Criminal investigation, suspect under lock and key, pending trial. What suffering, what injustice in this justice before deciding whether the suspect is guilty or not! The clairvoyant knows right away what to say. Murder leaves a trace in the criminal’s light that nothing erases. Never. No matter what we do.
The death that stains
A man whose death has polluted. This is what the heart, stomach and mind of the clairvoyant will see. It will not need evidence or presumptions, contradictory testimonies, hearings, confrontations, deliberations and all the ineptitude of human justice. And women, damn it! It seems to me that they also have their say, these great forgotten of all men’s thoughts. And the thoughts of women too, vain gods! If we could find more feminists in their ranks, I am sure that sexism would have lived.
And with him the insulting dictatorship of the chauvinist male pig, as my girlfriends said in the 70s. Ah the seventies! May they still live! and my friends with them. Always. They have given us such beautiful days! Days that lasted a year, just the opposite of this song of the time. A year of love in a one-night meeting.
I have always been able to dilate time. To stretch infinitely the good moments that would pass too quickly. To prolong the childish loves. In my seventies I’m still 8 years old. I make the joys last, let them bury the sorrows. It works. So I go on. I revisit my first love that always lasts, somewhere, I don’t know where, but I know it will never die out. Even though it’s been over for a long time in a corner of my accordion memory.
The past invites me. I visit him. Others, I know many, prefer space. I enjoy time as a tenant enters into the enjoyment of his apartment. Time and I are even. It does not belong to me. I don’t belong to him either. Time is my garden.
Tokyo is my garden
special friendly umbilical
A beautiful album, the best of my old friend Frédéric Boilet, the best of French mangakas, student of the late Jiro Taniguchi, now exiled in his native country, the Vosges. Unless it’s Spain. He runs, he runs, the Boilet. He came through here, I’d like him to come back through. This book, this masterpiece, is worthy of interest. It must be included in the library of the honest man. On the side table of the woman of taste.
A woman of taste, there are many. Not like this starlet who jumps on Sacha Guitry when he leaves home.
“Maestro, oh please Maestro, take me in your next film. I have great taste, you know.”
“Mademoiselle, what is important in terms of taste is not to have it great, but to have it good.”
Tokyo is his garden. He knows him like the back of his hand. His name is Boilet. Frédéric, I miss you.
Physicists and philosophers distinguish two kinds of time that have nothing to do with it. The objective time that is measured with mechanical, electronic, mathematical instruments. The subjective time that varies from one subject to another, from one moment to the next, from one occupation to another. The fact that two so different times can coexist is a good proof of its non-existence. And at the same time, a shining proof of the primacy of the subject. ‘I’ is the center of the world. Try to experience the opposite. Who tried? ‘I’…
Do the supplies, the bees, the termites have a ‘I’? Do they live in subjective time? Are they anything but the cogs of a machine, oh how beautiful, well oiled, perfect if you will. The hive, the termite mound, the anthill have been described as models of society. Each its dirty tastes. I wouldn’t live there for an empire, especially if that empire were to look like them.
Time, time, time and nothing else
Yours, mine, the one they say is ours.
(Charles Aznavour) (words)
Shirts and paths
For me time is elastic. It has always been. Like morality, mood, certainties, barometer, time varies. He changes his mind like a shirt. You don’t know the time shirts? Why wouldn’t he? The files have them, the bullets too. Full metal jacket, excellent film, which means metal shirt ball.
My most beautiful shirt
More than 18 years old
The rain does the laundry
I dry it in good weather
I’m going my train
and without hurting me at all
I’m going on my train. (source)https://www.partitions-domaine-public.fr/pdf/15264/Traditionnel-Je-vais-mon-train.html.
The so-called powdery feet, unsavory wanderers, sleigh of all kinds, walkers and pilgrims, these are my family. For a long time I was one of them. I put my bag down. I watch them pass through my memory. They are my wandering people, my freedom, my glory. The morning rain does not stop the pilgrim. On the contrary, he blesses her who will wash his shirt.
Pilgrim in my pilgrim robe
Mage who the star imagines (source)I wrote it when I was little. I am still.
We have everything in abundance. Hat, flute, house. Pattern, song, reason. Car, bike, pen, so many walls, so little prayer. I have nothing that is mine. If I attach myself to something, I give it. That’s how it belongs to me. Leaving the burden to others, the pilgrim denies the apostle. Toast. To yours!
I was walking out with my fists in my pockets
My paletot also became ideal
I went under the sky muse and I was your fecal
Oh there that sublime loves I dreamed (Arthur Rimbaud)
I have so many songs in my head, I don’t know which one to sing (Isabelle Aubret)
I sing, I sing evening and morning, I sing on my way. (Charles Trenet)
I only need one song to go around the world. If I have a thousand, I visit as many worlds. If the earth is round, it is to draw us into its round.
A great sun stretches over the wave
Her blonde beauty
The hazy opal mist
Go to bed
My way is made of fragrant paths
A la merise
Away from the noise and smoke
Of grey cities
Will you have time to finish
Will you find at his bedside
Your last Grail
They came, they went
Leaving their mark
We must take your side
Time erases it