Radioactivity of an enriched love

The wealth and misery of affects

I have never been able to survive in a relationship with a person who loves me with all his love. She should have kept much more for herself. I never wanted a pact, however sweet, to lead me to espouse the dogma of such love. So I could only keep my distance, each one more respectful than the other.

Because something else was calling me and telling me not to carry all this; not to take it on and let myself indolently faint under its weight. Because love is also always about someone other than oneself. Because there is nowhere to experience the same thing at the same time in common. That's probably also why I've loved so many people who weren't interested in me. To run away from that. Yet I love too and feel what that means.

There is no bitterness in what I say. On the contrary, the joy of learning a little more about this every day. What distance can you put between love and your own work, so that you don't feel so pressured that you fall asleep without seeing the daily routine dressed in your own eyes, to the point of bursting the veins in your backside as well as in your eyes? Who can understand that? Not those who praise the blinding "I love you" rather than lucidity. The woman in love? Unlikely. The evil man? Better to avoid him next time. And so it is in politics, where the passion of blindness, the desire to always deny one's own reality, prevails over self-awareness. But it doesn't matter what happens to us, if there are still places where the excitement of saying anything about what we haven't experienced is supplanted by a creative feeling honest enough to search the bottom of the barrel.

I would like SCRAP, a project without form and unwilling to have any, to host one of those small micro-cracked places where love no longer pretends to be so pure, by mixing with the freedom to be and to think, rather than just proposing to feel.

What is emotion without reflection? A plenitude at a lower cost if one is content to want to situate one's anchorage in the immediacy of what happens. I can weep without shame or reservation in front of the silliest of television or film scripts that are slightly effective. What does this prove? That I was moved by the situation? That I agree with it? None of these things, because that would be forgetting that tearful emotion has nothing in common with that which provokes laughter. My tears are just as ordinary as the ones that are abundantly obtained by well-felt minor chords on a guitar or a piano. An audience's tears of sadness often merely shake their previous melancholy into spasms, whereas the laughter that comes from amazement, from the staggering audacity, from the outrageous and shocking joke, from astonishment. Such a phenomenon is much rarer, and laughter, even and especially in the face of the most shocking steps in the eyes of those who revere love, impresses me and stimulates me much more than a complacent faith in this all-powerful feeling. In any case, I dream of it this way; even at the height of the most vehement pain fuelled by crises.

Fighting against this banal and false preconception of love as infallibly "good", makes me progress and grow.

For, contrary to what seems to be said, we are overflowing with Love.

It struts around at every corner, far more 'Big Brother' than any computer surveillance system. As long as we cultivate within ourselves a single unassailable zone of non-rights, a single taboo that is incredibly difficult to challenge by dint of complacently maintained confusion, it will not be difficult to lead us by the nose in the name of supposedly great causes. And what greater cause than Universal Love itself? Not him directly, of course - for how many forms can attachment take? - but the perpetually overvalued romantic mystical image that we like to give of him. Yet we carry it like a burden that ruins our lives. It is the real Dow Jones, the standard meter of capital, the indisputable reference index of everything that is done on the scale from good to evil. If everything were so simple between us and if it were enough for each of us to beg and obtain this good feeling from others to feel fulfilled, I think we would know.

It is known, but we don't like to know it. If we so eagerly wish to value this "virtue", it is perhaps simply because we think we suffer so sickly from its absence when we only suffer from Absence. Absence of everything, of wealth, of answers to our whims, of powerlessness to escape from guilty feelings ....

It's not easy to live a poor man's life, infinitely deprived of any certainty

One thing obsesses us from then on: to find elements of it, somewhere, proofs torn by force from reality in bits and pieces, anywhere and especially in others. Approval, recognition, applause, expressions of pleasure, delighted smiles... all this does us a world of good. This love, which is always and everywhere praised, sung to us, filmed and represented to us in a more or less subtle way, is therefore the panacea, the relief for all our ills, the remedy for our existence of wandering and difficulties.

However, in my opinion, the day when we appreciate reality in a way that is not measured by this pure and attractive feeling like gold, thoughts of racism, fascism, jealousy, ownership, totalitarianism, homophobia, and so on, will not find their way into our ambivalent hearts so easily. The love of Love gives way to tyrannical monsters, which are spontaneously born on its periphery by simple differential comparison, so much so that the Bad cannot stand without the Good.

No, a beneficial love, scrupulously measured, does not say "me, me, me!"; does not say "live for me; save me, save me, save me... from my own wandering".

