Behind The Scenes

Some of us have the chance to catch a glimpse of what’s going on behind the scenes. I said luck, not merit. Besides, is it a chance? As soon as you succeed, the nightmare begins. You find yourself naked. Here you are tracked, watched, spied, evaluated, filmed by lots of people, cops or hooligans, pros or fans, appointed vicious or wacky on a spree.

So many unworthy, but heavy adversaries. Boring like mosquitoes. Pantyhose like ticks. And stubborn as well. Warrior, you have to do it. The beautiful meetings console you. The others, inevitable, distress you. Rejoice, on the contrary. Warrior of the possible, seeker of the impossible, thank you, my friend. Thank the Living for all those little bullies who titillate your ego. Under their darts, your vanity decays. Under their pikes, humility reappears. Bless them, my friend. Bless the little tyrants and the pencils of all kinds. They are the warrior’s gold. They will strip you from the cellar to the attic.


The viper who pricks you is sincere. Its death sentence has no personal feelings. Please realize that your executioners are beautiful. They have sweet children, a nice family, pretty girls. They are afraid for their kin. Their doors are closed. Locked up. Their prayer? May the world remain a world, let the earth remain earth, let nothing change, let everything remain, let tyrants reign, let martyrs bleed, may time keep happy moments, may the sky turn blue, let the moon erases the stubborn sorrow, the open wound and the offered throat. Viva la muerte. The eye is dead hanged, bloody bastard.

All could be wrong, little their care. Life can trap them, they do not mind. Time is not good, they do not care. All could be fake, they do not take. Dubbing and doubt, they do not shout. The party’s fun, they point their gun. Devil in town, they’re bending down. They get tangled. They take you away. They’re such a drag. They’re leaving sad, heavy their eyes, dull their hair, bound for nothingness. Why? Where? When? Tomorrow already, they will come back to harass you, shout swearing around your forehead. They won’t be dead.

You can’t kill them, you can’t shoot them, you can’t boot them. You may root them, they’ll appreciate. Better cope with them, they come to teach you. The more you refuse them, the more they fuse. The more they abuse. The more they misuse. The more they use you. No sweat, no thrills, they amuse you. No scream. You reverse the steam. You are not afraid anymore. You almost win. But they come back in strength, getting tough, rough, enough. You loose your patience. You crack.

This ceaseless stalking is a nasty nuisance. You can not get away with it. No constitution, no institution, no decree has ever protected your private secrets. No one has instituted respect for your private life. All that was hidden will be revealed. Become transparent. Do not be available. Stop being to this world because it is not yours.

All that was hidden is already revealed. The king drinks. Your turn will come. Get out of the woods. The king limps. So does Claude. She follows the teaching that says: “Behave when you are alone as if you were in the midst of people, and among people as if you were alone.” This is a fight worthy of a warrior of light. This is the only opponent worthy of being fought: yourself.

Stupor of the awakened

Whistleblowers are not welcome. Whatever they say, the various governments want to keep the secret on a lot of things: extraterrestrial information, major global risks, priority scientific alerts, imminent threats to human and animal health, real pollution and its short-term prospective, extended desertification observed over the past 40 years, as well as the melting of glaciers, the thawing of peatlands and the acceleration of methane emissions, the exponential intensity and frequency of solar flares, the accelerated disappearance of hundreds of animal species – of which the crap, which is a good thing. Its eradication is due to the destruction of its biotope, the pubic hair. Everything scampers off.

Taboos are everywhere, actually. On many subjects, the average citizen does not have to know it. Move along, nothing to see. So you wake up. You do not recognize anything. The surprise is total. Your gaze crosses mine. Stupidity scars your eyes. You tell me in a voice that shakes a little:
– I do not understand what’s happening to me.

I can not hide a smile.
– All we feel so. It’s called living. Welcome to the world.

The monument

The other side of the picture is to be alone among the multitude. It is to hear the cries, to see the dying who caugh and the living who laugh. In the fried whiting eye I read “not seen, not caught.” Have a good laugh, throw some rice on her grilled dress. Death is priceless. The sea is painted gray. Your booty smiles at me.

The backside of the decor is the door that opens two doors to nothingness. Nothingness is not empty. It is uterus. It saddens me, matrix, my cheat. It begets. From it will come the future multitudes. In it lies our destiny. It is nothing, and from this nothing comes the whole thing. I mean you. I mean us…

When we go through the scene, we see what we have transgressed. Defense to pass. No trespassing. Restricted zone. We got out of the nails. Will be prosecuted. We will be prosecuted, almost persecuted. Death is yellow and smells like vanilla, says the hairdresser’s husband. The flower of the yeuse. Child lieuse. Happy girl. Fine fortune teller. Idle bird. And not voyeur. And not sloppy …

When we have passed the stage, in the interstellar space, it is enough to reach out to touch the stars, to prick your fingers on their pointed branches, you are dead, the stars are killing you. The words scions, motives, sorry. Please. The word naked, then dress it in the colors of your heart. Without a winner or virtue. Without bitterness, bitter kills. Can you hear me ? To laugh. We must laugh at ourselves. To laugh at everything. From smile to laughter, drunk with laughter.


The cannons of your comrades are focused on your chest. You did not want to be blindfolded. The boots well waxed, the uniform well ironed, the mustache fine waxed, the captain raised his sword. You look at your death in the face.
– Take aim!
You see your death so close that you can count the black dots on its pale face.
– Fire !!

It is you who is fire, my heart. Farewell. Besides, if you ever see God, tell him my disapointment. He will understand. He understands everything.


The other side is that. It’s laughing. Enjoy.

Only the small secrets need to be protected. The great are kept secret by public incredulity.
Marshall McLuhan