What do I know? Little. What do I expect? Everything else. What do I get? Love. So much love! I am filled. So much beauty! I’m swarming with desire. To tell, illustrate, decode, connect, untie, re-read, correct, a hundred times on the job to hand over my work… Everything I do fills me with happiness.
And this happiness, this pure labor, this permanent joy, I owe to you. It is to you that I dedicate them. To all of you, dear readers.
Anonymous crowd of thousands of friends, several million loyal friends sometimes since my first publication in spring 2008, impressive cohort scattered in almost 200 countries, speaking so many languages that I do not know, but reading English or French, Most of you are unknown to me, but I say to all of you: would you be very embarrassed if I told you that I love you?
The indelible Joan Baez had said that at a concert in Paris when I was just a teenager very much in love with her, and Bob Dylan, Pete Seeger, Lead Belly, Woody Guthrie …
I have nothing, I’m just a simple old man, but I’m happy. There’s a shadow in the picture. I wish everyone was as happy as I am. Alas! Once upon a time there was a rich man. One morning, reading his diary, he sees the world’s misfortune. He decides to donate all his wealth. He distributes 3 billion.
He’s poor now. He finds the world is still unhappy. So he goes to a doctor.
-Doctor, I’d like to donate a kidney.
The operation goes well, but then the world is still miserable. He returns to the doctor.
-I would like to give my liver, but not just my liver. I would like to give my heart, spleen, lungs, gizzard, kidneys, everything. I would give everything.
Of course the doctor refuses. “You can’t do that, it would be suicide!” Returned home, the man is poured a bath and cuts his veins. On his grave it is written: “Here lies the man who gave all”.
Only a fool can believe that he would end the world’s misfortune. A fool like me.
Still a teenager, I took the road to Turkey where I met the one who would become the mother of my boys. With her, years of wandering around the big blue ball have taken us everywhere where the breeze from the sea, the wind from the steppes and the blizzard from the summits blow. My life is a love song to the Earth. Terra. Noble pile of rocks and water that spins, tirelessly, in the infinite where the stars are spiraling.
I have sung, scratched the guitar, drawn, painted and written about everything. Inveterate scriptomaniac, I write without thinking, without respite, without way. Empty head and boiling heart, I write for you. I do not publish everything, this site would not be enough. But nothing is censored. My heirs will do as they please.
These days money is not my friend. Having a few, having not, I just don’t care. Money! Cruel despot! We do nothing without it, we succumb with it to understand too late that a shroud has no pocket. Spend, my friends. Money, energy, youth, life, everything is made to be spent. Everything you have is only as long as you live.
This global god has a throne, an appearance, a purpose. His name? Yaldabaoth. Our Mammon he is. As many humans on earth, as many devotees to his religion.
The moment lasts an eternity, but when eternity ends, one wakes up, it is too late. One is already dead.
While I slept, while I dreamed
The needles have turned, it’s too late
My childhood is so far away, it’s already tomorrow
Passing passes the time, there is no longer for very long
(…)
Yet I still live, yet I make love
Sometimes I even sing on my guitar
For the child I was, for the child I made
Passing passes the time, there is no longer for very long
While I sang, while I loved you
While I was dreaming there was still time
Georges Moustaki
But it is living that I speak. To live more, more intensely. To enjoy the free pleasures, the best. To enjoy the happiness of the seasons throughout the year. To be wise, to become the child who sleeps in himself, never quite dead, but not quite alive.
I’m talking about singing. Each emotion carries a round of songs, poems, sensations. Sensation, precisely. Like a poem.
By the blue summer evenings I will go on the paths,
Spiked by the wheat, trampling on the thin grass:
Dreamer, I will feel the freshness at my feet.
I will let the wind wash my head naked.
I will not speak, I will not think:
But the infinite love will climb in my soul,
And I will go far, far away like a bohemian,
By nature, happy as a woman.