We all know that there are other versions, no less passionate, but at least as exciting. Is it ass for ass's sake, is it a clever role-playing game, is it an amiable composition of our temperaments as suggested by a mischievous Marivaux, often visionary and wise? Is it, on the contrary, a system other than the all-too-proven duo? Polygamy, polyandry, solitude, friendship in love? Is it the utopian marriage of members of an entire community? The alternatives could be legion. But no, a sure thing, decried a thousand times over, but for want of anything better... there is the couple, self-proclaimed god of faithful love.

My mother destroyed me out of love, my father out of selfishness. It was during my early childhood, I was not suspicious. It's not their fault, because nothing is ever anyone's fault. It doesn't matter now. The only value I retained from this whole dramatic comedy of the united couple is that, as long as one is "making a spectacle of oneself" - for that's what it's all about; giving oneself, but to what extent and to what extent can one give oneself or take oneself back from the other when reduced to the passive state of a spectator? - The spectacle of such a fusion of the atom would then have to explode in full flight and open a breach in another thingIt's the only way that light and air can emerge. Also, a show only makes sense to me if it allows itself to knit together these two notions, love and freedom, between their two poles, so that a little lucidity and a few grams of oxygen are emitted by the chemical reaction of this explosive combination. One day we must agree that the two basic materials are too pure to be lived at the same time. We need to hybridize these feelings of exhilaration in order to temper their effects without them being too extinguished.

Beyond fantasies, do we want to live the life of a Don Juan, who in real life would be an abuser and a rapist unanimously condemned? Never mind, because this is the embodiment of a freedom that ignores all barriers. Would we rather wish for a destiny of pasionaria Why not, but the real life will only present her as a criminal infanticide whose world will only look at the results of her unleashing of passions with disdain? Why not, but we must count on the fact that real life will only present her as a criminal infanticide whose unleashed passions will only be viewed by the world with disdain and disgust. Where, then, will the fascination for pure feeling that we cherish so much have gone in these two cases? It is this same totally dreamlike adulation that leads, in reality, to the destruction and, I repeat, in our most concrete and therefore social and political life, to the most stupid admiration of apparently "strong" positions. Somewhere, I believe, as for any divinity inaccessible to our too short arms, the adulation of Love is the germ of the violence that separates us from each other. Such a posture is also the ferment of the hypocrisy that rots us from within, resulting from so badly assuming our common and bitter failure, our active laziness in not being ourselves.

We cannot live our lives at the heart of the dreamed fiction and the deep poetry of our species remains the ultimate and unique point of this promiscuity maintained by the desire to be someone else. It is at its centre, in my opinion, that we must constantly reposition ourselves so that reality appears to us more lucidly with each passing hour. The life we live will only be a hybrid compromise, a version combining the happiness of being for ourselves and the well-being of sharing the paths of those we admire, love and appreciate. Against all cowardice, against all lies, against all totalitarianism, even of love itself, there is nothing else to live for but to walk this median and perhaps mediocre path, but one that is always to be understood.

Love is like an enriched ore. In its pure state, it destroys the inner self and life itself.

So, no, the freedom that makes us keep it at bay is not selfishness or fear, quite the contrary. Yes, it must be cultivated in this form above all or, I would say, almost above all. Not above intelligence, which remains the supreme value of humans, but just one degree below. The stage, the public stage, should always be the place of free expression, which should be better distinguished from the place of political or social propaganda, which carries within it the worst chimeras and offers no latitude to think for oneself. The stage is in essence a prison. What better place than its four walls and symbolic borders to experience life in vitro, rather than telling (oneself) stories that please the sleepers? It is not a question of being outraged in fits and starts to make a fashion out of it, but of constantly maintaining and clearing the path of questioning, without innocently responding with delight to the calls of one's desires and wallowing in them as if our comfort had supreme value. There is a world and we are responsible for it. It is certainly all very well to change one's diesel car for a more environmentally friendly vehicle. It would be just as well and necessary to regularly question our great founding mythologies in order to understand their manipulative and possibly hidden meanings, rather than thinking of humans in proportion to Walt Disney's values. Oversimplification and the rejection of "head-scratching" make way for the imbecility of our behaviour. If we add to this the vanity of wanting to exist with importance, valued as the real plus by the social hierarchy, we obtain the great din from which our long complaint of never managing to extract ourselves from it perpetually arises. So let's refine reports and looks, writings and relationships, even if we don't know where we stand, except by the infra-resonance of an intimate vibration that would tell us muffled: "it could well be over there, in that little corner of feeling that is unimportant, that we should look. Go and see.