Patti Smith: Horses.

I saw Patti Smith in concerts about 4, 5 times before, but last Friday at The Roundhouse was an unique, special experience. Perhaps it is because she replayed the whole Horses album and that this album means so much to me? Horses, along with Ziggy Stardust and Lou Reed's Berlin, was the very music of my teenage years. Symbol of my despair, rage and powerlessness. Before Horses, I was a child. After, I became a teenager. It broke the safe bubble of my childhood. I awoke to the real world, funny enough, through the torn and ethereal rifts of Horses. So, this is a music I can never listen to objectively. It is loaded with emotions, from despair to exhilaration. It is the very music of my deep past and eternal youth.
So it was quite something seeing Patti Smith singing again as she sang in Paris, in 76 or 79?  I don't remember, I was just about 15 and in awe of her. What I mostly remember from that long past concert is how chaotic it all was. Utter chaos in the audience, we were standing close to the stage but in a perpetual motion from the sheer pressure of the crowd and on stage, it seems it was just as shambolic. The music was screechy and inaudible really, from the sheer loudness. I only remember chaos all over. After, I waited a very long time hoping to see her at the exit door but the wait was too long and I gave-up after about 45 mn. Would my life have been any different if I'd met her then in person? At the time, we were only 2, 3 people waiting outside, it would have been possible to make a connection. But, as most things in my life, because of my idiocy or lack of perseverance, it didn't happen.
But we met again, perhaps 15 years ago, before a concert at Sheperd's Bush. It was a friendly, brief encounter, with a few other fangirls around and she was happy to sign her book 'Early Works' with a large 'Power to the people', and chat. Though, by then, life had dulled me and I had nothing special anymore to share with her.
At the Roundhouse, again, I bumped into her alone in her lodge, before the concert, by chance. She was on the phone and hastily agreed to sign my copy of her last book the MTrain, but waved me off after to carry on her phone call. I heard saying 'sorry, there was 'someone' ..' So someone disappeared and greatly enjoyed her amazing performance on stage. She has something of the shaman and can raise an audience to a near-sacred level when everyone feels something 'is happening' She has this powerful, wonderful, amazingly positive energy that can send everyone spiralling into happiness. She must have such deep wonder and respect for Life that she is able to pass on a similar near-sacred emotion to people in the audience. Someone said the concert was 'biblical' Yes there is, (bizarrely because it is all far away from 'religion!) but there is a sense of a biblical, sacred moment going on. She has that force, that aura, that voice.
It was odd to make the link with my old self of 15 yrs old, to know I still was that very person today and for ever. It was a deep and moving experience as if Time, roughless Time, for once had been conquered and the dots joined, no more distance nor separation, it was all there, in a nugget, in fabulous Horses galoping wild for Eternity.

Thank You, Patti Smith, for that.

The Clowns

The biggest joke of the Universe on the human race is to make them believe that their time and space are set in stone, invariable and eternal. Hence letting them invent gods and religions with unshakable creeds and devotions. What a farce for imbeciles.  Religious cunts need a bit of space-travel to get Relativity into their little brain cells. We are nothing but  tiny thinking piece of flesh thrown away on a dancing planet, turning round in circles around a deadly fire, the sun, that most idiots here, of course, worship as the source of life, when there is no other source of life than Water.
What a sad lot, what clowns, these 'humans' some zombies, some robots, most dumber than animals, most more pathetic than the dust under their feet. But what devastation they've unleashed on the most beautiful world created. What hate and brutality.
It is difficult to feel of the same race and from my earlier years, I have felt no affinities, no understanding. Usually we call  people unsympathetic to the human race 'psychopath' but in my case I believe the opposite. That I am born within a race of psychopaths, with only a few, too rare exceptions, and that the big majority is totally lacking in empathy and sensibility. Ego, vanity, vainness, perversion, cruelty, manipulation, bare pride, stupid pride, yes all that abounds around. But fineness, perception, sensitivity, receptivity, originality, kindness, beauty, strikingly lack. Thanks god for artists, poets, musicians, writers, creators. Otherwise what kind of lowly order of hell would this be?
It is more and more painful and depressing, I am convinced, for sensitive souls to exist nowadays. The horizon has considerably darken, the future pregnant with death and disorder. We loathe and despise each other more and more because our collective spirit is dying and the bare bones of horror start to show.
Gurdjieff was right. Someone at some point played a terrifying joke on humans, implanting them with a 'kundabuffer': an implement that make them see and experience everything upside down. Yes indeed. And unless you are granted the privilege, or strive for truth in some way, to undo it, nothing can be done: you are and will remain an idiot, a clown taking shadows for reality...

Neanderthals uber alles.

