After a long episode of bad weather, rainy and cold beyond reason, constant ballet of storms, hail showers etc, a viewer lambda queries a meteorologist. Is it possible that the Azores will NEVER come back to France? Smile protector sir weather, condescending, and worse, dripping with sweet mercy to puke. Show hateful become so commonplace that there is more attention.
One example among many. This one dates from 2011, but might as well from that morning. A textbook case. The superior attitude meteorologist says something about the front line that separates this humanity into two warring camps.
1. Those who feel what is going on and despise the other,
2. Those who take it for superstition and despise the other.
Rational, most often, are chilling superiority. Especially since they do not see beyond the tip of their nose. It may well be that one day or the other, helping climate change, the anticyclone remains the year on the Azores. It is also possible that the Gulf Stream, a powerful climate softener or away from our shores. It is thanks to him that Sweden and Norway enjoy a more pleasant climate than their symmetrical across the Atlantic, Quebec, which does not benefit from the Gulf Stream and suddenly curdles the loaves.
Good, but it’s not just the weather. Regardless of their area of intervention, freethinkers show a weak mind. Accompanied by a complete lack of tolerance. What they do not understand, they think stupid. Where is the stupidity in all this? The reader understands. But not moved triumphalism. In the other camp, the intuitive, intolerance reigns unabated.
Intuitive no better. They are a heterogeneous group of seers, sensory, mediums, gurus, mad, groupies, drifters, yes-yes, of complotistes, activists, misguided, artists, saints, to awake, crooks, traders and gods live. If everyone sees noon at his door, it is often 12:00 to 2:00 p.m.. In this discordant concert, all the voices together in an unbearable cacophony. This is shout louder than his neighbor. Impossible for them to listen. Difficult for the layperson to navigate.
One thing in common between them: they hate the other side, that of reasoning reason, the spirits who believe themselves strong. And the fight latent threat eventually become battle. Difficult to reconcile the irreconcilable. Unable to close the gap that separates them. They camp on each side of the fault, they do not see it getting bigger every day a little more. One day soon it will be so wide and so deep that the swallow to the last. And that will be the end of this humanity.
More than ever, it is important to open up. Hear yourself. Listen to your own voice that speaks to you, speak to you that is silent, don’t listen to yourself speak. Knock down the overripe walls, the poison in the partitions. Open your wings beautiful gosling. Towards you launch bridges. It is high time to open the wings. This is the place to show your zeal. Go join you on neutral ground instead of running away like a coward. You don’t have any other friend than you. Your worst enemy is under your roof: it’s you, but you don’t give a damn. He looks like you like a brother.
The path of knowledge passes through meetings. Readings. Findings. But most of all through meetings. I often see again all the hilarious or light-hearted or preoccupied faces collected from all those who helped my seed to grow. No one is made alone. Nobody is made effortless either.
Do the job, look in you. Any help only serves to lend you the energy you need to go down into yourself. Though it is you who must ultimately reach the deeper layers of consciousness, by the edge of the other world, the left side, the world of the nagual.
That’s why you have to trust you to meetings, especially those that tumble in unexpected – perfect synchronicity with your quest. Everything happens in the moment, in the here and now, in addition, and while in there and the all-the-time, in the outside and inside. None of this would have happened without the existential impact of the moment.
Man, if you project Your mind beyond places and time You can live every moment in the eternal.
Does the layman finds better in this? I ask him if he has 5 minutes to write to me. I try to be clear, I myself constantly trying, but the words are a poor tool to describe the mysteries of the afterlife. I know very well that clarity must be first in the mind and heart of my drive. Nothing can be clear to you if you did already lived. This is the paradox of the sacred transmission. We can learn that those who have already done the work alone. Nobody is effortless. Nothing heals without your consent.
Sometimes the words are only sounds, songs, unknown rhythms, a cry that is raised to the skies. I use and abuse poetry, it opens so many doors! Momentum that transports us, euphoria that is exported, little things that we bring. Some of my texts are to be read with the ear. I speak as I write. I cry as I laugh. Sort it out.
