Be grateful when you are in pain. Be grateful when it’s ugly, wet and cold. Be grateful for every setback, every insult, every blow received. Give thanks for mistakes against you. Give thanks to the thieves, the taxman, the shopkeepers. Thanks lawyers, garages, cattle dealers or second-hand concealers. Thanks for the spitting and the humiliations. Be grateful to the Infinity. You are never small enough in front of the Immense.
Always thank and thank again without knowing who. Pray if you want, but don’t say any name. Pray the Immense. The without form, without name, the without place, without end, the without worry, without worrying about.
To The People In Me
There is in me a man who walks, an old man who cannot take it any longer. The body covered with sores, abrasions, ulcers, bruises, pods. I am the ragged wanderer, the outcast, the dilapidated soldier.
There is in me an abject being who rejoices in the misfortune of strangers. Who pretends that these passing people were just a set, a painted canvas. In this hateful and clever demon lie my qualities in crumbs. The humor he makes is not worth mine. The weather seems uncertain to me.
But he’s got me. I can only get rid of it by dying. So rejoice when that time comes. Tell yourself: He is united – finally. There he no longer suffers. If he’s naked, his skin is intact. His heart beats with love, he will live. His mouth is pure and without insult, he loves. Heaven, hell, what for? I am free from the shackles. The soul wanders. I take in the sea air.
The demon of the ego has crossed the border, he is going to end his career in the elephant cemetery. Where the bodies of matter go while our body of glory rejoins its native ocean, meanwhile, beyond space …
The sublime and the junk
In me there is the devil and his hundred thousand imps, demonitos de mierda; there is in me the being of light and his hundred thousand facets. And I go back and forth between the sublime and the junk. Or worse, I live both in stereo.
Or worse, I cut myself into forty and take the bets.
There are spectators in me, onlookers, swarms, passing-thru and birds of prey. There is in me the devil and his like.
To give thanks for the good, the beautiful and the blessings is within the reach of many bastards. Thanking for the opposite is much less ordinary. Take it for granted. Put this in your pocket with your handkerchief on top. But from below, stay naked if you want. Pleasure of the eyes, desire of the old. Such a palace in no place. A yes-palace in a non-place. Holy grace, no rat race. Fell free to fly at pace. Get rid of your necklace …
At The Gendarmerie
-We have a problem, Sir. There is a guy with a name that is not possible.
-What kind ?
-Jesus? We have lots of Jesus first names!
-Yessir. But he’s religious and calls himself by his middle name: Jesus–Mary.
-So what ? I still do not get what bothers you.
-His patronymic, Sir.
– I mean his surname, boss.
-I understood, you bugger!! So what’s the name of this moron?
-His name is Joseph, chief.
-I see … Indeed …
-Yes, chief. Jesus-Mary Joseph. And I cannot enter that in the file of sexual perverts. I cannot, boss.
There is in me the devil and his kind, the god and his sky, innocent breasts, Lenten buttocks, unknown lands, skies and clouds, wide avenues of flowers and smells, of mockingbirds and crow faker, impossible ardor, and it comes from the heart, patience and modesty.
Not one of these henchmen, of these reitres, of these very real phantoms, of these tangled illusions, not one, not the least who without complaining, without whining, without pretending, does not say thank you ceaselessly, gratitude and generosity, solitude and speed, gentleness and caress, dog without a leash, girl without a boy, heart in jubilation, farts in mass, song of buttocks in confession.
Thank you for the wash, thank you for the love, thank you for cough, thank you for crazy, for louse, for your knees that I love and which enchant me, thank you for your singing hair, thank you for your kidneys, for your hips, your breasts, the hold that holds back that holds the magic of the vanished secrets that only you use. Thank you for your cherries, your promised shirts, your kisses that exhilarate me, your soft gaze that borders between laughter and surprise.
Thank you to the nameless, the unspeakable challenge, the immeasurable yes, the Immense, the Intense, Dancing Shiva, Bombing Yahveh, thank you for the Immense that cannot be named but who doesn’t give a damn about waiting nothing from us. Thank you the Source, thank you the Bourse, thank you the Course, rendez-vous sur la Grande Ourse. (trad)See you on Big Dipper
… I’ll bring French bread and ChaourceA great French cheese
Subject and object
Say thank you, be nice, be polite, say thank you. Thank you for the affront, for the evil, for the false, for what confuses us, what stalls, what is necessary. Thanks for the thugs, the gurus, the owls. Thank you for the conscience, for the science, for the absence, the unconsciousness, the inconstancy, the silence. Thank you for being Immense. Thank you in advance.
Give thanks for the affront, for the branches and the trunk, for the evil, for the false, for the pale and the false, for what confuses us, what stalls, what is necessary. Thanks for the thugs, the gurus, the owls. Also for gudus. Sweet tastes. Bequeath oud where. Thank you for consciousness, for science without conscience, stupid science is opposed to fine science and to science that is confined for absence, unconsciousness, inconstancy, silence. Thank you for the Immense Being. Thank you in advance.
Science without conscience is a soul’s decay. (François Rabelais)
Thanking is not enough. You must be offered in gratitude. Sacrifice of yourself. I am only the object, the Subject is elsewhere. The Subject is hidden, it is not revealed, it resides in secret in our unfathomed dreams. The Subject opens, the object discovers. The Subject speaks, the object speaks. The Subject thinks, the object spends. The Subject yells, the object yells. The Subject gives in, the object dies.
The Subject is very large, one can say it Immense. And yet the Subject belongs to the Kingdom. The King of Heaven directs and maintains all the Subjects who direct and maintain all the humans who direct and maintain … What then, by the way? Do humans play their part in the concert of worlds? What have they done for the animals? And against animals? Will they come and thank us for the way we treated them?
A great, dead silence was the whole answer.
When I am in pain, when I cry, when I am in pain, when I die, I shout thank you. The ordeal is all that grows. We all come out of the ordeal. Thank you Immense. Thank you Intense. Thank you very much for every moment I have been given. I liked it so much.