Ordinary Madness

What others take for me is only the expression of my ordinary madness. The wizard puts himself first on the doormat of the interlocutor. He excels in dialogues. The teaching is always played with two. But experienced wizards know how to put on several doormats at a time. It’s their feast. And my cute sin.

True transmission is a unique relationship, from heart to heart, soul to soul. And hand to hand, thanks to the reiki of Erquy. It happens to two. Always. How can we teach dozens of students at a time? Report of irreversible failure of national education. To transmit is to allow another to hear his song. We only learn what we already know. To teach is to confirm. Reinsure. Reassure. You already know all that. It sleeps deep inside you. You do not go there. You know it’s there, you look elsewhere.

Madness of the wise

My role is to show you that you know. To prove to you that you can. We can all. But how many of us have dared? What do you know exactly? I will tell you. You are not the one you think you are. The false image in your mirror is that of the socially acceptable individual that others send you back. In the long run, you ended up accepting this other. The wizard, he, never accepts the costumes. He weaves his own clothes. To your measure, to your size, mesh that mesh.

Those who come to see me, not the wizard, but the benevolent host who wants to help them. This is the work of my ordinary madness. If they saw who I really am, they would be scared. If they saw who they really are, they would do the same. They would come out of them screaming in terror. We are all completely nuts, whimsical, hallucinated. But the social plane emasculates us, supposedly for our good and for that of our fellows. Humans are poultry whose wings are cut off to remove the temptation to fly.

The fool thinks himself wise, the wise man knows himself fool. (William Shakespeare)


Wild geese have their lives, flying above the clouds, gorging themselves with sun and horizon. Instead, domestic geese are force-fed to the foie gras. And you ? Who gives you? What is your funnel? It’s about you, my friend. It’s your life. You’ll have no other, I’m telling you. You let it pass like a summer pass, covered with fruit, blond gold, sand and sin. It’s your life that goes away like we go fishing, as we come back from a distance as we are wrong too. Life comes, death goes, is it vice and that?

Yes that’s what we’re going for. Friend, wake up. You have slept a long time like a hammer, anvil and sickle. Grief? Why ? Joy? Why not ? The fate of an ephemeral is less sad than one believes. He stretches, he awakes, he is already gone. But at his own pace he had a thousand adventures. He lived a hundred days, he spent a thousand years, no one knows better than him the eternity of time.

You look like him. Together, improbable associates, you will end tomorrow the reliefs of the feast. Otherwise I am a man of good sense. Lovers of nature and reputation, I like to love, I like to say oh my soul how much I want you. I am old. Yes really. But in my forties, I killed the isolation. And in my fifties I fasted so long that came my sixties with his privations. His nights without you, his empty beds, his endless days, his livid mornings.

Wisdom of the mad
And suddenly you have come, sublime. How not to love you? How to stay marble while you ignite me? Yes, I want you, my soul. In you my dart rears. The madness in all this was to live without you. I did it too long.

These words are part of the thin layer of your memory for you to remember after your death. For our bodies to live again. May your body and mine ever come together. This moment forever will last my love, this wonderful moment, this apotheosis evening, this fabulous feast where the fairies rest before the night ball. Already a thousand candles light up your palace, divine child of the Swan, darling of the gods of the sky, my only orphan. It’s raining blue. The sky is mid-gray half-sun, our hearts color of the quadruple rainbow that you pointed out the other day on the beach.

Closes the dream bed. Open your arms for me. I come again. I’m here. No, I did not hang out, the sky was so heavy and so hard to carry. I had to hide the three Fates and the three armies of the strange monarch, is it an archangel or some black demon? I did not know the name he gave me. I tremble instead of repeating the pointed syllables that show, hide and kill.

Blonde magic
Mix warm water and flour. Mix a little baking yeast in a little water, let stand a quarter of an hour. Knead the mixture with a pinch of salt. Let it swell for one hour at room temperature. Shape the dough on a floured board. Let stand an hour and a half. Wet the top of the bread. Incise. Bake 30 minutes in very hot oven. Let cool. Breaking with guests of fortune or poverty.

There are said to be two kinds of magic. I said elsewhere what I think. Huge mistake, intense galley, total nonsense, fatal absence. It is to count without the magic blonde, that which makes turn the world. Hand in hand, enjoy the bread without waiting for tomorrow. Enter the round, the magic is blonde, dance is fertile, happiness abounds on the way.

If you have escorted me all through the exordium, if my words have rocked that ear, if that heart has followed the arabesque, if that pretty foot has put on Cinderella’s slipper, sketched out the entrechat, if you have left the hotel Crillon, jumped prison box, disconnected the reason, listened to the cricket, my darling, it’s won. You know everything. Without seeming to have read in these verses how the dream operates, I made you see my heart: my ordinary madness.

There are realities that words barely scratch. May they touch them only to joy! The good wind that brings you abolishes the anathema. This is the meaning of the poem. It encloses within it 18 positions of the assembly point. Make good use of it.

 

This text was received by the author through the vacuum channeling, or lasting mental vacuum. I changed very little after proofreading. Vacuostasis is the art of emptiness – emptiness of thoughts, emptiness of feeling, mental, neuronal, sensory and affective vacuity, which allows the reception of a particular type of scalar waves, waves of love in which everything flourishes durably.

Why taking life seriously, since in any case, we never get out alive?
Alphonse Allais