“What they blame you for, cultivate it, is you.” Too many artists censor themselves and change themselves out of a desire to please. We do not make the artist to please. Besides, I am not the artist. Never. It takes me to the guts, it’s been there since childhood, and if it was punished by death, I would defy the ban anyway. I’m missing the verb art. We don’t make art, we’re arting. To art like to act. I art as I breathe. Everyone I love does the same. To art is to be. Art your life. Since nature arts ever, humans must be arting too.
When I hear an authoran arthor? complaining about blank page anxiety, makes me mad. How can? Sometimes I write with such intensity that I forget to eat lunch. To dine. To wash myself. To dress me. I art, whatever happens, I art freely. That also surprises me, these people who will tell you that you have to suffer to be an artist. Colossal bullshit. Often it’s true the artist suffers, too hard to art in the shadows, to art without interrupting because anyway we have nothing to eat, to art because we don’t know how to do anything else .
Art to alert. Laugh to say. Arting like singing, thinking like dancing. I dance with an empty head. I non-think so. If you enjoy reading me, it’s because I have so much to write. Without pleasure, where would desire come from? Without desire, I cannot take pleasure. Both sides of the same coin. Upside down.
Artsman rather than artist. An artsman like a good craftsman, devoid of glory and not of talent, shadow craftsman, writer, scraper, checker, feeler, rator. Not the one who misses – what? – the one who crosses out. Rare thing with me. I delete, I do not correct. It has to come as it is, otherwise it’s not me.
Besides, is it me who itches, I doubt it. Is it my life that unfolds, or a film that is projected in my head? Even so? What’s the difference ? Writing gets me so embarrassed that I lose my rabbits. habits. Early morning. And late evenings, all the time. So that everything gets confused and I forget my point. Is it important ? Not really. Not all the time. What you haven’t planned is always welcome. Life is tumbling through the heart of the game of Go. It must flow, it might flow. Quick my chick. Hence my hens.
I am expected to hold the helm, I keep the course I tackle the sail that I hoist the jib of the great vessel where your lives sail. Like a blot assigned to me, like a heavy burden being thrown at me. I must find my peak, it knocks me out and I assume. Ah! Drift on the blue waves aimlessly, without route or survey!
As I went down along some impassive rivers
I no longer felt guided by the haulers
Screaming redskins had targeted them all
Having nailed them naked to the bright colored posts. (source)Arthur Rimbaud, The Drunken Boat, translated by Xavier Séguin
I can, if you want to open the door that carries you, you can with me climb the step that walks and that makes you walk. Tomorrow if you will, we will attempt the impossible encounter, the one that passes through the winged paths of the astral, under the white curtains of awake sleep, in the friendly fog of ignored lands.
God, I would have liked to know Rimbaud somewhere in the Red Sea, trafficking in arms and opium! This guy was packed. Drunk. Full. Completely cooked, brilliant, from elsewhere where it returned, from elsewhere.
Here is my offer. Rishi who denies it. The astral can be visited, I am a sworn guide. Ah serve my tea, I mean. Only fear scares you. In the oven, your heart of butter. Love fund for yourself. You love me. Say: I love myself. Hang yourself and die. Repent and live. Let the sweet treat you, if you can feel the controlled madness. Be reassured. The Ocean of the Three Fates only drowns the enarques. Embark. Here treasure map.
There are not four elements, but five. The first is called ether. But we forgot…
Yes, totally lost. But don’t worry about it, the replacement is on.
The I Ching or Yiking was incomplete. I completed the hexagram Chen.
Human history begins in Africa with the Australopithecines, the first Blacks.
Listen calmly to the images while breathing deeply into the thoughts of Einstein.
FINAL WARNING / Unless a burst of generosity, Eden Saga will not reach 2025. Hurry…