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cognitive dissident

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[05 Dec 2010|12:57am]
‎"I have always been abstract". Abs- tractus: drawn away from form, isolating one part from the whole lot. But what is not form? I have been dividing, extracting, cutting off ("the extension is abstraction of the extended substance" (my own translation of Leibniz). Then a synonym of "distraction" 17th C. I certainly missed some things I am catching up with/ No wonder some won't relate.
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[28 Nov 2009|08:10pm]
Time got lost somewhere. New York is a cryogenic pyramid. Keep beating like chaotic youth.
Then sometimes I run into people from years ago : but they seem to show distance to themselves. I wonder why?

So someone using Poupsika tweeted me mean rubbish. I wonder why? What a loss of time.

I have no idea who's here now.
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aufklarung [26 Sep 2008|09:27pm]
I obsoletely must have faith (an act) in the universals. How still?
And my search for the sublime... all kantian and platonician inheritance from Monsieur Benoist, l'initiateur.
Is there a game in my seeking for sublime, and encountering it, the renewed assertion of my faith in reason, the favor I give to the noumenal. I illustrate the inadequacy between imagination and reason myself, seeking for another mean now. Permanent development of our faculties, I loathe to make choices. One thing is sure, I shouldn't apply to myself/my creative process or own sensitive experience the analytic discourse. I do it though. Again, another limit-field: phenomenology. And how back then I couldn't end my written sentences (one re-seized opening flow of perceptive experience... limit of the structure of the analytic discourse/ inachieved delivering datas ) and ended up speaking like I wrote... wasn't I fun in parties...
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La cosa mentale [22 Sep 2008|07:32pm]
I walk in familiar streets, Paris this time, boulevard st Germain, a sunday fall sun. I see famous writers and actors, I get Kenzaburo Oe and Deleuze Critique et Clinique at la Hune. I pursue to le jardin du Luxembourg, a funny group of men clung around chessboards. I try to collect images and impressions, but... it all projects itself on a screen of mist. Impressions more vague than they are, spaces between colours which are not shades, confusion- diffusion... I am haunting. Not my past but the present that doesn't vivify the ancient, doesn't send new signals to ended parts. All in suspension, with me, adrift. Not even focused enough to find it uncomfortable or bizarre. Ghosts- different modes of being.
I saw my kinesiologist again today... I cannot repeat a simple sentence about seeking serenity in union. I see two horizontal blades of metal like a magnet, a vibraphone... and as my feet/channels are localized i simply see I never stood up on my legs but am horizontally lying above the ground... not on this table... just generally. He takes in with no surprise that I go about things, living, in such posture. Not rooted, in reality. Not in phase at all with the world and others. The intimate image I gave he addresses as both a symbol and a reality. I found a way to outcome the inadequacy of that posture (i lie down when all is standing, i stand when the other is lying down) it is to express everything essentially , connecting directly on an energetic level (different terminologies, i accept energy as in physics, then it does rejoin ontology and the atomist spirituality of buddhism f.i; the alpha and omega, the constant and the change; the general category for what makes the being be.)
Now the excess coming from instability, inability to connect without compensating (because of my reversed world/me), I express in a style of conversation that I recently identified as delusive. I sadly have misled myself and burnt out this time. Because I can only be myself n the distance, because of not being in phase. Which has nothing to do with social difficulties with others, nothing to do with psychology. It is the whole world/ a cosmos you made yours you live in and carry about. The instability manifested when encountering others world was induced by the fragility of my own construction (floating about in ideality/not taking in circumstantial elements etc). Inducing the temptation to reject the physical element. Again. Being ethereal.
So he tweaked that. I didn't want as well as was awaiting it. Then for a second I left everything, like fainting but being conscious. He shook me off and I cried because that state was actually pleasant... it was just the other world, limbos etc. It felt like a release. Being, perceiving all but absolutely detached, probably disembodied for a second. My hand got limp and he saw my face losing all colours. I connected back. Then shaken and flushed.
I confused what music indicated of deep affinity ( how to define the ipseity, the essence belonging to a being itself, if not through a certain harmonic: a set of scales and gaps and the sequences that move it... that expresses and resumes past and future, all given and intentions) and everything else.
But through this i found out how only music can represent this for me. That song you made, I made... letting everything of mine fall into that moment produced by all of the world then. Strangely, I wouldn't change a note to it. I used to interrupt every sequence, sending it back to itself for its inadequacy. No more. What a wonderful way to capture and be.
This is how seasong is for me. Vital. Witness of an acquainted world I hold.
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Fascination, from latin fascinare, to enchant. [10 Sep 2008|01:34am]
The only one... whose pieces I would have given my voice to.
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"a girl i used to know" [09 Sep 2008|09:07pm]
"Il a su tenter une jeune fille a l'aide de ses dons spirituels, il a su l'attirer vers lui sans se soucier de la posseder, au sens le plus strict... Je peux me figurer qu'il savait amener une jeune fille au point culminant ou il etait sur qu'elle sacrifierait tout pour lui. Mais les choses ayant ete poussees jusque la, il rompait, sans que de son cote, les moindres assiduites aient eu lieu, sans qu'un mot d'amour ait ete prononce, et encore moins une declaration d'amour, une promesse. Et pourtant une impression avait ete creee, et la malheureuse en gardait doublement l'amertume, parce qu'elle n'avait rien sur quoi s'appuyer(...) She could only be constantly tossed about by the most divergent moods in a terrible witche's dance, at one moment reproaching herself, forgiving him, at another reproaching him, and then, since the relationship would only have been actual in a figurative sense, she would constantly have to contend with the doubt that the whole thing might have been imagination."
S.Kierkegaard, Le Journal du seducteur.

