Palace of Dreams

In the Palace of Dreams, the Masked Carnival is in full swing. The high candelabras pour a soft, golden light on a surreal scenery of extravagant costumes, elegant silhouettes and fantastical masks. Exquisite, exotic, rare scents deepen the mystery of the strange event, while a haunting, rarefied music fills the crowded atmosphere. Everyone who is someone on the planet has been invited. Yet now , nobody can even guess who they are talking to. Safely concealed behind my own bizarre accoutrement, I glide among the beautiful, perfumed bodies, scanning for at least a hint of a revealed identity. There is none. All have followed the uber strict code of admission : No recognition.
And in the marvellous oblivion of identity, suddenly the feast takes off, becomes wild and daring, the flirting and seduction, the 'risque' repartee and outrageous propos know no bound.
The second rule, as severe as the first, is : nothing beyond talk.
This could be the rehearsal of a scene for a film, or the decadent game of a cruel Master of manipulation. Yet , everyone is in bliss and enjoying themselves as if there was no tomorrow. The lost saveur of the forbidden fruit has been redicovered and its delicate taste is on everyone's tongue. While the rejouissance progresses lightly, I am engaged in the most ravishing exchange with an enchanting persona, of whom I know nothing but love everything about.
Later, as the stars whirl in the dark sky, a subtle change arises.
At dawn, total chaos, the whole place seems to collapse on itself, the mirrors crack, the lights dim, the music stops, the characters fade and the whole party slowly silently sink under mounting water.
There is a glow, a fire under the ice and soon nothing remains on the surface but a little ripple, like the last breath of a dying angel.
It's all gone. The charade is over.
Alone I stand. A statue of salt, all my tears gathered into a solid desolation.
There really was no tomorrow.

Chess Game

Josephine is playing chess with her brother, Erve d'Or , both children of the mysterious Herr de la Couronne. But Erve is sitting on the right side of the chess set, holding the white pieces, while Josephine is on the wrong side of the set, holding the black ones. Erve as ever, is in the light, she is in the shadow. He is the head of the golden coin, she is the tail of it, 'le revers de la medaille'. Erve still lives in the Kingdom, enjoying its beautiful fruits. Josephine is in exile on an island in space. They meet but rarely , to play their favorite game together, with not a word uttered on what is really at stake between them.
The tournament will be long, as neither of them is ever ageing, neither of them is ever weakening.
In the game of life, Erve wins. In the after-life, they both lose.

Etat Dame.

Sunset. On Josephine's island, all is quiet, peaceful, nothing moves. The sea is silkily silent and the trees frissonnent as if made of velvet.
Softly walks Josephine out of the woods, towards the shore, a bottle in her hand.
In the bottle, a message.
Kneeling at the shore, perhaps praying, Josephine pushes the bottle on the water. Soundless waves soon carry it away.

En Montgolfiere

Gather your bags, your bagages and burden, it's time to get into the 'nacelle', we are going up on a sky-trip, on an air-tour, we are going to ascend and meet the clouds, join the birds in the pure azur and the bright light.
Gather your thoughts, and leave the leaden ones behind, we live on light, we feed on light, we become light. Cut the bounds, renounce the ties, undo the shackles, the nacelle will now ascend and rise to unknown heights, we will bear oh so gladly, the so desirable lightness of being, the freedom of flying unbounded, the ultimate perk of no weight, no worry.
Nothing, nothing can reach the air-balloon in full flight. Your mind is this balloon. Nothing can weight the mind, la Montgolifiere des airs knows no frontier, no rule, and no limitation.
Josephine waves from a cloud, and wish you a happy ascent.

