It's called the relationship

at the root of everything

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THE GOOD JOKE

The talent would be to please you, right?

I often start with an aggressive sentence like this one in the morning. They all have the same origin and all lead to the same feeling. I wake up every day with a hatred of the world; a fierce rage towards this social universe in which I can only be frustrated by my deprivation of autonomy; by my compulsory alienation from others; emotional, financial, familial, professional. We call it relationship. None of them happen or unfold quite the way I want them to. My great adaptability is an absolute and total violence to me. I hate any relationship that forces me into it.

We're aggressive towards others when we think they're aware of their crap. But I believe that they are never quite so. Not even the most "evil" or rather, relatively speaking, the most harmful. Neuroses on legs are everywhere in power; in all places of power, including the smallest or most intimate scales of power. Their sudden expression is often the responsibility of the person who has unfortunately allowed it to arise in the person with whom he is dealing. Indeed, nothing is easier than to create a place of power in any situation where absolute friendship is not certain to prevail and where the temptation to abuse is a potential threat. All it takes is a little bit of submission, even if it's just a very slight flexing of the "soul" or an overly hasty unveiling, to create a power bubble in front of oneself, soon to be turned into a power box. The fantasy of the aggressor as well as of the aggressed in the form of an anxious or belligerent mental projection, will be the inflator of this small expandable bubble. The increase in its volume will quickly give it a more structured form.
Billions upon billions of these cells make up the bulk of the world's hive. I don't think anyone really wants to see them destroyed, although they can be. On the scale of the people, "revolutions" are chimerical concepts always destined to make the bed of other natures of power which finally prove to be the same as their predecessors. Revolutions are simply windows whose wings are shaken for a few seconds to "renew" the air a little. In practice, the air is never renewed. A little fresh air mixes with the old air, that's all.
In order to calm the violent arrogance of the powers-that-be, big or small, I believe that the first solution is to shame them, without humiliating them. To do this, we must show our interlocutor, with a look that is more astonished than accusatory, but precisely targeted, that we have noticed at that moment a strange failure in his behavior; an uncontrolled emotional outburst that almost reached us. One must react promptly and have this intention carried out vividly through one's eyes and expression, so that it is perceived in the instant that the remark arrives. This constitutes a first warning, benevolent but firm, which should leave the other person in the lurch. If this is not the case and the arrogance leads him to maintain a tension, it is because he intends to pass to a higher phase of aggression. It is then essential to adapt his defensive tactics as best as possible.

Living together; ah ah ah! The good joke.

Losing a friend is ultimately a relief every time. The relationship that has come to an end has rotted, then disintegrated, totally. At the end of the day, after a lot of torture and moral suffering, to understand that there is no solution, is finally, always for me, a liberation. Back to earth, it happens in some cases that the relationship grows again; radically different at the bottom, despite appearances. It is not a resumption but a reincarnation in another form, obeying other laws. A sort of rebalancing after an accounting error. The balance sheet of the illusions maintained over the period can be heavy.

And I repeat to myself, "It's all an illusion, it's all an illusion.

Communicating. A horror like a blind wall. A surge. The discussion advances like a battlefield. Troops in close ranks; words following a gauntleted leader. On my command, fire. Your words come upon mine in a terrible crash of jokes and little phrases. You drag me into it without my having time to straighten out my situation. It's carnage. Come the artillery. Lines of tanks appear pushing any attempt at intelligence out of the perimeter like construction shovels. Impossible to be deep. No nuance allowed. Make way for the stupid and dismayed stupor in the world of easy reasoning between two mouthfuls of aperitif. But what are you defending that is so indefensible in these worldly lands, behind your makeshift palisades? And what fortune! So good, so beautiful fortune; the wealth of appearances. I suffer like a prisoner, but everything is rushing; we must have dinner.
There is no natural place in my eyes for these meetings. The ground is too slippery. It rains knotted ropes. Impossible to untie their hemp fibres viciously tightened by the humidity of tongues wagging in all directions; mouths uttering vanities. What kind of ambient terror is created in these evenings?