First Master On Board

Something weird is happening to me. At first I did not take care, it was barely noticeable. When I realized it, it did not worry me more, because it was not embarrassing. And then it became worrying. Worrying even, to the point of disturbing my beautiful serenity.

Now I’m not as calm as before. After reviewing the situation on all the seams, I have to go to the obvious. There is a stranger in my house. As I tell you. Someone came to my place. And it’s not new. I’ve known him for a long time, but I’m fine, he’s still an unknown to me. He has the key. He goes in and out when he sings. He does not bother me, I do not even know when he goes out. If it is, he never goes out. He is always at home.

Is there a pilot on the plane ? But this one does not make me want to laugh. Is there someone in charge of myself? When I have the illusion of acting freely, would someone have suggested to do it? When I write these articles without even knowing which key I will hit next, when I read my own texts with the feeling that I hasn’t laid this, when I see that they are written in my style, with my jokes and my irreverence – everything is there, the least detail belongs to me, even to my character of a pig, yet I am formal: it is not me the author. “I” is someone else.

Sometimes I split inside, and I watch another acting with my body, speaking with my voice, doing strange or harsh things, being relentless and brittle, yet I know I have to agree and obey the orders. The one who acts me knows better. I surrender to his law because it is right and full of magic. Tomorrow always gives him reason. What resists me tonight will find that night its astral translation. Everything is explained, everything is verified, and the sorcerer has nothing to do with it.

To think that, to write that, to feel that, is it the door of madness? Psychiatrists will think so. And all those who make business of logic or use of reason will think the same.

Who is the madman in this story? Who is the Fool? The braided asshole who dull me from the top of his principles? The failure of the idiot who says yes without digging? The bad idiot who fears even the shadow of his hand? The crowd of zombies waving to the rhythm of their hypnosis? Or me, this damn me who wobbles at the whim of the will of a stranger?

I should be amazed at recognition. This stranger took me to the green pastures where divine spirit and infinite love rule. Do not shake your head. Please leave this wise guy look. I too believe I’m crazy. No lucid dream. No misleading nightmare. None of those astral mirages. Neither imaginary delirium. Here is where it happens. Now.

In my head and in my body, someone speaks to me. I am acted. Remote control. At the whim of the wind the seed has found its proper soil.

Obedience or madness

I could be scared, but fear is no longer in my means. Much too expensive, fear. She sealed the best years of my life, which were therefore the worst. Fear is a powerful brake. I do not know which con decreed it gave wings. It is cowardice that gives it. Fear cuts the legs. Rabbit caught in the headlights, the fearful succumbs where fear nails him.

If I do not obey, I have pain. Trouble arises, I who do not know any more. The signs are crystal clear. If I bow and accept everything, I am so happy. This is the Rule, this is the surest way to the Way. Maybe it’s the way already?

I should be scared, pay the luxury of being logical, offer myself a beautiful slice of pure reason with a large glass of practical reason to pass the whole thing, but no. Do you. I do not care. With reason the fear would come. With the logic the red alarms would start to flash, the sirens to stridulate, the rescuers to fly in. No way. I love my stranger so much. The habit is too entrenched. Without him, what would I be? Death? Idiot ? Crazy? I already am.

This unknown at the controls, remains to wish that it acts for my good. Silly question: my good is in obedience. Christians, Muslims, Jews know who they obey. My pilot does not come from any religion. He does not have a name. He does not have a face, if not mine, sometimes. I think it’s a woman. So I will say “she”. This stranger in my house – and it’s not a problem of algebra! – this stranger whom I know so well without knowing who she is, this astral lady causes me much concern. J’y pense et puis j’oublie, c’est la vie, c’est la vieI think about it and then I forget. This is life this is life. (source)

When I was little, she was already there. In me. Or close to me. With her I was never bored. Without her I did not want to live anymore. Later, I called her my imaginary friend, and on the moped of my 15 years I crisscrossed the hollow paths of Penthievre in search of her, oh my improbable shepherdess, O my antique love, my nymph, my muse, the one who I am having fun!

I looked for her everywhere when she disappeared. The beauty always disappears, as Proust writes. His beautiful game is beautiful. Mine comes from elsewhere. Her beauty confuses my soul and I love it to scream. I scream every night, refusing to go to bed, writing like crazy, already, everything that goes through my body and I do not understand anything.

Is there only something to understand? I write. As long as I write, I live again. I see myself every night dead, in my bed, if I sleep during the night. So I write. I make the evening last until dawn. I am afraid of the astral journeys that I make every night, if unfortunately I sleep. Fear of not returning to my body, afraid to break the silver cord, afraid of money, fear of envy, fear of vice and all its parry.

Madness! I have so much sad smoke in my head
Sirens of a ship coming to take me away
Far from home. I have the heart to cry.

Every decade has given me more strength. Magic is my bed, the stars are my nights. I was away from her. Here she is back. I am no longer deaf, numb, or heavy. There is no fear in the love court. Obedience is the erotic monastic rule. Humility my survival. It’s her or madness. Small, I still live when all the great ones are dead. Let’s stay small. I am naked under the clouds. Here she is back. It’s her and my madness.

Love, when you hold me the vibration of my serene bliss fills this little piece of universe. Love, when you make me enter your supreme court I reborn from my ashes. In your happiness I tremble. I fly and flare up a thousand leagues from the ground. In F sharp. The adored single friend. Obey the law of love. Bow to the loving force. What else to do? Who would be mad enough, strong enough to counter this torrent of pure energy? Exhilarating, soothed, laughing, familiar energy that acts to me. Grab the ego in its Lego tomb. Here lies the old Adam of all colors.

Obedience is the sorcerer’s passport. What can the little free-will against the will of Love? Soul and flame, Eros is a woman. I do know her. She opens her bed and I touch her mouth. Yesterday’s imaginary friend took shape, my desire became flesh. My double is whole embodied. She rules. I obey.

Many such Cockney travellers roam, Who Chelsea take for ancient Rome : They speak of all they have not seen, As if upon the spot they’d been.
Jean de La Fontaine