Arthur Rimbaud, Sensation, March 1870
Loud-mouthed or street singer. A site is more than a book. You write it at the beginning, and then it writes itself. It dictates what it wants you to say. It’s up to you, he doesn’t expect anything else. This site has taken me by the hand. On a path of adventure, he gave me encounters, face-to-face, grief and hugs. The words I received inspired others. Everything is mixed, fixed, enticing, exciting.
My first articles? Cosmic fire, earthquakes, one hundred thousand years underground, volcanism, the future. Very soon, the great Rama came to me and befriend. He did not leave. He still lives in me, his blood is beating in my veins. Rama cleanses me of his living breath. Jonas and his whale, who was a submarine, Noah, his ark and all the zoo he saved, an ark that flew away, like Muhammad on his magical horse experienced his mystical abduction, like the Tao which describes a rotating motor, like the electricity known to the pharaohs, their powerful ion-lighters illuminating the pyramids, and the orchard of Hesperides, the Odyssey, the Aeneid.
I began gently, in colors, in fury. The lightning that awakens and kills the reckless. This great past replaced by another that is not true. These religions are distorted. This sun which is not ours, but the artificial star above the north pole. And the little sun of Alcor in the Great Bear. And our galaxy lost in its course. All the lost secrets that whispers quietly, I have hoisted them over the ditches. Evidence screamer, cracks cracker, lie disassembler, blocage debuger, cage unlocker, message decoder, passage opener and massage giver.
As years went by, passant master I became. A path rose in smoke through my head and friends came to walk it. My head emptied. The daydreams on the bank with golden reflections, the beloved giantess, the memory adorned with a thousand wild flowers and my heart of nice child.
When I write for too long, my body becomes paralyzed. When I create in the moment I psychoanalyze myself. My self enjoys. Such happiness to build the story, the images. Passing through the message we wait for the bend. Then with no sweat the shore we touch.
Yoruba country, Etruria, Edgar Cayce, the Druids and antigravity, Eden and Atlantis, hybrids, humanoids, the seal of Solomon, Tiki Viracocha, our former visitors and Nikola Tesla, Bosnia, the Tarot, the Olmec, Manu, spring of cathedrals, dolmens without burial, Noah’s rainbow, the prehistoric UFO, Phaeton the bad driver and anarchist Nietzsche, I have taken you on my chosen paths, from dream to dream, Europe, America and Asia that I have traveled so far along the unknown river of a long powdery path whitening my bare feet.
And the delirium continued. I have drawn you to my suite where desire guided my steps, talking about everything, touching everything, laying the foundations of what would become the immense saga of Eden.
Go to the summary and click on the top right window: Open all. You will enjoy the trip.
The following years, the disorder continued, as I remember, unfurling my previous lives. Lugh and his four sons, the Tuatha de Danann, Enkidu, Cuchulann, Quetzalcoatl, Enlil. All of them made me dream, I found them after long detours. Each in turn, gallantly, they led me alive on the paths of Time. Moses and Prometheus, Kant, the terraformers of Sumer, the flying Egyptians, the Black gods of Mexico, the Adam of Sumer and the Seven Elohim, the bomb of Shiva, the bomb of Yahweh, the Five Mayan Suns, Nibiru, the eclyptic, Darwin and Gilgamesh, the Rainbow Children, Mesopotamia, so many dead heroes I made my friends…
Mary, the Fairy Rock, Light Passenger, channeling, Eve and her seven daughters, alien genetics, Abzu, the earth below, Slosman, the Mad Max effect, Yonaguni is Mu, René Guénon, time, all aliens, winds, fake evolution, the queen of Sheba, Tlaloc, Enoch, Plato …
Avebury, the giants, Isis and her child, the Sphinx, the night of time, dancing moons and Teotihuacan, decline, cities of the peaks, farming fury, Yod He Vau He, gurus, tsunami, crop circles, believe without believing, ayahuasca, science without conscience …
I have pickled everywhere, with as a unique rule to go where my desire attracts me, to the winds of the world, to the happiness of Times. And you followed me, enchanted by my fables, happy with my secrets, in a great desire for instability to the past that is recreated.
