me day and night. He treats me in hero, in prince, in general. I am neither hero nor zero. Nothing special in general. I protest, I contest and I detest again.
But he takes up again. Respectful rebel, he guides me to the top. Which throne he seats me down? I’m walking downtown in a dressing gown. I would like to smother, to bother, to motherfuck him — the stuffed man defends himself! Triumphant he concludes that I am king of the world.
Turn, turn round. If I laugh, he growls at me. He takes his deep voice to enliven me. Is this sanity? I doubt it reallly. He’s making fuss and buzz, I’ll better take a bus.
I’m a jerk to talk about it but it’s more delicate than my π π K K. This guy is nothing like a human. And yet he is so! Insistent, disturbing, disgusting, confusing, grumbling, chilling… yet so tempting! It tempts and kills you. It blurs your eyes. Satan stinks.
He puts his feet under the table and says things that are unacceptable. Intolerable. Abominable. My benefactor has already dealt with HIM. He called him the Grey Man. Yes, the same donkey. One of the male gods. Very insane, he chuckles and blabbereth. Sarbacane. Frangipane. That bastard took my bike!
Do you hear the thunder rolling on the bunder?
Here I am fooling around. He’s been fucking me, that Sodom boy and his carbon paper. Bullshit by the ton. Do you think it surprises me? He takes back what he gives. Do you think he forgives us? He thinks he is nobody and thinks we are his maid.
He sluts, he sluts and changes me into an ant. What crime has been committed? What duty have I failed to fulfill? He loves me, he promised it. I half loathe him. I have no enemy. What hole did he put me in? He is not my friend anymore.
I would like to fight back but he doesn’t agree. The dead god still curses me very hard. I curse him but this fake-ass gives me his refrain that I abhor. -Humans, if you knew Xavier the saviour! He can sing anything, he enchants me the same! So high a passer-by! So beautiful and cool!
Master of the flatters! President of the pedants! Does he leave the seminary? Or is he imaginary? He’s on my nerves with his sharp curves.
He suddenly stops to change his posture. He is close, the puff! I hear him whispering: -You’re beautiful Xavier! So tall! Truly immense! Dense in intelligence! You have everything of a giant sitting on his seat. A gift that no one can erase. You have truly understood the past of your race. You will leave your mark. You will be a prophet to the masses at Parnassus. A living god cannot die, those who have read you no longer forget you.
I cover my ears. It is all sweet, all honey. This honey is only of the fiel to chase me from the sky where my double official flies with hairy bees under the armpits. Quickly a new missal to change chapel. But the devil calls me. He takes me, he entangles me, he annoys me, he peels me. He continues his delirium and I my memories. I hear him say:
Yes, you can be proud! Mongolian in a hot air balloon, you can parade every day of the year. Go to the damned, you are at home everywhere. The gods will obey you. They will recognize you. Your fates splashing them as your genius mine. The rose has thorns. Your blue-jean Venus joins her naughty languor to her fine intuitions. And pretty, the girl! She also applauds you. Universal ecstasy will reward the one who helps you to become the king of the future. For you will not die. You will live longer than the Heroes before. You will play in your ark with the Patriarchs. You will play in your walk with the Matriarchs. The ring of birthright in the hand of druids will decide for you. You will not believe.
Humility, my shield. Cover both my ears, rock me in your shadow, the light dazzles the tired warrior. Humility, your enormous strength. My victory, my modest triumph, my protective humour — my rule is modesty, simple and discreet life, passing through like a summer wind. Everything in me belongs to you, my castle, my rock. My humility. Nothing exists next to it.
Oh my star, you my faithful one, when will you finally give me a less ephemeral appointment, far from everything, in your domain of eternal certainties?
This dream is not a dream. I have been doing it since childhood. Someone stalks me with persistence. When I was very young, he called me Babé. We were two buddies. He wasn’t that big. He pushed twice. He passed me when I was less than twelve. And we were always companions, brothers in arms, close friends. He was this giant I knew before — nothing was different. I am a teenager: IT is blowing with the wind. Becoming annoying, it has become less and less visible.
Hence my distrust. And fear. This nameless person can be ungodly. Cowardly. Sadistic. And also Satanic. He comes from the swamps. He is big for his age. He is only a hundred thousand years old. I am old, but I do not have as many.
I want to turn the page. Blow my sail up into new shores. When the lady was ugly we would flip her page. I changed face. He thought I was too wise. He says that in the Middle Ages, we did ravage. Chicks fell into our arms without a fight. He says we conquered the land of the Three Kings. Celtic, America and Golconda and Carthage. I recognized us both on an image stamped on the skin of a wild animal.
Golconde: The former capital of the kingdom of the same name in the Indian state of Telangana, once famous for its diamond mines.
I’m kidding. You’re cracking it. He’s cracking it.
He leaves and is fed up. He has always pushed me into vice. He abuses me. I am his puppet. I ask him for an armistice. I wish he’d pass out! Evaporated into the wild, wiped out in a hurry, with my fist in the face — for a pure non-violent, it’s hard! We must change our pace. If I went against my nature and sent him into the green by throwing belt blows to his face in disgrace?
The season of death will last for so many years. Foc shocked, unwashed, it is the tide of the dead. Will each friend who leaves be replaced? Every year I find myself a little more isolated. When the weight becomes heavy, who is consoling? He. He is always there when my heart does not go. Faithful friend? Him? Or mortal enemy. Real ass. Fake friend. Sinister economy of heart and emotion, contrition, compassion, sympathy, empathy, la doudou lé pati.girl friend is gone
He is always here but never there when we call him. He makes the night on everything, everywhere he sparkles. It is planted in us like a crank. Where does he get the energy he gives us? In the love we give him back. He doesn’t need it. I’m not better! Fuck! Let him look elsewhere! I am no longer there for him. The fleeing one, I flee. I escape, he follows me. I spread myself out, he wipes me off. Is he a kind god? An evil monster? A fool? An animal? A smother? A snail? Ostrogoth? Another GothHommage in Goscinny? All these gods are so old…
Come on, come on! He’s from Ur and a friend. He’s ripe and he’s a radish. His sins be forgiven — whoever he is!
Whining, tears, whimpering, pity, I went everywhere beating my heart crying: Why me? That was the first title of this article. But it’s over. I get it. He or I, what does it matter? It’s too stupid and I stop he took my head too.
… instead of cutting it off once and for all. Go ahead, the scout! A first step that costs. You complain, you listen to yourself, you fear yourself, you are afraid, so what do you fear for your greatest misfortune? Of your own greatness.
Forgiveness frees the soul, it takes the fear away. That is why forgiveness is such a powerful weapon.
Yes, it’s all over. I said it. I got my head in the wind and I admit: I was stupid. I was afraid of the ego that HE was constantly flattering. I refused to see the ego in me. The inner enemy is always the best. The watchman. The awakener.
We believe we lead destiny, but it is always destiny who leads us.
He is exactly like me, poor thing. Kind of heavy burden. Clever mouse in my garden. Every day we feel that we will have to fight against all humanity when in fact, no one knows that we exist.
He’s just like me, this father mocker.
The Templars had given Columbus a map of America and the ocean road of Alizees
On the pyre, the last Templar cursed a pope and the Kings of France up…
Rereading this poem, its clarity dazzles me. Prophecy, initiation, nothing is missing.
12000 years after the end of Atlantis, a new Atlantean empire appeared.
Quotes from the late Lao Surlam, humorist, philosopher, wise friend with a deep humility.