Learning to vomit into the world's great trough, including the one overflowing with culture, is as vital as developing a love of utopia.

Utopia of sensitive areas

End of the reading of Archimondain pretty punk by Camille de Toledo with its cover of topless Kermit, offered by Sonia Codhant. Proof that the Muppets still have something to say. As sad and melancholic as it is strangely refreshing; the resistance to the fluid, empathetic and pandemic monster of globalization since the 80s makes you want to read Taz. A thought for Tarkovsky and the Stalker zone. I feel late again; how come nothing enlightened me when Hakim Bey's book appeared in 1985, nor since.
The idea of pirate utopias and poetic terrorism, so familiar today, could probably not reach my consciousness at the time. And for a good reason: because of my love of art. What I took for a quality was a trap; I was not the only one. I thought the works were the revolt. Nothing could be further from the truth. They may contain the seeds of it, but they become false lures if we love them for their aesthetics, for their intelligence. For creative thought is not revolt either. It too produces product and shields what sometimes underlies it.

When you're an artist, you have to know how to hate consumed works

I also missed punk in its true fundamentals. The sensitivity to art leads the political to the funIt's only the "doing" that counts, and creating is not acting. There is only "action" that is worthwhile and to create is not to act. Archimondain ends up at Fnac like the rest. This same Fnac whose branch in Nice revealed its cowardice towards the authorities during an incident that shocked me last summer:

"Fnac has initiated dismissal proceedings against two employees, a communications officer in Nice and a manager in the cultural department based in Paris. The two are accused of having "mixed their names" with the scandal caused by a photograph showing a man wiping his buttocks with the French flag, which won a prize in a competition organised last March by the Nice Fnac on the theme of political incorrectness. "

Source : www.ldh-toulon.net

Alliot-Marie is not far away, nor is Hortefeux. Following the Fnac event, the not-yet ex-minister is working to ensure that works of art are no longer excluded from the 2003 law against "theft". contempt of the tricolour ". I don't even know if the decree has been passed. In the end, it doesn't matter; I'll go and look at the details shortly, because you have to arm yourself to see these things up close, so much energy is expended in spite of yourself in reacting to them with inner turmoil. Such a visceral political decision is very serious in my opinion. It is not much reported by the media; in any case not as much as it should have been. I'll try to develop this later. Here too I need time for my hatred to crystallize and organize itself. But at best, I'll only produce one more creation; I'm not a kamikaze assassin.

Last night, as I have done almost every Thursday for the past ten years, I came home from the No-NaimeI am a member of a theatre company made up of a few amateurs and an amateur for whom I stage plays from the repertoire, sometimes montages. As usual, I listen to France Culture at night and to the lectures of the Collège de France; "Values and prices in Ming China"; I listen to the knowledge, the precise and hesitant words of the scholars on themes I know nothing about. Here too, it doesn't matter. The love of research, the palpable awareness that they devote their lives to such specialized subjects, which will never be highlighted on the airwaves, make these speakers the bearers of a unique, striking and incredibly poetic word in my night from Thursday to Friday, when I make the trip from Maisons-Laffitte to my house. An astonishing pleasure, an ever-renewed ritual of a solitude at this moment enlightened. It is not through culture that this moment is illuminated; it is through the height from which a certain love of men expresses itself and draws me in while listening to these conferences, which originally were not addressed to me. And my night becomes a quantifiable whole. Once parked, after having turned a little alone in the streets to find a place - this moment also remains a pleasure - I take care not to miss anything of the broadcast. Change of medium, thanks to technology; I switch from the radio to the mobile phone broadcast, the time of the walk to my door. Finally, it will be replayed on my old tuner to listen to the fall. In the meantime, a detour to the Arab grocery store where I buy a pack of cigarettes and some foodstuffs to finish the evening, 2 euros more than the normal price. I do it with a clear conscience. I don't regret my 2 euros. The exceptionality of the context of their expenditure contributes to this privileged moment. I like to see that the man who runs the grocery store is invariably there, faithful to our appointment that he ignores. Another world than this evening. A small fraction of utopia, of autonomy and pleasure of living, both physical and intellectual; or rather physical because intellectual.

Utopia of a distorted reality

A world where everything is reversed; where paying more for a pack of cigarettes also has its value

Because it is something else that I offer myself in this way; it is precisely the gratuity of this moment. Because I know the rules of the game and it gives me pleasure. That it abounds in the direction of a very real paradox which puts back in their absurd place the sophisms of the simplistic thought which emanates from our current guardianships. It is neither a logical fact, nor an economic reality, that one should work more to earn more, nor that it is true that what one pays the least is necessarily the most beneficial. What is important is the price we put on our freedom and to know clearly what we are buying when we think we are simply doing something everyday, "like everyone else". Something else invisible is sold with it.

Do we necessarily want it as a gift of the banal, the unexceptional, the official market? How far does it go afterwards into the pores of the skin, into the folds of the convolutions? How does one condition oneself by loving without precaution the common ?

But my evening had a preamble: the road to the rehearsal first, also bathed in a particular atmosphere, but quite different. And then the session itself, which sometimes, like yesterday, touches the heart. Because something important emanates between the people gathered there sometimes. A new awareness of their own value, of their ability to discover themselves as others, perhaps not entirely lost for the days of the week that follow. It's up to them to see to it. I believe that it happens most of the time. That not everything is lost at the end of our sessions. I can see that. I am not, by far, the sole cause. I draw the bow as much as I can, but it's the group that shoots the arrows. Last night, I had taken a text by Nadège Prugnard, Monoï. Incredible what they did with it; in what simple and very controlled vigour, they and he knew how to render it, without affectation, with a mood that carried the outcome of the improvisation high. We leave each other on this mood, this peace that I think makes us happy, where we don't congratulate ourselves for having made a show, a formidable theatre, but for having understood a little more what it could all be for.

We started our adventure together on September 11, 2001, by a strange and surprising chance. It just happened, in an apartment in the suburbs, in Plaisir, where we had agreed to meet to see if something would be possible. We said okay to each other against the backdrop of a TV on in front of the looped images of the collapsing towers, without really measuring the tragic importance of this new era that had just opened up for our unconscious Western consciences, which had not considered war in the scope of their concerns. With the same perfect unconsciousness, those men and women said "yes" to me, after having seen my show "Les Justes-story" at Pierre Cardin's, who chased it away shortly after having programmed it, realizing more clearly what it was saying in substance. At the same time, the adventurers of the No-Naime, an amateur company then a few light years away from another aspect of theatre, replied, "Why not? "Without preconceived ideas, out of desire, to see. They welcomed me through this contract, opening a door to utopia.

So much the worse if they will never come to this other theatre; the choice of repertoires and risks is theirs. No problem with that. The products that are shown as the result of one's work, the choices that seem to be made through a performance, tell little or nothing about this journey. You have to be there beforehand. You have to live it throughout all these sessions. Bringing the results into line with the thought would require another luxury, other orientations. No more than my escapades in the night grocery stores, no more than the retransmissions from the Collège de France, their narration can give the whole content. Only the thought that presides over it counts, and without the difficulty of seeing this thought, poetry could not be born.

From Mozart to Disney, the products are the same machines that extinguish joy under the guise of culture as soon as they hit the shelves of the Fnac.

It is by walking behind their carcasses that one can detect, under the cover of night, small entrances that seem to be abandoned, from which gleams of fireflies filter through. Beyond is the true utopia, a matrix in the hollow of which the map of the zones where the dream of oneself is built, unbeknownst to the world at large, is gradually drawn.