I have elucidated but everything remains to be done. There are so many unknown, too many mysteries remain. Could I still have the chance that I had? Could I at least finish this first site? I wanted a second one, oriented differently. Start again from scratch. Clear the board. Finally get rid of my flaws, my naivete. Choose an open frame. No frame at all. Paint wide, bigger. More in line with my tastes. Something was saying it would be worth the effort.
I had dreamed, which costs nothing, to make another site with other data. I had dreamed of writing a completely different past, purified from the virtual, out of pretence, not in accordance with our laws, hostile to the matrix, modeled on the quantum, out of mechanics, out of the world, out of time. My little finger tells me I have no more time.
But I feel like so hard!
It would be confusing with malice and laughter. It would live in a world where everything is now, where the impossible comes, where the improbable reigns, where nothing follows ancient laws. Astral world in a word. No delay. Lady lay.
Astral your place exists otherwise than in spirit. Astral your golden rule is not to sleep. Everything is a dream at the wake-up, night has no more limit to the midnight sun, it’s day in a well that resonates with the envi while no logic fol, no hard mother, no soft daughter. Everything comes to nothing because this world here is held by a thread, the one that ties us and holds us on a leash at the edge of prowess, surrounded by baseness, children of laziness and evil to exist.
The astral is knitted with fireproof wool. Take a step aside, you will see it jump. Gently, without stirring it, you make it spin so that it dances with you and opens its roof. The astral is a ship where reason capsizes. Where logic expires. Where death mourns its own passing. Where time lingers at the very first try. Where one gargle with or without abscesses of an idea that finally specifies what we have always known and it is:
My friend told me
When I read the last paragraph,
I saw this astral saga: you who open
it wide like a big book with all visible data
and accessible to anyone. Perhaps I will be not
the only one to see it, maybe you can add a lil wink
of eye to say that the astral saga is in the astral cloud and
that with luck or good connectic everybody can get there and see.
Like free access? You know, it may be a delirium but that is what I see.
This Saga is not a utopia. It will not give another site, Eden Saga is quite capable of hosting it in its pages. Astral Saga will form a new chapter of the Saga of Eden. It could be called In search of Eden, because it has not disappeared, this Eden of legends. You can find it whenever you want among the thousands of articles offered by this site.
But you can do even more, no doubt. Next year starts tomorrow. It will be 365 days. In 2024, we had a little bit of extra time, a small 29 February was interspersed before March 1, which meant that we had to wait for the good weather for 24 hours more than in 2025. Next leap year 2028. A bis sextile year as its name suggests has two sextiles. What is a sextile? Break down the word, you will find sexual textile. Subsets, thongs, scarves, fishnet stockings are sextiles. No? Am I kidding? I do.
In astrology, the sextile is a favorable aspect that occurs when two planets are about 60 degrees apart. It represents opportunity, cooperation and facilitation. Much less fun for those like me who do not understand. But let’s go back to the year that is coming. It will host an exceptional event, the Astral Saga in loved ones and weddings.
The Astral Flyers have excited you, the Flying Wolves have subjugated you, imagine the effect of Astral Saga!
The final good news: I’m not saying less.
Astral Saga
When the Wolf Clan sent the Flying Wolves on an astral journey …
Soul Avatars
When you have more than what you need, make yourself a longer table and not a higher fence.
BEST WISHES FOR THE NEW YEAR
WE WISH YOU FULL BEAUTIFUL
SURPRISES AND HAPPINESS
2024
Freud opposes pleasure to displeasure and is at odds with reality where nothing is so…
Helping children to grow up, fairy tales are a precious and fantastic initiation for adults
The cathedrals were built with a measure-stick: no other calculation!