point of rupture was reached, where we stood at the closest.
I am the eternal maiden... so light and indecisive, ready to flare up, be captivated. Flying there. And really... noone believes me when, after being misunderstood, I have to rectify that really I do not know that I am seeking for something from someone. Because I am not: someone doesn't exist, and I don't know what I want from anybody but there he was... That one, the only one I wouldnt' want to expect anything from, but who has everything and with the sense of its worth wouldn't disperse it to the unworthy. Each of us recognized and chosen. Despite a great rigueur. But was I wrong if it led to a volte-face. The terrible beauty of the sharp. Bringing softness in me. I am offering my side to truth. I trust, I love intelligence more than trust and love. I wear on my left hand a roman Athena crowning... I am the one who makes sacred. The recognition of greatness sings the choir. Listen. I am losing myself again. The girl is a being want to be small and smaller. With a great and greater sense of the rare. Inspiring awe. My heart threatened built a castle. A kingdom to be. A wider splendor. For an ideal found between two.
I am a mystique then?
Nothing is real I breathe nothing. I sit on an ideal chair. I create a divinity to fly with and fly. All this state I created for myself... scarce encouraged? No... I slowly was turning to him, rising, appearing, confirmed through correspondances and affinities. Why alone now I only hold an impression.
And I know I shan't be distracted now. But concentrate, now that I start to find confidence in my own creation. Cease to be a child, gazing through time. My vision can't be seen yet. Now is the time. Come on.
A monastery in Scotland. Simple bedrooms smelling wood. A choir. Outside, drizzly green hills and the sense of being close to the shore.
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london 8 [04 Sep 2008|11:13pm]
the summer was spent recovering at home in Paris: 7 weeks lying in bed. Then somehow, still in pain and wobbly on my legs I just hop across the channel to experiment to collaborate with an unknown band... whimsical? foolish bravoury?
First, play with complete strangers: that in itself meant a complete revolution of the way i went about music before. Doing it built confidence/ my music to be appreciated by itself. Then their music I could relate to... because as a matter of fact it did show similarities to other existent bands I feel close to what i carry myself musically.
So did I get deluded by an ersatz, a mirage of ... ? I didnt mind the obvious similarity since it also carried signs of insufficiency, a call for completion by something heterogenous, that i could give and was allowed to. So it was instructive in the way that I found out the resource of my own ability to orientate an instrumental piece that by itself was lacking personality... sounding incomplete because inhabited... because it is music coming from music heard/ duplicated process/what's in the air at the moment ; music coming from skill full people who would be subconsciously manipulated by references when you have to be subconsciously manipulating them...
I liked finding how i could hijack pieces, just by impressing a harmonic direction that they didn't contain. Completely opening a way by an arpeggio and a vocal line. What was mostly instructive (this revealing the scale of my doubting and of the unawareness of what is special that i carry) was to find out it was imposing itself without effort. Also for the first time, I could hear myself, feel safe and strong in my own vocal presence. To the extent that even in the most chaotic circumstances (that show when all that could predictably go wrong went wrong... technically and sound wise) my voice was a guide to me. Had it been accapella, it was just the same for me. During that pretty terrible show, which on top was my first (playing with strangers, after only a few sessions, and actually first ever...) Singing then, it was being me in an immediate, unreflective, exclusive way. It was like a root and an opening. The sought for link to earth for the lightning ( being wagnerian?). Just sing like I was at last being able to let myself resume totally in one act, one moment, without any division (being naturally analytic and having developed the conceptual method and instruments for it). That by itself is a precious experience and knowledge.
So, metaphorically (and once again the result of this experience only points out how metaphors have as much to do with literary figures as reality modes) if mirage it was, I did find out something there that is absolutely tangible; that would be... being me... here and now ( mostly me making music: delivering a physical reality of my own voice, harmonics/what ma petite musique interieure is, the experience of immediacy, work in limited time with limited means, on a defined basis/someone's start idea).
Why did it reveal itself so late etc... humm:
I didn't mind coming second after someone started the idea because somehow I know (but I don't... since I'm so abstract and subject to questioning therefore doubt, and so abstract i mostly know things without ever seeing their practical sense) the originality of my intervention. Just like traveling, being exposed to strangeness brings in me a response that wouldn't occur in another situation. The uniqueness of this response that is all mine, but caused by a exterior reality, is the development I seek for. Growing new parts of oneself through the experience of other environments. For J. it is all about le voyage interieur, like for the orientalist, like for symbolist, like for Baudelaire, elsewhere/ l'ailleurs is less a reality to experience than the inspirational ideal that starts a piece.
I seek for disturbance, to be distracted from myself, to be questioned by alterity.

