I got a bird that whistles, I got a bird that sings. Maybe she’s talking to me too? Just to fill my long loneliness. Waiting. Maybe I’m making it up? I had a dream. Maybe. Dreams are a fog coat on the shoulders of the shadow. But the reality is even less palpable. My bird was talking to me. Dream or not? I don’t know. Here’s what he told me.
You and your brothers radiate fear, mistrust, indifference, disinterest, disgust, contempt… You constantly distill the total, absolute, hegemonic misunderstanding of everything that is not like you. But you’re all different. So it’s a mess. I know why you don’t understand. We all communicate in the vast universe. Yes, all. But not you. You are constantly moving. You do not receive. Nib, skin of zeb, that nothing! And that is not nothing.
Without knowing it, your race transgresses one of the four fundamental laws of the Living, the Four Ways of Loving — which you don’t seem to know. One wonders how you do it? This law is entirely based on alternation and rhythm. It is b. a. ba. It is practiced as follows: aab, bbb, abab… What gives: issue, issue, receive — receive, receive, receive — issue, receive, issue, receive… It’s called communicating. You just broadcast. It doesn’t work that way. All living people communicate. Without this law, life stops. That’s the second way to love. All multiverse works like this. Except you.
This does not prevent me from worshipping you. From idolizing you. Cherish. Observe. Appreciate. I even delight in your tares, however serious. Often harsh. You are not open. Without opening, you are dead. You are living dead. Zombies. Ghosts. Avatars. Golems. You live in a different world. You put me in a cage, but you are the prisoner. You walk your cage with you, a prisoner of yourself. The bars of the cage are indifference, fear, distrust, disinterest, contempt, disgust, total misunderstanding. These bars are solid, you forged them for this.
Tell me the truth, Xavier. Aren’t you tired, super tired, super tired? What are you saying? Are you used to it? A thousand gods, you’re so cute!
Of the foliage
I’m not so bad at home, fed, housed… The beautiful residence you gave me! There’s height. Not enough, but it’s okay. Same for the square. Like your ideas, my cage is narrow. But the spectacle compensates. I see them all day long, your human friends. The big ones, the big ones, the ratchos, the ugly ones, the sucky ones, the tromblons, the stupid ones and their assholes. I also laugh, asshole that I am. You’re all twisted. Touching. Thawing, deburring and so lame.
The gods are crazy. When we think that the full powers on Terra have been entrusted to a race that does not understand the universal language! A thousand gods, do you have the lullue? On this one, you screwed up. It’s going to be hard to fix. You’ll have to. The Earth is only a grain of sand on a galaxy-wide scale. An unfortunate grain of sand. Yes, but it only takes a grain of sand to deregulate the most beautiful mechanism. Make amends quickly, it’s a friendly tip. Before a heavenly body falls on your face. A big sick body to eradicate the human species. A kind of asshole.
You feed me pretty well. The coolest thing: no effort to find my bectance. The seeds are rancid, the fruits are not wheezy, but they are eaten. And it shits straight. Ploc! I get fucked when the audience is gone. Without my twisting show, I detonate, I relax, I disgust myself. You send me the white coat that listens to my feathers and gives me dope in my bowl. I like dope. She’s not as good as the one we find outside, the wild one we suck out of the foliage.
Go ahead, Xavier
Human friends, near and far, I know you all too well. From morning to night and from night to morning, I have observed all of you so well that I could turn it into a big book. But who would read that nowadays? I prefer the web, it can be read. So you think, when I found the Séguin guy who understood my language, I asked him to transcribe what you read in the only language you’re interfering with: yours. And again, not all.
Each country has its own, each speaks its own language. And the transmission of thought? You must have known it in time, a long time ago. Knowing that you are, you have not found it. What pity! Then you translate. To try to understand yourself, you have to switch from one language to another by accumulating errors, ineptitude, misinterpretations. But I love you as you are.
You speak the universal language fluently. But you move all the time. How do you want to be answered? Everything around you dreams of exchanging with you. But you move, you move like everyone else, believing that you don’t know how to receive. So I imagined this wall of fog. When you wake up, you won’t believe it. You’ll think I dreamed. Your lives, all of you humans, are locked in the shell of a dream. If you knew. If you Xavier! But no, you don’t know what to say, what to say. It’s the language of the masters.
Masters of whom? Masters of what? You who are not masters of yourselves, who do you want to serve you? So don’t blame me if I use you. You promised me to tell the fundamentals of the living. It’s important. Everybody knows that. Your turn. It’s about time. Go ahead, Xavier.
The Four Ways to Love
or the foundations of the Living
What can I add to that? Birds are not assholes.