To Emotion

Two loved ones reacted vigorously to my article Emotional discoveries. They say I insult the most beautiful part of life, emotion. I declare the most noble, the most gratuitous, the most disinterested thing ignoble. They bristled, calling me a fool. Out of themselves, therefore out of me.

I play against my side, it seems. I betray the cause, that of love, affection, cuddles of the heart. They called me a renegade. They are right. I fail to keep my word. I had sworn to always serve Eros and Venus, and I fell into the crude trap that the puritan Juan Matus set under my feet.


They are right. The thing surprises me all the more since it is not their habit. These two know me too well. Exactly. They are wrong on my account most of the time. It is an understatement to say that they live with me. They live in me. I have already mentioned them, these innumerable tenants, these unnamable ones who bear my name, who all take a little from me, a lot from another – or from another, as the case may be.

I like them dear tenants. But I do not listen to the bewitching voice of these portable Circe, if not reasonable. It is impossible to evoke Circe the gifted magician without showing her in her works, tempting and dangerous. Here the painter John William Waterhousesee pix gives the measure of his formidable talent. We welcome the very erotic and very subtle transparency of the veil which reveals by concealing. Well. Calm down. I close this parenthesis to return to the first one. To many parenthesis in my thesis.

I like my tenants. I learned to love them. Still, they make my life hard. These are my little tyrants. They are portable – if not reasonable. No, that one I already did. I drool, blame the old age. I have too many rags on the ground.French : loques à terre = locataires, ie tenants We are on a loop, a sign that we must move on to something else. My unspeakable attitude and my derogatory speech about emotions. Pardon me, my sweet darlings.

Why and how

Now talking about emotions casually, like talking about dirty laundry – it is degrading. I’m not saying it deserves prison, no, but hemlock or strangulation, yes. As I value my old days which are rare (how much more? I do not know) I did not accept the suggestion. All that matters to you, reader friend, is the why of the how. How could a being as sensitive as your servant have been able to slander the most noble – and most fragile – emotion? And why did he do it?

No need to cheat, I don’t know. I was the victim of bad relationships, bad readings, bad karma, bad digestion, headaches, painful periods, all the devil and his train. And I bring two essential clarifications: first, I hold the emotions – all the emotions – for a magnificent thing, one of the wonders that we can share with the animals. Second, what I wrote remains valid and true: a question of context.

The emotion is beautiful, but we don’t always take care of it. Circuits get tangled when reason gets involved. Stay yourself, as we love you. Everything will be fine, you have my word. Keep it precious, you will return it to me later. I am without question leaving for emotion.

Effusion confusion

The teen poet who lives in me claps his hands, swoons and pretends to kiss me. Do you kiss yourself? Not when you live inside.

The dreamy artist who lives on the same floor approves the poet and invites him into his room to have a drink.

The anarchist philosopher is happy too, but he woke up too late to have a drink. The other two are already far away.

The acurate psychologist does not know what to say, by the time he finds everyone is gone, even the philosopher. Even me talking to you. They force-fed me.

That’s what I wanted to tell you. Sometimes words go faster than the beating heart for words that run ahead. Disappointing. Beyond words, let’s cut. E-motion. Tee tee. What tea? Up to you. Due tea, your duty. It’s your turn to see. Don’t face back. Turn to sea.

My severed head

Most of the time my head is empty. The thinking machine stopped three or four years ago. The incessant mental speech ended, but not the comments of my fellow men. Thoughts are given to me, thoughts are taken back to me, what’s left is what really matters. The feeling.

Love. The wonder. Having been an hour, a century, witness of such marvels, helps to pass the Pas-du-Malin. We live in an era. Er. A. That’s all.

To be an hour, an hour sometimes” … (source)Jacques Brel

Me-I. A Mei period. It’s soooo Mei these days in fact. In a word as in a hundred. Starting what? Ask yourself the right questions.

I am the moved spectator of my dreams. Touched sponge – emotion is my queen. And my dreams are my masters. They taught me everything. I swallowed everything.

I am the diligent reader of masters in dreams. So good at dreaming, like putting in pictures. They are my fathers. Hugo, Franquin, Rabelais, Taniguchi, Baudelaire, Moebius, Bukowski, Edika, Tarentino, Gotlib, Zola, Loti, Pratt, Monfreid, Hergé, Jacobs, Verne, Trondheim and the others, inexhaustible, unthinkable, indispensable geniuses.

I read, I listen, I smile, I plant and I repot, I terrace, I saw, I nail, I screw, I unscrew, I screw again without end. Headless. Stubbornly sleeps outside, like old Jo. Yes, I am the headless one who persists. I wander and mystery, I always come to the right place. At the right time. Saint Chronicité watches over my steps. He constantly blesses me. He’s a good guy for a saint. He is not recognized. That’s why.

For years, I tried in vain to reach this emptiness in the head, it came suddenly. It lasts. Endless piece of space, large tranquil lake, unfathomable, protected from the violence of the wind by its setting of high mountains. Away from roads and time, the pond. He meditates. He edits me.

No merit, exercise. Constant training. A conscious letting go. A cash settlement. Then it comes, and I must say that I did not notice this enormity, the interior emptiness, the mental silence after years of heartbreaking chatter. I’ve been waiting for this for years, other years yet, and I didn’t notice when it happened.

Rest in peace, friend Jean. Your work has made this world a better place. And it continues.

The humanism of the 18th century defined human being far too narrowly: it defined him as being thinking instead of being alive.
Claude Lévi-Strauss