Leaving London yesterday, so heavy-hearted... wandering in streets and remembrance of a past I thought I left there; proof that I had left parts of my history there... and sealing place and lived experiences is something you do by leaving parts of yourself behind. Back then, I left thinking i would come back 2 days after but I never did.
But coming back now, called by the meeting with my beloved, late James' mother and sister, I accomplished a full circle. I mourned: I assimilated the lost one to myself, idealizing him (bringing the essence of who he was) and celebrating in living every moment the moments we spent together. It is permanent from now. Continuation, not repetition. It is transubstantiation. I let go the mortal and comprehend (/take with me) all his leaving makes me become still. A point, a celestial corpse disappearing in the ether, by seeing it modifies all my presence. Like the way he lived, the way he died, certainly letting go of the persona, joining in will a cosmological totality he understood, teaches me to stop being scared of that moment to come.
I found joy in responding by singing: a gesture so light, so present, so unquestionable and personal.
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crystal gazing [31 Jul 2008|12:47am]
your expectations come from far
a vast land called ideal

when you stand at the limit
do you feel complete?

as you're here to defend the extreme territory
from a shapeless enemy
you gaze
at the horizon line
as if it was time
what you're aiming at is destiny
the man has to come
you have orders to kill

striking with the night
disappear in the desert
you keep your position

as apparitions repeat
you never meet but your own defeat
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[26 Mar 2007|02:35pm]
[ mood | unexpressible longing ]

in between layers of lights and awakeness, bobbing for hours. After one more dramatic episode at the practise space which I leave opposing a rigid silence to B's brutal attempts to get me to discuss his incoherences, things said to defend himself and then denied or taken back etc
I dream of a house of classic austerity, white chalky walls and a few dark wood furnitures, protestant style; some boys are sleeping in rooms, while I am working with others in silence on our music. The impression of seriousness while we're all moving in the same direction without having to define it. Some unsaid agreement on the references we have and the esthetic we share. It feels like a state of harmonious creativity.
Everything is suspended in a cold light that feels soft and resting. No artifice, no tension, fresh air.
My vision changes as I must be reading some notes or rendering visually something I am understanding, it moves like a camera filming notes written on a vertical surface and moving between elements as I connect them. It also translate the structure of the tree of a multimedia source. One concerns books and it surprises me by focusing on a very delicate area on the left, like a beautiful miniature of books that simply delights me as I enjoy the cleverness of the relation and feel surprise at the same time. There are light pencil scribbles on the white chalk wall which meanings are somehow given to me, notes that translate some musical harmony with the beautiful economy of a perfect system of writing. No words I believe.
The rhythm and texture is similar from the picture of Joy Division's Closer. Suspended in a silent light grey, powdery, a motion that tells the quietness in passing away, the simple admittance. As we are just studioulsy writing our music. It was pure pleasure, like when I was studying philosophy and reached that point when you can contemplate that whole system of a philosopher like from an airballoon, the comprehension and the surprise before the totality of its construction.

