Remember Hyperborea


My soul is Celtic. I remember Hyperborea. Fragile nights, hostile forests, nubilous young girls, clever boys, subtle warriors, futile orgies, useless beds … I was born on the islands in the sky. I grew up there, rocked by fairies, breastfed by muses, pampered by nymphs. My twelve brothers taught me the duties of my caste: warriors.



I was born in the year 16300 of the reign of High Empress Anna. I was born at dawn during spring — a double sign for my people. I grew up like the other girls and boys in my clan, the Wolf. My best friend was called Aorn. He left for Earth Core and I never saw him again. Aorn loved this half-wild planet too much. I have always preferred life on Hyperborea among fairies, gods and giants. Things are as they are, he’d be happy where he is.

My people love hunting and war. I like arms and armours. Every day I train in the handling of weapons. The arsenal of Hyperborea contains dozens of different weapons, all with powerful effects.


Awakening shoot

I love shooting. Choose your target, estimate the distance, adjust the aim, range, select the projectile, arm, aim and clitch! No noise. Just the small discharge in the shoulder, very light, which shows that the shooting took place. And immediately after that, the explosion of the target comes to crown your love.

But don’t take me for a killer! Our weapons are very different from those we use on Terra. Depending on the setting, they can kill or injure, but also heal the living body, repair broken bones, make youth and give awakening. Instead of detonating the target, we transform it, we improve it, we give it eternal life as easily as your weapons give death.


Choose your island

I grew up among the giants, on their mountainous island. They are good companions, a little heavy when relaxing, but handy when it comes to building a bridge or knocking down a mountain. To dig tunnels, giants are worthless, but fortunately there are always dwarves when there are giants. And the tunnels, the mines, the undergrounds are the royal domain of the dwarves, masters of the Abzu.

Why with the giants? As long as you live on the four islands in the sky, choose your island wisely, Aorn said. I chose the giants. They are tall, they are heavy, they are dumb. For a resourceful little guy, this is still the best place to spend happy days in Hyperborea. But enough about me. There is a compelling reason for my presence among you. I have something very special to tell you. Everything that happens is willed.



Everything is willed

Emergency. Importance. Deliverance. Everything, I mean everything that has happened is willed. No choice. Walk straight. Shut up. It’s like that. This is the heart of the message, my sages. Listen, believe your ears, whatever happens is wanted from all eternity. There is no way to prevent the future from blowing up in your face because that is exactly its job.

We are not here to flatter our ego. We have something else to fuck than bask in our heads. If you keep hoping for an intelligible, intellectual or simply intelligent message like an asshole, it is destitute, unworthy of the people, who once called themselves the giants. My job as a low-wage earner that only gains to be known, my quavering aphone word that stammers in the desert, here it is: your faces! The mind-guided, the mind lovers, the mindest minded, all those who live with their only head and who stubbornly refuse their deep body, shut up! Stop the heavy thoughts milling machine. Stop the world, cut your head off. Deploy your subtle sensors. If you have them, use them.


Subtle Sensors

For about four years, strange invisible organs have appeared in the first layer of the subtle body, near the temples. How to describe them? It looks like a kind of deer antler, less developed though. These subtle “woods” develop on each side of the head from the temples, they are animated by lively movements that change the orientation of the branches.

Their rounded shape evokes that of some cacti, but without spines. I observe them on very young children, those who have the new auras indigo, crystal and rainbow. There are many, believe me. What does this new body do for them? It’s hard to say.

I’ve just had a 40-year-old intern wearing it. First time I met a grown-up fitted with such a device! According to him, it is used to broadcast and receive. He never thought about it because he did not know he had any. The thing is recent, few authors are aware of it, I wanted to inform you while waiting to deal with the issue more thoroughly. Little note in passing on which I will probably write an article but better hold than run.




Come together. Become yourself. Income is a soul benefit only. Outcome first. Uncome, unseen and unknown things will open you. Welcome father of imagination and mother of invention, join them in the great house of the without-reason. Listen first, listen to your silence! It will refresh you. And you may hear the others.

Everyone does their job the best they can, even the beggars, even the loosers. Some mainly take care of the bills. Plump and cosy they are. Mazette! Mazel tov! But let’s talk about something else, it breaks my balls, it freezes me to the bones.

I confer. Some me disagree with others me. Internal conflict. Hold on the line, I’m trying to connect you. If time passes slowly, hang up, I’ll call you back without fail in 107 years and a month.


