Of the one who defeated a thousand times thousand men in the battle and of the one who defeated himself, the latter is the greatest victor, said Buddha. The impeccable warrior overcomes himself twenty times a day. Ceaseless fight until the ultimate victory. So the undressed king kneels down on his gown.
Don’t tell me what to do, first tell me why I’m here, says the apostle. I don’t know what the hell, the postman answers. Which proves it. Yes, but me. Still. I never know what to do, how could I have guessed? Why didn’t you tell me? And what the hell are we doing here? Fuck!
Rhythm the words, they will return it to you, said the grater who is not afraid to grate day and night in his old grated overcoat with no coat under. I never had the slightest intention of slaying a thousand thousand enemies, or even a thousand enemies, or even a single enemy. I have no enemy, have I? Enemies are made for the riches, the chiches, the breeches, the quiches. Niche market. Full of tits. You’re shown off and plainly visible. Horrible. Fuck the hair. You don’t care.
The dethroned king cuts his head to know the Way. Lao Tzu said it, Didi repeated it. (source)The blue lotus by Hergé I do chorus. The head is too heavy a burden for those who want to reach the Ocean of Tranquility. The infinite serenity of the non-thought. The delight of the mental emptiness. The end of the ego. Trying to achieve it, I spent my life there. I didn’t know what I was looking for. Now I know. It all makes sense, and that’s good. I’m human, just human — or more human. And less than nothing is badly good. Can do better. Try harder.
I teach you the Superhuman. Man exists only to be surpassed. What have you done to surpass him?
Funny Frederick!Nietzsche, who else? So first degree. So fucking German. So If we were mice, he would be a supergerbil. Like Mickey Famous Mouse. The grandiose amidst the banal. The vital impulse. The call from above to the insane druidic thought, and madness at all. Although the madness is long, too long and too solitary. It is made for the strong that lightning did not kill.
Anything that doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.
You realize, life, death, the whole mess! At your fingertips. Right now, not tomorrow! But what? I don’t want to die, do you rebel. Useless, you will still die. You should not want to live. You didn’t ask for anything? What do you believe! You tickled for an eternity to come down. Send me back down! I want to go back! Send me back to meee eee eee! (mind)I have the names of those who laugh!
We gave in, we finally sent you back. It’s human. It’s divine as well. You can’t help it, we’re in the same bath. Created in our image, the human. It’s your destiny. Hold it, it makes me think of something funny, they say it’s inhuman, but they don’t say it’s indivin. And yet! In this respect too, they are our masters.
The mastery that counts is that of yourself. Your victory is awakening. You made the one with the multiple. You killed the old Adam. In you awakens a world that demands only to live. It was necessary your victory. From an intimate element, innocuous in the eyes of the world, here comes the cog of the Great Whole, the god of the machine, the miracle of the technique, the wink of the accessoirist, the tinkering, in the stride, in the tempo, and the room appreciates.
Bravos in the eye you return to the hard day’s work. Warrior by day, fun at night. Sailor bored him, warrior always. The nice deal. Well done. No grapes on the pavement. Nobody hurt. None of the guys. Result. No damage. I like that.
But now, think of something else, sing me life in pink and take me if you dare. The keum was morose and did not like poses. It has faded the rose. The parenthesis is closed, out of context and without cause.
“If there are fatwas, verbal killings that result in effective killing against all those who express themselves by thought or drawing, I have never heard of fatwas against the murderers in the name of Islam. And that is unacceptable.” Georges Kiejman, Charlie Hebdo’s lawyer.
It’s about your life. What will you do with it? Yes, you want to try everything that tempts you. There’s an age for that. Beyond that age, the warrior knows himself. He aspires to control himself. He feels ready.
He wants to follow in the footsteps of his peers, Crusader knights, marked in the heart with the cross sign — not the Christ’s cross but the shape of the forgotten mother spaceship Hyperborea. The great elders show him the way.
In those uncertain times when nothing looked like nothing, you doubted. You got it right. You found your way, you followed it. The path that has heart has brought you here. No matter the trials, only the result counts. You are no longer the same. Your heart is open. You are able to love. You watch and marvel. You understand that there is nothing to understand. Learn to live headless, following the impulses and suggestions of your ignored body. Your forgotten body. Lost in the past. Broken. Tired. Torn. Crushed. Brewed. Rid.
There is a place far from everything, up there, where no one goes. The path is arduous, hilly, stressful. Fear at your side. Emptiness at your feet. The vertical climb. The cliff. The overhangs.
There is an inaccessible place, all of prayer and rest, where never has the hand of man put the nail of a foot. I was lucky to find it, but no, luck has nothing to do with it. The gods showed me. The luck I have!
In this place known to me alone, I take pleasure in being, which becomes Being and penetrates oneself forever. In this place I flow from the happy days to the sweet sun of eternity. Once upon now Saturn the Time is in my eyes, I give him back his Mona Lisa smile.
Dance, warrior. The trance is your mother. Swing your behind. Begin your prayer. Sweet bitter. The more you think about it, the more the stridence offends the silence. Tilt your luck. France your dance. It is sometimes enough for a little, a shadow, a chorus, an unknown glance at the bend of the road, the eye that follows you from a distance, a hand movement that tells you to see tomorrow and you stay in the morning on your thirst, on your hunger. In the middle in a corner. Come back. He no longer waits for you but follows your way. He takes you by the hand. He sings and you are good. Run your chance. Go to your dance. he must die tomorrow.
“Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin.” (listen)
All my life I spend praying. It is the only state that fills my soul and when I am filled I feel myself completely immersed in bliss. All my life I spend it motionless, my mind stabile away from the stupid mind, you feel my skillful hands massaging your nubile skin. Effusion! I rejoice.
“Yes. I spend my days and nights there. While I am able to live in this world of misery and sorrow. Ubiquitous. Ambiguity. Bilocation. Dislocation. I speak not for myself but for them all. Woe and grief, suffering and spitting. Every turn. Every day. Always.”
If I did not have this permanent refuge where to isolate myself, the pressure of these wounded souls would be too strong and I fear my ego. A strong return of the egotic hiders remains possible at all stages of inner development, I’ve learnt it the hard way. My benefactor lost his powers, his health and life in such a trap.
Warrior pay attention. Awakening is a door that opens to the unknown. Only the door. Discoveries are yet to come. The final victory over yourself is not complete: it begins. Soon I will show you who you are, renewed being just after a bright awakening — I haven’t ever heard of a dull one. Here you are, Totally different and yet more than ever yourself, the one you’re designed to be. You are yours. You belong to yourself plainly and completely. You hold back. You hold on. You hold on to yourself. Smart guy. Tough girl.
Tomorrow you will have to manage your body which so far has managed itself. Remember this fact : the arrival of powers is the brutal influx of responsibilities. You got to face it once for all and cope with it. See the first result. Enjoy. Your energy pattern is cleaned at least. Sushumna, ida and pingalaInterlaced side channels sweeping can begin.
It will be your first job, although you do not know where to start, the work is done with your breath, with your blood, with your digestion, your diet, your sleep. The purity of your inner temple has always been your responsibility. Are you aware of this now?
Your job is based on the words you just read. But I can help you more by detailing and undressing him. The strip is mine, thirty years behind. For me it is yesterday. So near if not next. This introspection will continue in a new article entitled: YOU ARE THAT.
We are dealing with two Christianisms in Britain, the British and the Celts.
This large carved stone poses a host of questions to which I will try to…
"Pharaonic Egypt is an African civilization, developed in Africa by Africans":
"I have raised women! I have dared flames!" (Cahiers Ficelle, unpublished)