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[23 Mar 2007|11:40am]
asleep voice, deserted voice, distant witness voice, white fate voice.
You sound absent, short, detached. Someone loves you with every word and you watch them fall on you, trying to see more than what they represent, but what if you can't reanimate them with your own feelings. And how inadequate they make you feel since you are not able to mean them too.

The lover's sentinelle, night and day, watching, listening closely. Setting itself up. For me to keep in more than I mean to, and find out every inflexion, longer silence, hesitation in my reply become signs of a distance , I hold in like I'm running away from a beast, every thing I don't tell is mine, mine. I feel genuine shame in being tender to someone in front of someone else. For any someone and any someone else? I guess I want to look as if I am alone when I'm never alone.

i still put myself in ambiguous situations, as if i coudn't read in advance what would happen that i don't want to happen? as if it was all rolling a dice, situations with people with their feelings and intentions implying you, what they let you know, what you could decipher easily, what lies in secretly, what will unwind if you allow it, and what will never come to you.

I must admit a few people around me suddenly flipped and turned away definitly. I am always surprised, I never see it happening. In retrospect I can see they misunderstood me, devilishized me, lent me intentions when I had none. Didn'g get how I can be articulate and frank but so affectively confused and irresponsible. I just let things happen as if they weren't real, to see how it would feel. As if they were hypothetical mind projections, not involving the whole of another person. I destroyed, I didnt know. I am the stranger... How? I thought I cared. If I cannot understand this part of me, noone can, and now I see why they left, feeling betrayed, used, carelessly harmed. What do I feel? When did i start to feel less? Empathy is not a way is it? I can love. I want to.
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tongue tied [14 Mar 2007|07:45am]
if you keep it up,
a black bird's going to swoop down
and bite it off"
then he would speak for me
when i cannot anymore
and he would sing for me
when i am lost in the land
static white sound that would tell
me everything
all I feared all i hoped
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things of the odd child: [11 Mar 2007|10:55am]
- walking in the loft space (high ceilings, not too many furnitures to stumble on) holding a mirror in front with both of my hands, staring at the reflection of the ceiling with a slight angle; walking and trying to focus on my steps as i focused on not seeing the correspondance of my trajectory described in the view of the mirror/ leading to fall.
Have i tried that recently?
It also explains, oddly enough, my later interest in Merleau-Ponty's phenomenology; and its fundments in the relation between spaciality and motor scheme in the body when it orientates itself by moving and reaching (towards parts of itself)
- enjoying secluded spaces: when playing hide and seek enjoying being in a wardrobe with an unaware voluptuousity similar to how we experiment forbidden pleasures when still a child.
Later it turns into a conscious interest for seclusion; the feeling of being contained. And drawings of the Alice girl in a too small space: box from which her limbs are sticking out. The inadequacy between the feeling of a smaller self and the big body that grew up like a plant. And episodic crisis of wanting to find back the feeling of the small.
- the time spent awake during obligatory nap time at that private school: lying down on my back and moving my pointed fingers along my sides, up and down to feel the canvas of the bed going up and down my spine without feeling te correspondance between that gesture and the sensation of the tensed canvas moving like a string, the rubbery sound too.
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one more candle blown, no birthday [10 Mar 2007|01:17pm]
my father came also to tell me in person we lost someone most dear
his girlfrend Christine, who was 12 years older than me and brought me
up from 5 yo to 15

she left a 13 yo son and a little girl
her heart stopped and she lost consciousness and was never reanimated
my father didnt want to tell me in time; it was at the begining of the
year, just when I was very low and pushed towards extreme destructive
streaks because of cutting off essential bounds
you know

i am sad
one day i'll be all alone
left with memories of people noone else has known

she is the second of the two people I thought would be there for me when my parents go
both young, beautiful, full of a sense of life that was brought by braving loss: that softness in their voice; it feels they could simply see what each day had to offer by being that day
my beloved James and sweet Christine
both their heart gave in

we talked with my father and i think some of my reactions to my lover's feelings changed
also because of what i lived recently:
it write: "some disbelief was forced upon me
and it is hard to see you can still wish and love so strongly because
when i see it i also am forced to admit how this way of feeling is
gone for me
because i had no choice
i resisted for years against several loss and loves
and wanted to keep the feeling alive, unaltered and vibrant even when
i found left alone with it; just to keep truthfull to how it use to
feel and how i used to be
but i was forced to let go of that because it hurt too much to be
alone to hold onto that past and treasure moments and times you shared
with someone who decided to change, meaning to become someone who
doesnt shelter that love and someone who never grew that part that
carried you with them"

