Jacques Said


I, Enoch, found the little child that I was, that I am still and that I will always be. A thousand lives of thousand years did not teach me anything that I did not know before I was born. The countless encounters I have made have not been discoveries. We know everything before we learn, we live our lives upside down. I do not go to my death, but to rebirth.

You want to know the details of my adventure in these changing places, you will know everything, I am committed to it. Shortly before my arrival, the chronoscaphe disappeared. My companions too. I was alone. I walked in the middle of a great plain towards a distant horizon where the silhouette of a gigantic temple emerged from the blue haze. This temple I had often seen in my dreams, but never so close and real. Its big crystal dome shone under the rising sun. I walked for a long time with a quick step. At the sunset, the temple has not came closer. I have never reached it.

Do we ever achieve something? We walk blindly in a mechanical corridor that scrolls under our feet. We never go anywhere other than where we already are. I was in the desert for too long, here, there, there … And before me, in place of the temple that had evaporated, a man in white was sitting. He greeted me with a big smile and these enigmatic words: “It has been a long time since we had a prophet in the valley. Sit by the fire, Master Enoch. Then I saw the embers fire at my feet. A shisha found in my hands without me understanding anything. The decor had changed. I was in the enclosure of a castle dominating a river which snaked in a mountainous and green nature. I was told it was the Seine river in France.

How did this man in white know my name? Did he have the same powers as the Goddess? Could he read minds? I was going to shoot my shisha when he gently took it off my hands. “You’re too young to smoke, boy,” he laughs. I was now in a boudoir with walls covered with thick hangings. A large guilloché mirror faced me. The reflection he referred to me was that of a young boy on the threshold of puberty.

– Enoch !! Gee wheez ! YOU are the virgin!! I exclaimed, unable to hold my hilarity any longer. Decidedly, I hallucinate grave!
– That’s it ? Calm you down! growled Enoch. How old are you ?! Do not confuse the roles. The virgin is you. Do not mess things up, they are pretty complicated already, do not add confusion to the implausible.



While we exchange these friendly words, the decor and the time have changed ten times. A hundred times maybe. I find it more and more difficult to follow the spatio-temporal movements of old Enoch. Besides, he changed too. Here he is in the body of a young boy. No kidding ? He is living what he tells me!
Yes, and it could well happen to you too. Look at you. He hands me his smartphone where I see myself wincing with laughter, barely 12 years old.
– Where do you get this picture? I have never seen it …
No chance! I just took it right now. You do not believe me ? Check in this mirror.

He hands me an old handsome face of fascinating beauty. Venetian work. The beveled glass is set in a bronze handle adorned with sphinges and chimeras. It is true. I’m 12 years old. It leaves me indifferent. The folds of time erase wrinkles, I thought immediately. I laughed.
– It made me laugh too at first, grumbles the old Enoch pulling loudly on his shisha. Now it pisses me off. We can not get out of this temporal maelstrom. I noticed it and the man in white confirmed it to me. He calls himself a knight. On his tunic spread a blood red cross. The same cross adorns his white coat. He belongs to a warrior order of which he is the founder. This order has a double existence. In the world, it was created in the Middle Ages to help the Christ Emperor reclaim the Roman province of Palestine. But on the astral plane, the knights crossed are the guardians of the folds of time. That’s why they’re called the Knights of Time Folded.French: Templiers = temps plié (lost in translation)

In the world, the Knights Templar built mausoleums for Christ Emperor Constantine. They are cathedrals, churches or basilicas. Basilica comes from the Greek basileus, which means the emperor. The cathedrals, from the Latin cathedra, the chair, are literally thrones of the emperor. And then their Order was dissolved.

The last Grand Master was burned alive on a pyre of vanities. His name is Jacques, Jacques de Molay. Now he is the Guardian. He keeps the folds of time. These folds are doors, all doors are closed. The Guardian is watching. Only one door will lead us out. But where is it? Where does it lead? Should we cross it, never to return? Jacques de Molay knows where the damn door is. If he speaks, the door opens. Like a dream. Like a game. Jacques said: open up! It seems so simple. It’s not.

