Just call me SMA. Yessir! I’m a Scary Moovie Addict. Is that prohibited by law? No it’s not. But mind. Are you one of those who shudders at the sight of atrocities? Offering a highly disgusting spectacle is also a function of art. Sweeping the hidden monsters, that’s the alibi of the horror movies. The director persuades himself that his images provoke a catharsis, a cleansing where he evacuates his haunts. And the viewer does the same.
Hideous Beauty
The author says it like that. He believes in it without believing in it. Behind the camera, he loves horror to the point of vertigo. He takes a wicked pleasure in getting his gut out. Look how happy he is when he throws them in your face. You too appreciate it. Guilty pleasure. You know? These movies make a lot of money. And the many addicts don’t care about catharsis as proof by six, by nine or by thirty-two. They want to see suffering. Blood and guts all the way to the top of the screen.
Enjoyment!! The visceral attraction for the warm blood that flows from an open belly, the dark red tablecloth that stretches around a corpse that still growls. This despicable pleasure is so delightful. The more innocent the victim, the more delightful. When the horror reaches the height of the horror, one laughs at it. One has put on the boots of seven leagues of the second degree. Rest assured: – Come on, it’s for laughs, it’s comic!
Keep calm and believe it. Watch out for your own throat, so it’s not spread out on the bloody pavement.
Clairvoyance
I don’t judge, I condemn even less, who am I to do it? Justice is a dirty business that I leave to the lovers of dirt. I’m not moralizing either. From what authority would I draw the power to blame? Not having this freedom, I therefore do not praise flattering. Anyone who searches souls and hearts can neither judge nor condemn anyone. Who knows the trials, the beatings and wounds that body and soul have received, necessarily sympathetic. We suffer with those we see in their truth.
Imagine a people of seers. Knowing each other by heart, they would live in perfect harmony. Harmony reigning, how could a trouble be born? Here I am doing my Candide, when I should play Brother John of Entommures.
Jean des Entommures
“En l’abbaye estoit pour lors un moine claustrier nommé frère Jean des Entommeures, jeune, guallant, frisque, de hayt, bien à dextre, hardy, adventureux, deliberé, hault, maigre, bien fendu de gueule, bien advantagé en nez, beau despecheur d’heures, beau desbrideur de messes, Beautiful descroteur de vigiles, to tell the truth summarily, vray moyne si oncques en feut depuys que le monde moynant moyna de moynerie. As a matter of fact, cleric to the point of breviary” (François Rabelais, Gargantua, 1542)
“There was in the abbey a claustrierclotected monk named Brother John of the Beginnings, young, valiant, cheerful, very skilful, bold, adventurous, resolute, tall, thin, with a cleft mouth, an advantageous nose, a handsome prayer monger, a handsome Mass-walker, A handsome watchman, to tell the truth summarily, a true monk, if ever there had been any since the world had been less and less monkery. To the rest, scientists to the teeth in matters of breviary.”
This claustrier monk did not remain cloistered for long, since he followed Gargantua in his gargantuan adventures, which I could not prescribe reading.
Candid Candide
This philosophical tale of Voltaire has as a hero a young man, Candide, living with his uncle. He was educated there by a philosopher tutor, Pangloss, who followed Leibniz’s theory: “everything is for the best in the best of all possible worlds“. Candide agreed. But when his uncle chased him out because he kissed his cousin Cunegund, Candide changed her mind. He leaves for the unknown and goes through a series of trials before finding Pangloss and Cunegund. At the end of the tale, all three are content to “cultivate their garden” without meddling in the affairs of the world.
The end of horror
Its roots extend far into the past. Even if forgotten, this terrible past dictates our impulses. Whether we like it or not, whether we admit it or not, this frozen past creates the matrix that moves us. The motor that watches us. His statement is four words. We are descended from reptilians.
The reptile is in us. It nests in the heart of our brain, it is the brain of our heart. Its impulses under are perceptible. Even if we are not aware of it, they go up from the depths of the unconscious. They are the ones that push us towards horror, the taste of blood, murder or suicide. The dragon is violent, it tastes like blood.
All reptilians look like him. The tyrannosaurus who dismembers and beheads a tiger with sabre teeth, the primordial serpent with the jaw stretchy enough to swallow the world, its venom and its filthy slime that brings together all the filth, all the abominations by Denfert, the turpitudes, the infamies, the filth, everything that disgusts, disgusts, repels, shocks, terrifies, repels, repels, disgusts, what makes you sick, what makes you sick, what makes you hate, what makes you scandal, what makes you pretend.