It is my 5th week of work with no break feels like an endless tunnel; i am numbed and in Paris for a three more days; I managed to keep on and not fall sick only on nerves ressources

it is sunny here back
my heart is seeing the sunlight under the shallow of water
when you see the surface itself and the light through its matter
and if you turn your eyes down under you infinitely darkened lands of depth
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i am not missing, i am a newyorker now [03 Feb 2007|12:13am]
proofs: i have a wintergarden staring at the empire state and i stay obsessing about my interior, which now is non existent (sleeping on the floor for not finding the appropriate bed)
i become a roomate and roomate paranoid of other paranoid roomates
the city is feeding on me not anymore me on the city
i thought about jumping off the roof twice for good, but now i know it is not me it's the room which is haunted (the woman next door did it for good)
i tend to reproduce very regressive patterns because i am alone for real without the boy who was holding the kite string and became the man who open his hand
i am alone and i know great people here
i came here to play music and spend my time and energy on keeping the means to be able to play
i run around like a dog a mouse, it feels like falling down a staircase everyday
i am bloodless and have no choice but become heartless but it aches
i am drowning many times a day, barely keeping my head up above dark water

my eyes are veiled from the wake
i lost my twin and cant remember who i am
i miss you and will spend my life missing you, not who we were maybe but who we dreamt to be
or better: i'll spend a lifetime trying to forget you
because i have no choice
because i have no choice

i came in a place where you have no choice
and there is no way back because going back to Paris last time i felt a stranger and felt inadequate and wrong, living an unconstructive adolescent dream of being a musician in NYC when my friends have careers and houses.

Call it setting yourself up?
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we came like water, we'll go by like wind [28 Oct 2005|11:55pm]
Il faudra quitter cette ville...
En 1978, pour Guy Debord Paris était morte déjà, un extrait d'un film ancien reprend une vieille rengaine "notre jeunesse est morte et nos amours aussi", des images fixes de vues aériennes de la ville de jadis, sans traces apparentes de modernité, accompagnent son commentaire ( La société du spectacle, l'oppression et l'aliénation moderne, les fables contées par le cinéma, son Paris disparu, son engagement, son action passée et ses motifs, sa responsabilité; pas d'histoire, une narration sur des images de Venise, au fil de l'eau une narration qui ne raconte que Debord lui-même)

Pour moi aussi, retrouver Paris n'évoque que les vestiges d'une époque révolue portée par le spectacle de vestiges sur lesquels je suis laissée à me recueillir. Un rendez-vous sur les ruines habité par les souvenirs de ce que nous étions alors. La nostalgie portée par les lieux où des fantômes d'êtres chers côtoient les versions antérieures d'un soi révolu. J'ai toujours été disposée au sentiment de l'écoulement du temps, et son observation m'a aussi permis de trouver un apaisement dans le sentiment de permanence qui demeure et complète le processus incessant par lequel nous perdons chaque chose en chaque instant, en chaque lieu chacun. Nous ne nous baignons jamais dans le même fleuve, nous ne foulons jamais le même sentier. Toujours il bifurque et toutes les voies disparaissent en menant quelque part disparaissant. "En menant quelque part disparaissant" comme la mauvaise traduction d'un mot d'une langue disparue, qu'un auteur malicieux s'amuserait à évoquer.

