Suddenly he comes back, hand in hand, more alone than a dog, at the corner of the boulevard and in the small street. He is no longer, it was seen. But here he is again, Kashtabalda. He left me notes. A kind of logbook. Bad day first. More stupid than the memories of an ass. Thicker than a tax book. We’re not done. So much the worse. Kishtibildi.
It started a long time ago. It goes back to the time when he was called, not Patate yet, but Jean from there. His real life was not believed. Who believes him? Not me. Uncle Congo knew him at the time. What he claims! We called him Ficelle, the young Potato. And not Jean from there my balls. Uncle speaks badly, but he talks well.
He gave me the papers String, with a string around the bundle that does not disgusting. It’s typed by machine, an archaic one-ton, all black with touches that are mercilessly hammered. I used to collect them as a child. An antique Underwood. And it makes me doubt. I don’t see my favorite bum typing. Almost no mistake! He was barely reading. It’s the mystery String – Old Potato – Gueugueu – Jean de là – Kashtabalda. We won’t know.
Maybe Uncle Crook put all this. Possible. He’s dead now. Ficelle too. Impossible to be sure. They will not sign these papers, neither one nor the other. If they do not protest more than that, I’ll sign them. And I assume. The bundle is made of notebooks of about ten pages each. Some are longer. Others are not. A staple at the top left corner. It’s rusty. So it’s dated. It doesn’t give me the author, but it’s already there. There is no title, none, nowhere. Sometimes a date, February 13; July 24, or this one that smells of nonsense: 134 April! But never the year. Guess …
I said there are no titles, that’s wrong. No Underwood typed titles, for sure. But sometimes, at random, a title written by hand. It’s Tonton’s handwriting, I’m sure. I’d put my hand in his mouth. Never seen the writing of La Vieille Patate and for good reason: he never wrote. Something else: it starts at the end. These songs, there is music with. It’s Uncle That. Signed Kashtabalda.
I have people I have friends
Throughout France
I can’t remember one
Paris so far when travelling in Provence
There must be two or three around reminding me
Get out of jail just to enter — the hospital
Before my eyes are moving things — not normal
But those who kept their balance in my rink
They offered me the shot to drink
The dog is dead
Not going strong my head.
I have people I have friends
Throughout France
Of which I have no news
It’s the ransom of my continuous errance
Must be two or three
They could remember me
A bloody wind blows again
In my brain
I suck the last I suk the past
In my glass
To those who kept their balance in my rink
I’ll drink without a drop to drink
The dog is dead
Not going strong my head.
I’ve met nine people or ten
The more I think about them
The less I can recall
Doc said I need to rest until the fall
Must be around some pal to come and pass the ball
He didn’t want me to smoke, I didn’t drink much
You should have stayed down but not thought of the dog
But the funniest thing to remember
I have lost the taste of drinking
(Songs of Kasta)
Crazy Lily had a house on white hill
Crazy Lily had a home I’d spend Sundays there
In the paths taken my gray hair wet with rain
My obsessions were called Crazy Lily
Lily loves me Crazy Lily is in my bed
Lily the Crazy sang songs to think I tremble
Crazy Lily sang songs we sang together
In the paths taken my gray hair wet with rain
I hear the wind whispering to me Crazy Lily
Lily loves me Crazy Lily is in my bed
Lily the Crazy is me sweet illusion to memory
Crazy Lily flew over the sea to drink
In the paths taken my gray hair wet with rain
The wood branch pointed to Crazy Lily
Lily loves me Crazy Lily is in my bed
Crazy Lily followed my last procession
And for shroud in the deep hole she sowed snow
In my white vault becoming a little child again
The cross nails me all against you Lily the Mad
Lily loves me Crazy Lily is in my bed
(Songs of Kashta)
Village besides the windy bed
Named after Martigues
Almost alive and nearly dead
In the season of figs
Nothing better
Than big summer
Of sunny skies and sand
Keep on refusing charity
Of little fairy
Ant
There are forty,
Once they were three
One woman and two men
They got a king they got a pope
Martigues has hands to lend
Nothing better
Than big summer
Of sunny skies and sand
Keep on refusing charity
Of little fairy
Ant
November took
Their stock of food
The winter could not pass
There’s not a sheep, there’s no smartass
In the prairie, no grass
Nothing better
Than big summer
Of sunny skies and sand
Keep on refusing charity
Of little fairy
Ant
In the open
We live on sun
Don’t even need some tent
In the grey winds
Of cold evenings
Martigues was making Lent
Nothing better
Than big summer
Of sunny skies and sand
Keep on refusing charity
Of little fairy
Ant
No bread no cred
Village is dead
Waiting for no mirage
The dead winter
Comes to cover
Ashes of a village
Nothing better
Than big summer
Of sunny skies and sand
Keep on refusing charity
Of little fairy
Ant
(Songs of Kashta)
Coda: to the chorus.
A symbol suggests, while an image directly shows what it is. What does caduceus show?
They come from literature, comics, pop, what runs, which vibrates and makes grow.
Their movement allows life, their opening means clarity, their strength is awakening.
The Templars had given Columbus a map of America and the ocean road of Alizees