Curious Atmosphere

It started this morning around 7:00. I woke up in the middle of a conversation with a couple of guys I didn’t recognize. The conversation was strange, one of the guys was speaking to me in an authoritarian tone, cutting out the syllables, to get what he was saying into my head. Failure: as soon as I woke up, I did not remember anything. It is wanted.



Yes, wanted. I was in the middle of a soft-packed session. They were talking to my unconscious. The warrior in me woke me up in time, I think. From that moment on, the day started to slip like never before. My house I have known for a quarter of a century. The sloping garden, the bay of Erquy, the village, I have known them for 70 years. Where does this irreducible sense of strangeness come from? Why do I feel elsewhere? How do I get back to my place and now?

I didn’t recognize these guys because I had never seen them. But I could have identified them by their subtle smell. They are archons, or their employees. They have a mission on earth, and apparently I’m one of them. It’s like convincing me of something important. Something I forget.

Erases the conversation. There is nothing left of it, except its color of outer-world. These spawns are not from here, and now my living environment is not from here either. As if everything had changed, insidiously, barely, the space of a restless night.From what made my joy every morning, these insignificant details that matter more than everything else, these paintings of dear friends, these little things that filled me with joy, they’re all gone. There’s nothing left. Il n’en reste plus rien.




There is a time for everything, says the Bible. Would I have violated the timing? Did I wake up at the wrong time? No. On the contrary. There was urgency, I acted, I get out full speed of Morpheus’ arms. Serves him right.

alerte — alerte — alerte — alerte — alerte — alerte — alerte

As I type these words, a gray-black silhouette rises the slope of the garden towards my window. I turned my head very quickly to have a chance to see it. I saw nothing. The path was different, dreamed, unreal. A second later, it became the usual way again.

“Seeing” is a particular way of feeling like you know something beyond a shadow of a doubt. (Carlos Castaneda)


And then it started again on the other side. In the room where I work with a view of the bay. A silhouette that goes down the stairs of my bedroom. I look at her. She persists and signs. In the haggard face, no look. A face of misty shade. A murderer in a smoky robe. Instead of an awful fear that takes the guts, it’s a big laugh that makes my belly twitch. With each burst of laughter, a burst of black shrapnel falls to the ground. The silhouette crumbles. Torn apart by laughter, it goes away, it exhales. I inspire.


Ifever I had taken any illegal substance! Fuck off, nothing explains. It would kill anyone less blasé than me. My eccentric hike. My oblique bike. Exotic silhouette on my critical path. My anemic outing, my amphigoric dream, the allegorical soup and my mythical siesta. Typical Xavier. Nothing comes back and Xavier applies. Nothing excuses, nothing explains.

Am I going to carry this bag of bones all the way to Kalamazoo? Showing off silhouettes? The bizarre one in my dream epithet? Skeletons dancing the death jig? Imaginary visitors? The archon sicarios?

Epithet: which expresses a permanent, intrinsic quality of the being or thing designated. Example: An epithet dream is the dream par excellence, which has the permanent qualities of the dream.



Golden Sands of Plurien

Everything has been like that since this morning. I went shopping in the organic grocery store of Plurien. Nothing anymore! What a predestinated name! I go there with my eyes closed, there I arrive on the spot, and nothing. Nothing. The countryside instead of the well-known buildings, motoculture, gardening and my organic shop. Everything had disappeared. There were only tall grass and bushes up to the church. Even the village had shrunk. Only the village centre remained. The rest? Evaporated.

I changed course, just to go round in circles in the countryside for five minutes, with the idea of sneaking back and finding everything as if nothing had happened. Normal and peaceful. But the scenario was different. After two or three kilometers, I ended up on the road to Saint Malo, on the other side of the dam of the Rance, about forty kilometers away.

Fuck it. I’m being fooled. I didn’t even get through the dam, and that’s the only access. It doesn’t look like anything. All the more so since I had to go through all forty miles to get back to Plurien. The space-time jump was a one-way street. Consolation: in Plurien, everything had returned to normal. Only one hiatus: the parking lot, still full at this hour, was deserted. In the store, all the staff stored products in 365 boxes. I was the only customer.

They looked at me with a nasty eye. I embarrassed them. I filled my bag somehow and I came out quickly.


Russian Tanks at the Kehl Bridge

The road to Cape Erquy floated like a ribbon in the storm. I was struggling to stay on course. The steering wheel was slipping through my hands. I made a big vegetable soup while watching the news.

The news was a few months ahead. Russian tanks had invaded Germany and a column was already heading for the Kehl Bridge. Near future? I turned up the sound. A white voice announced the surrender of the German army. As they advanced, the Russians hastily mounted concentration camps for the countless Ukrainian, Polish, Austrian and German prisoners.

The white voice has squashed the number of 60,000 prisoners. In a fortnight, that is still a lot. The Russian army is advancing very fast, never seen before. Yesterday they secured 491km. Vengeful Blitzkrieg. Piss off.



Over Here the Good Soup!