Nous aimons à penser que nous avons connu en nos nuits cette ville si libre.C'est cette ville passée que nous parcourions, ses rues anciennes et familières que nous aimions renouveller d'une histoire commune et particulière, un passé inventé de toutes pièces en réponse à celui de qeux qui nous y avait succédés. Etait-ce la ville où la manière dont nous l'appréhendions? C'était le charme cultivé, l'effort d'une mystification à laquelle nous participions, liant une époque à un lieu, un acte à un décor, perpétuant le mythe de la jeunesse et de Paris.
Ici puis ailleurs... Il y a tant de parler et tant de silence, tant de départ et tant de retour. Il faudra quitter cette ville... et l'ennui qu'on y cultive avec un goût légendaire. Comme l'exil est devenu nécessaire: je ne saurai plus vivre ici maintenant, ou à la seule condition de la distance promise et anticipée. "Nous tournons dans la nuit et nous sommes dévorés par le feu". In girum imus nocte et consumimur igni (1978). We spin around in the night, we are consumed by fire.
Il y a toujours un homme ici, pour s'asseoir sans y être invité et me regarder fixement en attendant une réponse, un homme qui répète que j'ai l'air fatigué quand je cherche l'isolement, et écrit mentalement, décrit pour moi-même l'état de mon âme; un homme qui au prix de son insistance extorque le mépris. Rien ne lui permet de forcer sa présence, tout nous sépare, son humanité me paraît bestiale et j'accorde plus de prix à mes divagations intellectuelles qu'à sa vie. Je contrôle ma violence et l' exprime par le spectacle de mon indifference. Je tente de demeurer dans l'état où le film m'a laissée.

We spin around in the night we're consumed by fire
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OTo=BLoG [02 Jul 2005|12:47am]
Did I start writing to you how it went in a biased way again? What am I looking for,what am i trying to make happen to your conscience: understanding, not as a result but as a process; I want to lose you if I get lost, reader "mon semblable, mon frêre" (ah that was what Baudelaire meant then... Maybe?) Can you guess at the end how it went, nooo: I still have no clues if the narrator has to have a clear intention when transposing a scene. I always believed it was more like swimming accross a river, not quite against the tide but with it, ending to a place not so far from what you wanted to achieve yet not linearly adjacent.
I seek for suprises, that's why I hide things to myself, mischieviously. Good bad acts buried under the garden; makes the most bizarre flowers grow (here we go, Baudelaire again, yes life is ugly but flourishing on filth are works of beauty; don't read me with a moral eye, I'm the outcast dragging you to the pit lifting you in the sublime vision of these flowers blooming from your evil etc... Threw quite a row at the time if you think) . I awe innocence and overrate naivity, but I use it to protect myself in the most unapropriate way, warning you not to hurt me; not to try to deceive me because I will be deceived for good. Am I provoking you devil? Tempting your dirty hand. Or calling to what remains of good at the bottom of your disillusioned wasted heart.
I will never learn, I will never stop.
("Rage rage til the dying of th light": By the Gods, I curse John Cale fir his choir-updated version of that)
I will march and shield, in memory of loss, in a permanent revolt against Nature and the round edge polish of passing Time I will tell you. Keep shattering kid. No routine. Hooked on permanent change, helps finding out the constants.
I noticed older men mostly tends to lose some intelligence by laziness: when they refuse to make the effort of trying to understand and apply another type of anaysis than theirs, to make the effort to organize the pieces in another frame than the one that forms their view of the world. Sucks (I'm sitting by the swimming pool in Spain and I had a fight with papa and hears him sigh to such a beautiful night and say with his lyric emphasis he would go, choose to disappear on such a night, better than watching the outrages of decay run. Part of the scene he makes... he's lucid, seeing it all and seeing himself overacting a bit, tries tries to believe... Interesting, but for me, absolutely unbalancing.)

2am damn text msg keep blinking, i try to sleep
6am harsh wake up, teeth and bad landing visions
6.30 am yoga, I feel sleepy, sign I'm finally relaxed but
8.15 am Damn phone alarm jingles Doctor WHO midi symphony
8.45 am the little girls are playing badminton in jardin du ranelagh, navy shorts and dazing to the sky like halfwits fairies
9am nazi torture, the surgeon cant cut it in pieces before extraction, he looks distressed, I make jokes and my eyes close
11am blank look and gradient shades wander in Paris right bank streets with Dior Homme black wax busted skinny jeans, not the place for that style, Meguro...
12am buying piles of muji plastic tidyboxes under influence of maman/ pouting at the brilliant japanese pastry shop
13am talking helicopter flights with P to go see his (my?!) darling boy P playing at a big festival in Brittany (Belfort?); talking buying churches in Tampa, no NYC is the place...