Lili and the little dog

One bright sunny morning, Lili stepped out of her book, all dressed-up in a fancy outfit made exclusively of pompoms, and ran accross the floor to take cover under the bed. There, some fluff of black suddenly moved, it was a tiny black dog ! So tiny, that it was not so scarry after all. Lili and the little dog became friends, and they started looking for a cover all over the wooden floor but there was none to be found, as all the books had flown out of the window to enjoy the beautiful morning sunshine. They explored the cosy house, all colours and coquelicots, until they eventually reached the door, on the edge of the world.
But to go out they did not need any cover anymore, as they started gliding happily all over the big wide world on the plush red cushion of our hearts

Eunoia

Eunoia, or beautiful thinking.
Do our thoughts shape the invisible as our cities shape the terrestrial landscape ?
I believe so.
Bad thoughts create your present and future hell, beautiful thinking is your passport to paradise.
Everyone needs an angel in their brain, to help sort out the mess, the crass daily mess of the low realms.
But how does one order angel service ?
Do you just wait and hope one will cross your path ?
Do angels ever come our way to help ?
It's a beautiful thought to believe so.

L' Etat Dame

Dawn. Josephine walks along the beach of her island, l''Etat Dame', all white sands in the light rising and the silence. L'Etat Dame' is a fortress, a hermetic realm, an ivory tower. But every morning, Josephine goes down to the shore, in the wild hope that a glass bottle with a message within, would have flotted her way. Unlikely occurence, but hope is the fiercest of pull on the soul, and Josephine is not immune to that.
There never is any message in the bottle, nor any bottle at all, for that matter.
Yet for the thousands of years that she has existed, Josephine, every morning , has walked to the seashore to check. The thought of missing the one time that there would be something, is too galling.
Now, at dawn, you know where to find Josephine.

Bach, a toute allure.

Bach ou la vitesse absolue, BMW thrown all out on the sleek motorway, by night, the race is on , motor roaring, je t'invite a mes cotes for the ultimate course through heaven, a travers la nuit, a travers la pluie, en pleine vitesse, en Bach parfait.
Come and be with me, in a sublime vehicule designed for climatic speed, Vorsprung durch Technik, chariot des dieux, puissant, invincible, totale modernite, combattant des cieux difficiles, des intemperies cruelles et une vie amere.
Come and be with me, Bach for us, unrolled the red carpet of a sleek motorway, lights glistening under the rain, le rythme parfait des coeurs a l'unisson la nuit, l'oubli de tout, le vin merveilleux de Sans- Souci, le parfum du cuir luxueux, l'autoroute se deroule en attendant la felicite montante, d'une nouvelle dimension ardente,
Le point de non-retour, en Bach parfait.

Vision

Suspended in mid-air, in the nef of a Cathedral,
music and light pouring down from above and transpiercing my body
with so much mirth and pain,
I slowly reverse breathing to the state of ante-birth,
when my whole existence was but a flutter of dust...

Adieu ma vie, adieu mon ame, tu etais belle, nous avons fais route ensemble et partage so much torments, et de joies aussi parfois, maintenant, je dois partir,
et te retrouver peut-etre, sous d'autres cieux, sous d'autres formes et tout recommencer, la meme folie, la passion du neant, l'aventure des moulins a vent,
Et le grand Ensemble.
Mon ame , ma soeur, mon amour.

Parfum de Japon

Spitafields, a japanese festival.
The austere beauty of the women's haughty faces, worn almost like a mask. A delicate poetry of zen, flowers, tea and kimonos, a subtle overflowing hint of decadence pervading everything. Crazy clothes, etranges scents, mixed babies and a general happiness.
We should have feasts, fairs and festivals more often...

'Jadis, si je me souviens bien, ma vie etait un festin, ou s'ouvraient tous les coeurs, ou tous les vins coulaient. Un soir, j'ai assis la Beaute sur mes genoux- et je l'ai trouvee amere.'

Et je l'ai aimee.
Elle s'est en allee.
Josephine dreams, to repair the pain, to lay a soothing balm on a sizzling heart.

Invitation

Josephine walks the desert streets of her memory, all doors closed, all houses abandonned. The city is empty, derelict, silent. There is no memories left. Have they flown to better pastures, in distant countries of sun and fun ? No.
Josephine's memories do not exist at all. She is a blank slate. An open book. An empty room. An invitation.
Welcome into Josephine's land, the landscape of your dreams.
Who is Josephine ?
The smile of the cat.
The sign of the hand.
The code on the pad.
You are now entering into the unknown.
Danger zone or exctatic realm, your choice.
But Josephine leads the way.
Follow her.