He will not say anything. Neither you nor I have the right to be here. The folds of time are reserved for the great of this world and others. I search in vain for the trace of the one I love. The Goddess is not here, she is everywhere. It is as if she had never existed, she who is the past, the future and the eternal present. Here, it goes in all directions and senses. Hearing, smell, sight, taste, touch. Especially the touch. I’ll never forget the softness of the skin, its texture, its melting under the fingers, the thousand sensations it awakens in me. The Goddess is in the palm of my palms, she is at the end of my fingers. I caress her every moment. Pleasure is consumed as a souvenir too. This pleasure is never finished.”



What a fucking fake! I have spent fifteen fucking minutes in the vortex of undecided times and places, sharpening my intention not to lose Enoch the deceitful. This psychopathic acrobat is an eel that slips through my fingers, sneaks in all folds and scrolls over time. I was going to complain, he interrupted me with a gesture, as if reading in my thoughts:
You are not the one who follow me everywhere. It’s not me who passes me. We are both in the hands of more powerful one than us. We are both pitiful puppets. Jacques pulls the strings. It’s his role that he plays perfectly.

No doubt, he reads in my thoughts! Enoch, great Enoch, would you have found your master Jacques? Well, I stop the fees. I will stop struggling, let myself sink in the depths of time, do nothing, release the movement, no longer force, no longer push, no longer …

No longer live? That’s what you’re waiting for if you block Jacques. He does not like it at all. Try, you will see that the door of death is wide open.
I understand. He is right about the Multifold. It’s pretty boring. Enoch is the king of temporal paradox, his chronoscaphe adventure has amply shown. All the same, the absence of faults seems impossible. There is surely a way to deceive the vigilance of this Jacques de malheur.Jacques of misfortune

De malheur?Of misfortune? Say rather: de Molay! Jacques de Molay, to serve you! You will not deceive anything that is worth it, especially not my vigilance!
The one who has just spoken is a tall fellow with a beard as white as his dress. I recognize him from his portaits, it’s him. Jacques de Molay, the last great master of the Temple, standing in front of me! I can not believe it ! But where does he come from, the guy?

Where do I go from? he answers. I am here at home. You are intruders, let’s say you are my guests.

I have my slap of all those gays who read the thoughts. We are no longer at home. Enoch, hilarious, removes from his beak that of his shisha.
Presentations are useless, he says, but I do them anyway. Messire de Molay, Knight of the Temple. Mr. Séguin, commoner.
– Call me Xavier. Mr. Séguin was my father.
You are a very young man, says Molay with a smile.
Shut up, then, big Jacques, sang Enoch, drunk-laughing.

Jacques de Molay hands me the mirror. Gee! I’m barely 8! All this bullshit will lead me to the cradle!
Do not count on me to change your diapers, says Enoch on the edge of syncope.
Welllglom Blllack! approves the great Jacques. Oh no, he does not approve, I think he strangles with the hookah of Enoch. Jacques said: Welcome back! He stammered a bit because of the shisha, but I’m sure he said: Welcome back !!! How heavy! I hate his humor.

I need to take a few steps to stretch my legs and change my mind. It is absolutely necessary that I leave this fucking trap. Call a friend? I kept my smartphone. And I get network! Do not even try to understand. There is network all right, but there is no one left behind. Where did they go now? These fucking fools are a pain in the ass!


A mocking blackbird landed on my sleeve. I’m 6 years old. I smiled at the nice blackbird under the vanilla sun of an arbor of palms. The weather is nice. How will this silly story end? Mystery thickens. Enoch and Molay flew away, I have network, I don’t get a thing out of this mess. Now I’m downloading this article on Eden Saga …Maybe my last words?

This world is wonderful. I kiss you, my darlings. Try to be happy.


Innumerable are our ways and our uncertain residences.
St John Perse