A suivre: in next episodes, more gliterratti nightlife, up and coming bands, blood, insomnia, spanish dried wild figs, coded hoaxes... live surgery acts.
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[07 Jun 2005|11:04pm]
eeeee eeeeee
They need earlier than I thought in NYC: I have to be there on july the 17th.
This is getting serious I NEED A PLACE TO SUBLET IN NYC, now!! For 2 MONTHS eeeeee
Anyone, Get rid of your roomate please!
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[05 Jun 2005|09:15pm]
Getting better at getting better... It means only smashing useless things against the wall when my dynabook HD crash and I run tests for days to see if it's a hardware crash and G lost a part of my datas (my recent lyrics :O) I preciously so cautiously had saved on my external and sent myself copies and fill up all HD with identical copies of, but that he mysteriously made vanish from. It means gently trying to reinstall, reformat, rewipe out my laptop with a half smile at how good I am at being sabotaged, played tricks upon, and because I'm so sensible I'll just believe it's unlucky. Or I have special high voltage running through me, between the earth of my toes and the tempests in my head, and the poor computer between get one two three times a year electro magnetic spikes that ruins it.Or Damn MOTU, damn frail devices I, yeah just like everyone else, hot plug in my precious laptop that contains all my music, lyrics, correspondance, articles, all I care about; or damn electricity damn myself who trusts everything and everyone too much
I lost a long text about Miller... that reached really funny conclusions about the meaning of life, what was it again "life is... a banana? a bird? not a burden?"
It's strange to lose things you have vague memories of, I remember words like phenix, climax...
only the shape of them... and not the content?
Ah maybe it was actually because I was saying his writing was drawn by images on that page...
(trying to recollect ideas that could start from there, I should believe the same associations of ideas will happen again, as they specifically occurs in my own mind...) It was that page about the tree of life, about fate a bout stitching, spinning a web." There was something which hung on the fringe of the memory, some enigmatic smile that expresses serenity, beatitude (...)There had been a day when I had accepted something in exchange of something; on that day a strange bifurcation had taken place. In vain I ransacked my brain" No, no
flips pages, there: on the back of this one:
Zenith... and self achievement


I lost my doudou too.
Let go let go let go.
Ok, I try: does it mean I actually have to accept not to make the world rely on that tiny piece of tulle I hold, and I lost now?
It makes sense. What if I made it rely on that tiny piece if fabric because I can hold it and I can't get hold of the rest? And that... as long as I hold it in my hand, as I always have from the beginning or my early childhood, I feel peaceful because I know I can get a hold of the rest. Yes... But what if when I lose that tiny piece of fabric I usually thoughless rub between my fingers, the whole world sinks in the search for the doudou?

And everytime I lose it it's like I know I am going to lose it before and still forget about the next moment, when I lose it, like if I was playing myself a trick.
I am a little neurotic. I think.
I lose my temper now; The doctor said we came to him because we're all masochists and punish ourselves; I think I should punish the others. Too?
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green shortcut [26 May 2005|12:48pm]
some people are unanimated, some people are objects, he's a stone, a hole, a damn
some people are animals, air, stories, scenes, he's a china ornament, a fruit, a beast,
the doppelganger he's not the end of you
it's him, the one who's the one who is not, faustus, the real evil against whom you'll lose everything
he wants it all and its contrary, and the opposite of wanting, undo before it's done, absorbs everything and cancel it
however you try, it amounts to the same, nothing in time
help me
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[22 May 2005|12:31pm]
Kicked out of Slumber's again after 3 little hours, I watch a romantic highschool j dorama, very accurate and touching. Then yearning for Japan, I remember how it'd be all different there, all new, peaceful and gentle; and I would go out at 5am, the sun already high and wander in the streets observing discreet people enjoying the freshness and keeping busy walking mute minidogs and watering great shabby minigardens on the pavement in front of the houses. Elders dressed in golf clothes jogging around baseball fields, a wise schoolboy, a pervert salaryman in his shiny car. It wasn't only in my eyes, was it? It really seemed so gentle, like it never is anywhere else in the world.
So just as I felt sleepy again I went out in the park before my house, with my japanese red and pink blanket and found a quiet place on a green hill. Ridiculous amount of daisies like a tribute to naivity, summer sun, trees swaying like seaweeds, clouds slowly swelling like... clouds. Feeling overtired, limpy, gently abandoned and yet concerned by something hanging over me, like the little girl in The Taste if Tea
Then I fell asleep in the grass, marched over by ants
grazing swallows like fencing across the sky when I opened my eyes again
I am happy I did it, even if it's a nonsense to anyone else, except to confused breathless 15years old boys maybe
eyes open to the light and changes
until they close

strange smile
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