Passer sur le monde avec la grace d'un vol d'oiseau, leger, subtil, gracieux, ephemere.
Le monde se meurt doucement et les idiots s'amusent, les cons se rejouissent et se multiplient.
Le monde se meurt doucement, lamente-le, il ne reviendra pas.
Ses fleuves, ses rivieres et sources secretes, se tarissent et ne recouleront pas.
Ses bêtes, belles, fieres et tendres, torturees, chassees, devorees, cricifixiees, elles ne revivront pas.
Les pas de l'enfant, trop tot celui d'un tyrant, etouffe la terre sous sa botte de con.
Les derniers penseurs sont deja morts. Ils ne reviendront pas.
Une race pas meme nee, a ete avortee.
Et maintenent,
Neanderthals uber alles.

Anecdotal

After about five days of solitude at home, my mind is so quiet, so peaceful that I feel I hardly exist anymore. Or rather the smoothness of existing tends towards disappearance. Perhaps this is exactly why human beings love so much conflicts, problems and adversity. They take the agitation, the intensity for a proof of existence. And may be it is. I love, have always loved, the lightness of being, so yes, perhaps there isn't much 'life' to be found in something light, something hardly here at all. Does a stone exist more than a feather? Or is movement more alive than stillness? all debatable. And not important. The problems of the world are not light nor on the move. There are made of hate and blood, here to stay. And that, is irremediable. Funny enough there is the French word 'diable' (devil) in 'irremediable. The devil resides indeed in what cannot be solved. Like the thirst for blood and conflicts in the human heart.
What we need is a threat from space, from aliens yes, to understand that here on Earth, there is only one life, one planet. Or are the aliens already here and we just don't know it? Are they the source of all this madness, the  lust for killing and all the rest? Would they be wishing us the worse from time immemorial and somehow, driving us blindly right there? I might have read one or two conspiracies too many but when you consider the extant of belief in 'God', a bearded spaceman overhanging in heaven, there is little to discourage us contemplating an alternate version as a possible explanation for all our ills.... Keeping an opening mind to all and everything...

Je pleure d'attendre

There are planets for every dream, for every transgression and devotion...Our world is not alone, it is only hidden, separated. Crack the code, break the wall and you fly free. The march of your desires and hopes is  on. Death is a door, a transformation. 'Rien ne se perd, rien ne se cree,  tout se transforme' Ascend the mountain, feel the wind, deploy your wings and take off. The infinite is waiting and la-bas, la-bas, elle attend...Take her hand, elle attend, Le vol d'antant, le vol des grands silences, le vol dans l'au-dela, il commence...Il est lent mais puissant. Il t'emporte et tu ne reviens pas, tu es  parti, pas de revenant. The hour of my death is the time of my delivrance. en partance. 'Qu'il vienne, qu'il vienne le temps dont on s'eprenne'. Je pleure d'attendre.
La pluie sur moi, larmes du ciel, la pluie qui me parle de toi, l'eau-memoire ou tout est ecrit, la pluie de l'amour du temps, rain of tears from the departed, la pluie du temps, qui nous attend.
Quand il pleut, tu es la. Quand il pleut, je suis avec toi.

As pollen rising in the air

Les apres-midis lents et tranquilles, loin du monde, pleins d'oubli, de replis, et de melancolie... Des apres-midis ou l'on oublie pourquoi on vit...Dehors, le vent gris, le froid et l'ennui. Dedans, la musique, les chats, et le vide. Ma vie peserait si peu dans une balance.  Peut-on me dire pourquoi je vis? je ne l'ai jamais su. ou ne m'en rappelle plus. 'The lightness of being' Oui je suis nee le jour de St Leger, curieusement. Une fatalite. Ma vie est si legere qu'un jour, un seul soufle de petit evenement me fera envoler...J'ai soigneusement travaille a cette legerete. Pas de responsabilite, minimum de liens, familiaux et amicaux. Surtout pas d'enfants et de liens pesants: what was once called in a novel  'the unbearable lightness of being'. Only for me that is the only bearable way of being. Any other way is a delusion. Sad or cheerful, still a delusion. The one and only thing that would have matter, that I cannot even name, has not happened. So be it. Melancholy is my name.  A name that wont be remembered. A name as light as pollen rising in the air...

From the island

Where is the island? under water? up in the clouds? Josephine lives there, all alone. Has been for centuries. Never get old, never gets reborn. She's eternal. She is my soul. The one I cannot reach and rejoice in. Desolation is her name. Living abandonned from all and everyone, in a cold limbo of grey hope and soft despair. And you wonder why I love the North, Nordic Noir, winter and solitude...All our souls have abodes, landscape and atmosphere. This is my soul. A lost island in a parallel universe of grey fog, cold clouds, and unforgiving ocean. No one is welcome. No one ever comes anyway.
Josephine has rituals. Like visiting the shore every morning at dawn. A bottle might have strayed there. With a message. A content. A connection. So far the shore has never given any. Just sands, rocks, and drift wood. Shells and birds corpses. Empty handed and empty hearted, Josephine goes back to the house. And wait some more. Sometimes tears come to my soul. I am Josephine's envoy here. But not a very good one. I have failed her. I have failed my life.