Gerard de Nerval, poet, my spiritual father.

'Je suis le Veuf, le Tenebreux, l'Inconsole,
Le Prince d'Aquitaine a la tour abolie,
Ma seule etoile est morte, et mon luth constelle,
Porte le soleil noir de la Melancholie.'

One of my favorite poem. Four lines that could sum-up the story of my life.
If the Universe is a velvet coat of dark material, keeping us all wrapped, blind and mute, then poetry is the blade that pierces through and brings us some light from the great Beyond.
Music and all arts also, of course. But where all religions miserably fail, ending in the dead-end of the hem of the coat, the arts dare to go to the other side and bring back some nibblets of gold, for us to marvel about.

Talking about books...

Talking about books, I want to mention Karen Wheeler's book 'Tout Sweet', currently my favorite, read it twice already, and recommending it massively to all and everyone. It is a sheer delight to read, funny, witty, engrossing, vivid, full of comical anecdotes on her new life in a small village of Poitou Charentes, renovating an old house,'Maison Coquelicot' and getting to know the numerous and often eccentric british expats settled over there. Utterly unpretentious and a genuine experience, it is a wonderful feel-good read that you will be sorry to finish, because life with Karen is a very sweet pleasure indeed !
A refreshing take on the 'french memoirs', Karen gives it a delicious twist with a S.A.T.C. treatment !
Now impatiently awaiting the second part hopefully already in process !
Could also mention Ariel Leve 'Cassandra Chronicles', the sum of her columns for the Sunday Times. Self-deprecating pessimist with a terrific sense of humour...I have not read something so amusing for a long time !

What is the point ?

This could well proves to be a total waste of time. Why do I pretend that I write a blog ? This is utter vanity. I have nothing to say of interest, no information on anything to pass on. My life is a desert island with just rocks and sands, somewhere to lie down, look at the sky and die of sheer boredom.
I am currently experiencing the highs and lows of a singular new torment, of which I might say something later.

I could talk about books, a field I know quite a bit about, and I'm a little bit miffed that Stephen Fry mentionned on his Twitter 'Sum' by David Eagleman and got it noticed immediately of course, when I have been recommending that little wonder of a book to people for months, and to not much effects.
Obviously not a setter of trends yet.

On second thought...

This odd feeling of writing for oneself and everyone at the same time, a feeling not unlike these dreams where we walk naked in the middle of a crowd, but no one notices...
I am on the egde of a precipice. About to fall in, a fall experienced so many times before, and that had always left me bruised and damaged. Why would I want to fall again ? Does one have a choice or are we, in this matter, as bits of irons caught in a magnetic attraction ?
A necessary folly that brings colours and fire into one's soul, delusions also. And ultimately, pain.
I should know better.

And start falling all over again...
The dream resumes.

Ready to go, blog outing number one !

Hello everyone,
(no one more likely) as this is an entirely new, secret operation.
Feels like jumping in wide black, strange ocean, full of invisible swimmers all around, close by, yet remote. Or am I dreaming ?
First question :
Is the world wide web like the universe, infinite ?
Can every single person keep a blog, stuff the internet with thoughts and writings, and there's still plenty of space around ?
Who can tell me more about the secrets of the web and its finitude or infinitude ?
A book I guess could tell me the answer, but I'm lazy.
Now autumn on the way, time to think about love rather than science.
I'm October born and this season always bring longings and nostalgia , a wish for the exquisite, significant 'Other' still bitterly missing, probably will ever be missing.
Some unfortunate people experience life as a lack rather than a fulfillment. That's my club.
Until now anyway.
I have no idea where I'm going with this blog and that's the point. I'm intrigued to see how it evolves, if it's another dead end, or if it will prove to become something of substance.
There's lots I want to talk about but for today that' ll do.
The first step has been taken,
If it leaves any imprint anywhere is another matter...