The Author

Ten Years After

Just ten years ago on May 24, 2011 my old friend and benefactor JeffJCl Flornoy chose to leave this world. I don’t know where he went, I don’t know if he made it to the other side, I don’t even know what he wanted after this life. “Grand Dad died like a squirrel, without a word.” (source)a schoolboy in the highlands of Correze, France, in the 1980s

The ten year rule

Ten years in the scouts together, then in the theatrical group of the friend Devic. Twenty years each on their own. Astonished reunion: he has changed so much. So much grown up. I remain forbidden. For ten years I was his apprentice. Blurs. We don’t see each other for ten years. Shortly before his departure, a bitter, unfinished, latent reunion. We only traded pre-digested. Then he left.

And here we are tonight. Ten years have passed since his departure. Five years later, his other apprentice, my best friend J-Cl Devictor alias Devic, crushes his car against the only plane tree in the area, along a deserted, straight and dry road. The warrior is responsible for everything that happens to him, they liked to say. Me too. They have chosen.

But not me. I did not choose to live without them on my own. Is the final departure light for those who leave? It is not for those who remain. On the two Jean-Claude, in a different way, I built a good part of my life path. With the memory of childhood epics, we built the future of this world in the secrecy of our hearts before we left it. Broken tired exhausted. And I carry it inside me like a wounded bird. Across the divide of the past, my dear friends are calling me. Slowly my childhood takes me by the hand, my adolescence pulls me between two reigns, my youth burns and consumes me, the heroes that we were, this brilliance that we had, finally this sorrow that I assume. The drone that knocks me out.

The worst to come

The best leave early, we hear. I, who am still here, pity you. You are going to have to put up with the worst. Console yourself, the student never chooses his teacher. It is always the teacher who chooses his pupil. Things are done without worrying, just as they come undone. At the river. Change from yesterday. Breathe deeply. Don’t forget anything. Everything is fine.

Change from yesterday. When yesterday was today, you made the most of it, didn’t you? When yesterday was today, you shit too, must be said. But today is not yesterday. And to cry, we’ll see that tomorrow. Tomorrow is the way to stay in the moment. My moment. I am alone, without projection on the face. My scene is a screen. I am not inside but in front. You too. I can see you from here. And you, do you see me? Typing on my keyboard? Nothing will be able to deflect the fear you had: it rhymes with Xavier. But that you knew.

The time for learning has slowly slipped towards that of mastery. And the robins have come. They peck and chirp in my heart of love. Each year comes a new couple, who will soon go to conquer a new garden. But gardens like mine are rare. Familiar birds know this. They flutter, they jump, they play the merry drilles, toddlers who are exhilarated in the bright sun shining. Some, few in number, will be apprentices. Will become companions. And masters perhaps, if their life lasts long enough.

The infernal trio

When I found this childhood friend, the shy Jean-Claude was dead. Jeff had taken his place. We spent several years together, Devic, Jeff and I; the infernal trio of Rochefort. Around this hard core revolved the magic wheel. It was Jeff, of course, who was the still axis. Everything took place around him to start turning. Jeff modulated the speed and intensity. (listen)

What days, what weeks! The beautiful season brought its daily stream of visitors, all attracted by the aura of the master of the house. The private village was then experiencing an animation that reflected on the other bank of the Mayenne, commune of Montflours, where a repentant pirate barely kept an inn under the sign of La Gargotte. It was a beautiful one. Goualant, enticing, bubbly. The smoky evenings were drawing to a close, when the hot croissants arrived from the bakery.

This time has fled. The palpable emotion that emanated from the estate is impossible to understand today. The magic of this corner of France has disappeared behind barbed wire. The place still exists, under a bell. The vibrating points have become inaccessible by prefectural decision. The mill which served as a hotel then spanned the river. He was shaved. The last sweatlodge crumbles and dies at the foot of le Rocher Bleu.Part of Domaine de Rochefort, Mayenne, France where we experimented the Nagual way in the 90s The campsite at the pond, by the river, is nothing but a puddle of brambles and mud. The paradise of old babas is but the one of nutria. My past is gone and forgotten by those who lived it. Those who remembered are dead. And I still dream.

Although young on earth
I’m already lonely
Among those of my season
And when I say to myself
Where are the ones your heart loves?
Sadly I look at the grass.

(listen)