Just a little longer, you’ll see me. Just a little longer, you won’t see me any more. A lovely word attributed to Jesus. We only lend to the myths. When I was thirty, I too saw myself dead. I was wrong. Jesus was right. Glory to him. When you’re seventy-five, predicting your death is nothing but heartbreaking banality. Why do I say it? In the interest of the hesitant. To make them think over. Help with the decision. Please do not see any self-pity.
Death is nothing
Besides, what would I complain about? Death would come at its hour. My life so full, luck at every step, love to the end. Why this bed of roses, without thorns? What do I know? The Fates looked elsewhere when they signed my destiny. Blessed are they!
In any case, what a treat! Misfortune did not lack, nor the strength of soul to bear it. A life dedicated to selfish pleasures alone brings weariness, disgust, depression, death of the body. The soul does not recover. From early childhood, I knew that death was only a little heartbreak — especially for those who stayed. A fool’s game of mourning the deceased. Beyond the ultimate door, it continues. The door is not the ultimate door. It continues in the same fashion, questions without answers, post-existential life, the Post Office exists in heaven.
It goes on? What do I know? I’ve been there. I’m coming. The other side is full of old friends. Nietzsche, Castaneda, Jung, Plato, Moebius, Heraclitus, Aragon, Tesla, Gainsbourg, Loulou, Flornoy, Devictor … And friends in shambles, Coquelle de Srinagar, Aïnama de Passy, Pépé Charles de Foucault, Abbé Pierre and Jean Millet. They made me. It’s a fact. I owe it to them to be me. And I wander inconsolably. I look like a single jerk.
Is that the way people live? And their kisses are following them as revolved suns. (Louis Aragon)
Birthdays
Jean Millet was my philosophy teacher in Stan in ’68. Bachotage against the background of student riots. Father Millet prepared me so well, I got a 20/20 in philosophy. Which helped me to make up my mind: I will be a philosopher. Université Paris X Nanterre. Co-detainee: Daniel CohnBendit, aka Dany the Red. He was the instigator of the March 22 Movement, at the origin of the famous month of May.
Flower of May. Think about it. On May 21, 2024, I’ll be 75 — if I’m still online. May 68 will have 56 candles.
I wish the earth stops to go down. (Serge Gainsbourg)
Pastime
End of the flashback. Back to our sheep grazing the waves. I’m writing the little time I have left with you. Enjoy.
I sing to pass the time
Little that I have to live
As one draws on the frost
As we make our hearts happy
Throwing pebbles on the pond
I sing to pass the time
(Louis Aragon)
Take the opportunity to finally realize your wildest dream: meet the fool. The controlled fool. The Fool I am, I am told. This Fool hears voices. At night, in my real dreams, someone called me throughout the month of July. It was an appointment request, something like that. Not quite a cry for help, but the request was very insistent. It is still impossible for me to say whether it is a woman or a man, an adult or a child. One thing for sure, it came from a human being. Not an Archon or such entity.
I call it X
I don’t know who it is, I don’t know why, I don’t know his request, but there is one, I’m sure. Some nights I wake up with the unfortunate impression of coming out of a fading dream. The frustrating impression that the unknown (e) and I were discussing calmly with face uncovered but the image is already blurred. As soon as it opened, the door closed. It was never sharper than that. Largely insufficient to give the start of a beginning of an introduction.
In mid-August, I decided to post an article to suggest that X make contact with me in the boring real world. Astral Contact. Before reading it, two candidates for the initiatory internship had come forward. Same gender, same age, same name. Apart from these commonalities, they don’t know each other. Yet I was sure the night call came from one of them. Or both. From then on, the insistent demonstrations ceased.
The two interns did not admit to being the perpetrators of these calls. Maybe they want to keep it secret. Maybe they know each other? Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps… And then, suddenly, the astral calls resume again. I’m very clear: neither of the two interns is the author. I know them well enough now, I’m sure it’s someone else. Perhaps a woman? Perhaps the trail of a new mystery? A discovery as I like them?
All of these maybe make me dizzy. Too bad for discretion, I came out of the shadows right away. Hence this article. Whoever you are, make yourself known here and now. If we are to meet, it may as well be in my lifetime.
Only you know
Why meet me? The urgency does not explain everything. My donations do the rest. I received the power to help through healing, energy rebalancing (Erquy’s reiki) and awakening. I am the one who transmits the mysterious equation of Arcanum XV, the opening of the first six chakras. Then comes the unconditional fusion of the Tower, the awakening to the Self.
If you come to me undecided, shrouded in the mists of your distant country, if you’re ready — you know it. Don’t ruin the opening I’m offering you. You’re holding your lucky cubic centimeter in your hand. That’s enough. Grab it. You know what they say about the freedom bird.
The bird of freedom flies in a straight line and never stops. (Carlos Castaneda)
Free man
Free man, you will always cherish the sea. It is at the end of the road. The tar sinks into the fine sand. Impossible to go further. The sea blocks the dune, the wave, the horizon. I stopped on the strike where it all began.
The loop brings me back to my childhood desires. Erquy as a promise. The house, the garden, old memories that lined my sick bed. Old fool, I came to die, I lived. Asleep, disgusted with everything, I almost passed through. The Archon had woven his web with malice. At this game he excels.
And here we are tonight. I don’t know who you are. Never mind. I’m waiting for you.
Man and the Sea
Free man, you will always cherish the sea!
The sea is your mirror; you contemplate your soul
In the infinite unrolling of its billows;
Your mind is an abyss that is no less bitter.
You like to plunge into the bosom of your image;
You embrace it with eyes and arms, and your heart
Is distracted at times from its own clamoring
By the sound of this plaint, wild and untamable.
Both of you are gloomy and reticent:
Man, no one has sounded the depths of your being;
O Sea, no person knows your most hidden riches,
So zealously do you keep your secrets!
Yet for countless ages you have fought each other
Without pity, without remorse,
So fiercely do you love carnage and death,
O eternal fighters, implacable brothers!
Charles BaudelaireTranslate by William Aggeler, The Flowers of Evil (Fresno, CA: Academy Library Guild, 1954)
