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.