Eternal present

Yes. Always. And do not believe that it is by divine will. the gods, those we call so, are no more immune from fate than men. And the fate of insects is as prepared as yours, my friend. Nothing escapes the law of the eternal present. Everything that happens has already happened in the perfect world of the Eternal Present. One day, it’s her turn, the thing is embodied in the temporal frame because it has always been waiting for its turn in the anteroom of the eternal present.

My soul has always been Celtic. I have lived the same life countless times, I have lived it forever and I will never get out. So wills the circular law of the eternal present. How would you like it to be otherwise? Whoever wins will always win. Whoever loses, will always lose. Life flows, indifferent, always the same. And we are agitated, ridiculous puppets, without knowing that for us the dice have been thrown from all eternity.

I remember the unforgettable Hyperborea. I see our games halfway through reality, in the semi-suburb of the eternal present. Aorn calls it the folds of time, in my opinion that’s something he didn’t understand. Must say that it goes quickly. Light is fast energy, matter is slow energy. But anyway, everything is energy.

Are you starting to see where I’m going? Lucky you. I don’t.



Energy is All

The world as we know it does not have the slightest real existence. It is virtual, like everything else. The multiverse is virtual. Earth is virtual. So the multiverse of earth is virtual too. All this do not doubt it is completely willed. I want to refresh your belly neurons a little and also put the neurons of your head to sleep before attacking the sequel to Vieux Patate. There are going to be noxious notions, decided ideas, chic shocks, aftershocks that snap and go tit for tat. For it to repair, it needs to be prepared.

My twelve brothers have made the part. Nothing is left to chance. It’s the chatterbox’s wall, he is silent when he leaves. I laugh at it through and through and line up at the start. Everything is energy, said Paoli Vaopo, Mamamouchi of Karachi. Tell Monsignor Paoli, please. He’s got the bugger there. In his state, he has to hold on to something, otherwise he collapses. Everything is energy? Not for him.

All transmission of energy is transmission of information, says Physics. It is right from top to bottom.


Seguin Island

Is it true, the mamamouchis are too decadent and Eve? No. Is that so. Let us drop these very soft mamas who piss us off in the glue. Infernal rates on the assembly lines. The workers’ fortress on Île Seguin, my fraternal grandfather. He lost the accent though. Everything is energy, even him. Seguin Island too, just Billancourt. Let it run. Let it rot. Let it die.

The energy will survive. Alone it will reign, eternity before you, life alive and vibrant challenge, life, notice, wash, and cough that without soot. If you haven’t understood anything, rejoice: all in all, there is nothing to understand. If you have understood everything, you know that you have just knocked out, distilled, unwound, unpin ten precious minutes of the eternal present. Don’t worry, got plenty.



Twelve Loving Bros

First Brother was called Jacques Des Chemins, he was a heavy sleeper. Second Brother was called Jean Des Villes, a skilful urban man. Third brother was called Alceste la Peste, he was a woman too. Quarter brother Marre-Lesa reggae joke lost in translation: Marley, “make ’em laugh” was smoking joints and missing points. He taught me the non-chance which does not exist any more than its opposite.

My other brothers gave me what they knew best, Pumkin the love of kin, PhuThai the love of tie, Harmony the love of money, Gawain the love of wine, and so on for my other brothers Sussex, Hitchcock, Stewballs, Jackass, JohnMeal, Garfack and the two I forget. So I acquired twelve dung out of use. I won’t choose between the loose; all were not worth a dead goose. I traded them for the card of a less dull future. Such is the fate of undergone studies …


Saint Jean Nivers

I did not yet know how everything is written, down to the smallest point, right down to the café du coin, up to Moret sur Loing and Nuillé sur Vicoin. Keep cool, take care of the tapper, old moon wrapper.

Please don’t get old. Don’t catch a cold. Don’t cross rivers like Saint Jean Nivers.another joke lost in translation : “Un singe en hiver.” The movie with Gabin and Belmondo.

Everything is written, which means everything and its opposite, every fact and its negation. So everything is canceled. Everything is written, therefore nothing is destiny, nothing is certain, nothing is readable. It’s laughable. I blow a fuse.


This article is an update of a first issue dated October 2020 titled Islands in the Sky.


“Non tutti i Corsi sono ladri, ma buona parte / Not all the Corsicans are thieves, but most of them