Heal
It is to expel out of the body this disgusting paternity that we drink of our disgust that the horror films play down. Catharsis or outlet, this purge allows violent people not to act, against others or against themselves. Violent without violence, wolves under the skin of the lamb, sleeping beasts, harmless volcanoes that can wake up suddenly, we are all subjected to extreme pressures, impulses, passions. It’s impossible to manage them gently. Fairy tales, nice stories, love films cannot rid us of the visceral hatred that animates us, the tragic signature of our darkened era.
To heal, we need electroshock before we do it. These are horror movies. They don’t disgust us, they exonerate us. They absolve us of sins we have not committed, the bloody crimes of our distant spawners, the snakes of the stars. That’s why we like it. We have a terrible need for it.
Does this mean that those who, like me, abhor horror, are potential criminals? They too have a reptilian brain. So the horror is in them as in all the others? Since they do not see horror films, deprived of catharsis, will they act? Are they more likely to do it than the scary movie addicts? I don’t know. I have not read any studies or statistics on this issue, which is just a hypothesis. Medical science is not aware of it. You are the only ones who have the first. Make good use of it.
Aragon, son of Aragorn
I speak for twenty centuries and I take my date, sang Léo Ferré. More modest or less gifted than him, I speak only for the next century. Those who appreciate me today are far ahead of the times that only praise the poor or the pitiful.
My writings are a thread of Ariadne to which you and my thesis cling. Theseus you. Sometimes I find it hard to hold the thread of the narrative. He flies off by himself and I stay in the lurch. The story goes on without me and the author like an asshole will have to do without. And those without knowing watch her pass.Louis Aragon
The thread is gone and I let it go. There’s no point in running. We have to wait for a second thread to arrive, for the first to return or for the heart to burst. To avoid waiting, I do like Aragon.
Aragon used to pitch
His refrain in the wind
I want to sing like he did
When he wrote
At the Saint Germain café
The words took me by the hand.
In the hearth of the past
Yesterday was ending
To blacken itself
And you were asleep
May the next day come
Words took my hand
The swallow will turn
In our arms
We will make a sky of May
The day forever
Ahead of next spring
Words took my hand
Start a heart close to love
Among the smoke
The fog of icy nights
Bodies in arms
To discover the way
The words took me by the hand.
(XS, Paris, May 1967)
In these times of hate
In these times of discord, of revenge, of rapines, of destruction, in these disgusting, debilitating, debilitating times, I cry like a helpless asshole. I howl at the four winds with no hope of being heard, for hope is worthless. I brail on the contrary with the intention of being heard, of being heard, but yes.
In the face of hate, we have the antidote. It is called unconditional love. When a wise man is silent, a con says cionnel. If we’re the jerk, let’s say we’re the jerk. Do I look like a jerk? True. Am I a jerk? Possible. My goal, the only goal worthy of a hero defeated of his right, is the art of laughing about it. The burning laughter that kills to laugh and does so much good.
The solution? It’s there. Love. No effort for hate to become love, love, love. All we need is love.
The means? You know them already. Scalar wave, Dave. They’re waves for the braves. But instead of broadcasting at 9:00pm every day, we’ll try to broadcast all the time. Longer. You have time. All your time any time. If you want the wave to be more effective, lie down. Broadcast in a half sleep. Love is unique. Love is an energy without savings. While the fuel has only one meaning, love has many. It always runs. Move in love arms. Be the one you really are.
Shit, it’s about saving the world, man ! It’s no picnic. Love from above, like a dove. You have to. Yessir! You.
So here it is:
Here to everywhere, I send the request to the warriors to start emitting, now and always, the sweet chorus of love. It’s like unlocking a blocking wall. I mean to mending, repairing, rebuilding what burned: buildings, shops, public places certainly, but first restoring trust, serenity, sincere affection and true solidarity. The solution I propose is scalar waves. We can all come together to emit, broadcast and spread without respite an unconditional song of love to heal wounds and calm fears.
I am a shocking gentle. With me, half-crazy and really devastated, very fucked up old-timer, sing this endless love song. Who really does good. The way it returns from afar to flourish tomorrow and forever, finally! Can we dream? No. We must dream. To me the clairvoyants! To me the sensitives! We can do it, so do it. No question, no hesitation. To me love! Let your kingdom come!
In these times of hatred, love rains down on the wounds its beads of sweetness. Love gusts. A must. Chorus that pleases. No fake no brake. Love your brothers, your sisters. Love the fatherless, love the heartless. They lost it in battle. Love the scoundrel. More than anything, they needs you, your waves that cost nothing but give a lot. Love, it’s worth it.
Not only in the evening, 9pm is not enough. Please love in the morning, at noon, afternoon. Any time. Every day. All the way. The number of lovers will count. And the Earth magnetized by scalar love will become the sister land of your brothers. Upwards, the earth will take air instead of water. The nice air. A fair wage for your pledge. It’s up to you. Say yes. Now.