The prisoners looked at each other like dogs from Mainz and guarded each other. The Germans kept the Poles, the Austrians kept the Autrichats, the Ukrainians kept nothing. Niente! The Russian army needed all its men on the front, customs officers on the ass, and NATO on the teeth. I didn’t buy a word of it: Russkoff propaganda. Was I wrong? We’ll see later. See you then.

While waiting for the Russians and their fucking borscht, I ate the best soup of my life, cooked for three hours. I give you the fucking homemade recipe. To do yourself at home with nothing but organic.Ono-dit?

Three liters of water. 1kg of potatoes. 1 pound of carrots. 4 leeks. 3 onions. 2 tomatoes. 6 tablets of vegetable concentrate (no salt added). Simmer the coarsely cut vegetables for two to three hours over medium-low heat. Do not grind. Serve hot. Sip without drooling (the most delicate point).


The Shadow of the Number

After that I went to sleep for twenty minutes, as usual. I must have dreamed but no memory. I don’t even know how I woke up. Probably a delivery man who rings at the front door. Chronopost or Colis Privé. Two new comics to read. They are there, on the third step of the stairs. When I go to bed, I catch them while passing. Usual. Repetitive. Enjoyable. Routine. Automatic. Unconscious. In any case I’m in shape. What? I don’t know. But the form is there.

In the head, the bridge of Europe between Kehl and Strasbourg. And this fucking Bundeministerium für Werkehr und digital Infrastrukturn sign with the Bochian socio-national eagle on the French roads. Hello symbol! Do we need the Schleus to build for us? We’re so broke? Guess.

An enigmatic phrase haunts me which says: “Whoever prays deprives his perispirit of envy, which pales, withers, weakens and perishes.” Does it come from the gugusses of my matutinal dream? Say it very quickly and without breathing, it sharpens your oral and gray your morale. How? What does that mean? Yes, well, that means, yes, it’s kind of like, yes, yes. A little bit. That’s it, yes. Other questions?

“Périsprit”, neologism of Allan Kardec, founder of spiritism, in The Book of Spirits. It is the bodily energy of a living being and the envelope of a spirit after death. Adjectives ‘peripritic’ and ‘periprital’. (wikipedia)



Allan Kardec

Allan Kardec of his real name Hippolyte Rivail (3 October 1804 – 31 March 1869) was the founder of spiritualism and the author of the five books of spiritualist codification. Franz Mesmer’s theory of animal magnetism was popular. Kardec, however, after seeing a demonstration, found animal magnetism insufficient to explain his observations. He decides to investigate mediumship.

Before accepting a spiritual or paranormal cause, he said, it must be excluded if material causes can be responsible.  Fraud, hallucination, telepathy and clairvoyance explain many alleged psychic phenomena. He is convinced that mediums provide accurate information about deceased persons.

It compiles a thousand questions on nature and psychic communication, the reasons for human life, spirituality. He asked these questions to ten mediums who don’t know each other. He concluded that the dead are not all, since some talk to psychics.

I go around in circles, I make the hundred steps on the step of my door, but I do not feel it, I do not lie, life impales me, everyone speaks about it, but the wind takes me and I come back healed. The shadow is still here.


Darkness exists only through light. Sadness would be nothing without joy. Without evil, what would good be worth?


What Was it Exactly?

I wrote this some time ago. February 17, to be precise. What happened that day? I don’t know. It is as if the unreal world of my nights had invaded everyday life. But not completely. Just dotted. The delirium of the dream goes away and returns at the whim of… What? My mood? Fatigue? Waves of energy that distort the landscape?

Have I managed, as I do, to capture a future reality? Will this Russian invasion really happen? Who can tell?

I am well placed to visit the past. A too nice talent allows me to walk at my leisure on the timeline. Certainly, it happens in astral, in the dream world, and I can never be sure of the validity of my discoveries. So, after an adventure in full proto-history, and before publishing anything, I do more concrete research. If an author has developed the same things, Google will tell me. Thank you to him.


Qui vis pacem

This is the corroboration phase. And it works for the future too. With one important nuance: if the past has come true, whatever it may be, we can never be sure of what’s to come. Any inflection in the present is likely to alter the temporal framework, and the future that the clairvoyant has perceived will not come true. Or only partially.

As for the Russian invasion, I was marked by that of the Nazis. My father remained a captive of that obscene regime. My early childhood was spent in an atmosphere of war. After the occupation of the German eagle, the American eagle took over. Because of the GIs, Paris had to maintain ration coupons. They were still in force on certain items when my younger sister was born, ten years after the Allied landings.

What’s more, a pre-apocalyptic climate has prevailed in the West for almost twenty years. World War 3 is on everyone’s mind. And yet, as I said, there’s nothing to suggest that this bleak future will actually come to pass. Still, it’s wise to prepare for the worst, so we can enjoy the best. Qui vis pacem, para bellum. If you want peace, prepare for war.



We either make ourselves miserable, or we make ourselves strong. The amount of work is the same.
Carlos Castaneda