Where I understand the pleasure of waiting for it to bite

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AT THE LAKE

Start by undermining the basis of my nature. Get the moral high ground and wait for the ... cement to take ... the wide ass of the cows that stay here.

Foundations, 1, 2, 3 ...

... in this pixelated hovel that I've decorated in the oriental style as if I'd been travelling, I'm not forced to do anything except what I like or what I don't like, but of my own accord. Except, perhaps, for jumping out of bed to turn on this computer or another one; that one, the closest to me; sometimes my phone. I'm so surrounded by these devices, like everyone else now, that I feel like a dog handler who has to command a pack.

And as is often the case with dogs, they are the ones who hold you on a leash. But I don't mind. It's only fair after all. You have to obey them out of kindness. The poor things didn't ask for anything; it's capricious, selfish, cruel to force them to wait for our goodwill so that they can do their business when we're slow to get up. I've also done it sometimes, ignominiously, when I was one of those fucking masters who want to make themselves believe that they love their toys because they can break them by their own temporary will; by laziness, fatigue; by lack of empathy, of conscience, of gratitude towards their animals, while they go crawling like cowards on Sundays in front of their old parents who make them shit. But I don't think I'll ever do that again if I ever get to be in a position of authority again. I'll come back to this terrible word, "master", behind which one takes shelter (here a passage that can't be deciphered on rereading) ... within reach of (idem) ... incapable of ... the slave. For who says the one, says the other. Both bound. Both slaves; like pigs; it's better.

Volupté d'attendre | Horloges de mon temps numérique © David Noir
Voluptuousness of waiting | Clocks of my digital time © David Noir

At the third Wilhelm Reich, it will be exactly noon

Digression. They are so common in my house that I often feel as if I am holding one by the tail and showing it to these gentlemen while a swarm of others escape; obviously not thousands, but maybe 2, 3, 5 at the same time... I don't know. They are twisting so fast in my cranium. That's why I get up with a start; that's why I rent myself a little house online, virtual, as they say. Maybe, but that's what I need to pile up a whole mess of ideas that pass and stagnate in turn. They must be there because they stay there. When I have the courage, I put them in big, black, sturdy garbage bags and I pile them up in a corner of the garden.

That's how it is. I do my little civic duty when I pollute outside my limits; I sort it out properly, but it still hurts my heart to do so. Because all I'm interested in in real life, the one that inspires me with a vital impulse and not the one that is dictated to me - whether the dictator is a political, love or moral authority - is my whim; right there. That's what I want to respect. Not the earth, especially if I am told that the earth is the city.

No, the ocean, the forest, the mountain lakes yes, but the city, no. I love the city as the garbage that it must be. I can dream of marvellous and beautifully ordered gardens with a sure taste, with delicate shades of colour and judiciously chosen species, with the concern of the symbiosis of natural factors between them. A wonderful balance that smells of tai chi and meditation. I have nothing against it; it's true that one can find it pleasant for a while.
But soon enough I feel like I'm in one of those pedestrian streets that are still springing up everywhere; streets with small pink cobblestones, apparently laid out with the well-being of the passer-by in mind.

It's Disneyland without Shere Khan The same disgustingness very quickly as in Disneyland. You think you're going to be dazzled or at least find some of the joys of childhood that gobbles everything up. But no, everything is ugly and of poor quality. It's a set in the form of a mockery; a set made on the cheap. Not a beautiful theatre or cinema set, not even the cheesiest. Even a garden or a beautiful canal can become this.

What are you playing at, naked and unarmed?

Yet nothing is more ecological than my garbage town. Because in chaos and neglect, sooner or later, it is there that nature "takes back its rights", as we say very stupidly by an old good cliché; a very obvious proverb of which the traditional culture is so fond, taking the crude concept for wisdom, out of vexation and pride of not finding itself more learned.
As if nature had any rights. Nature would already have to have an identity to have rights. And I prefer to tell the passing ghost right away that if "Mother Nature" comes from the backwoods of popular bullshit, I'd invite him to spend just one week in the depths of Mother Nature's home, so we can see how this fake monkey would fare.

"Mother Nature", as the idiots bellow, "likes" above all to destroy. In this respect, it is impressive to realize the number of occurrences of the word "nature", used to designate this notion or to personify it, that can be found in Sade's texts. Nature, then, as is the whole point of the sympathetic D.A.F., reaches the heights of enjoyment when her entire edifice breaks down, like a maniac stacking cards when her castle finally collapses after so much cumulative tension. She is very happy with Mother Nature. She then sets about starting all over again; everything from the beginning without batting an eyelid. And here we go again for a few million years, because time doesn't cost beautiful Mother Nature anything because she is the one who creates it.

I'll tell you, Mother Nature is a big, lazy, raw artist who knits all day. She's got nothing else to do but make DNA necklaces and stack cells, like a fat baba cool cow who can't see any other future than collecting seeds and making salt dough models. She's on the dole, Mother Nature; and she's doing just fine. In this sense, I must say that I understand her perfectly. I, too, don't want to do anything else but string beads, always on the same thread that will never be cut to make something useful or manageable, like an interior decoration or a pendant. That's why I know Mother Nature so well. She and I are the same.

My little person is entirely modelled on her to the pixel and I don't tell myself anything else. So when I hear that she needs to be respected, I laugh. She doesn't mind being respected. It has as much effect on her as buckshot on a hippo's ass. And the best thing is that everyone knows it; absolutely everyone, but everyone feels obliged to come and tell you about this Nature that you know by heart in yourself; in length, breadth and depth. You know all this perfectly well on your own without ever having been taught it.

Come the tsunamis, come the mudslides; come our wonderful bins and the swarming rats; come the uncontrolled overflow because it is uncontrollable; a little more and we are there; and after a little hiccup of glaciation or intense desertification, she will barely lift her fat ass from her wooden and woven straw chair - the whole thing a little worn out anyway - just to make room for her wind to come out and then she will sit back down in a few million years to her crocheted scarf and her quetsch pies. The more we are overwhelmed by our impulses, our impossible attempts at coherence; the more we screw up and the more we offer her the pleasure of a beautiful destruction, to this good mother Nature. That's all she expects from us, her brave little children that she lays in slew without even caring that they still hang from her ass like eggs from the abdomen of the queen bee, while she goes about her business.

So the mess where everything is in its place, well I feel in my element as much as Mother Nature in her superb landscapes, which she models, it must be said, with brilliance. At the same time, when that's all we've been doing for billions of years around this unfortunate star, which also only burns up and farting gases hundreds of kilometres up, one might think that both of them have acquired a certain know-how in the act of the petomaniac and the embroiderer.

The sense of urgency, the vanity that leads us, surely more than any other species (apart from the squirrel perhaps), to an absurd belief in destiny... to these too I will undoubtedly often return, for they are somewhat my favourite subjects; in the sense that they concern me of course, but they also concern so many others, that I consider myself to be a negligible quantity in this matter.

What is pleasant, at this moment of writing, with my eyes still filled with sleep and its relative absence, is that if there is any vanity of existence, for me, in writing these lines, it is purely unconscious. It would rather present itself - as we say of this or that thing that always arises without ever having really warned - as an urge to pee. Besides, having gone to bed late in the morning, I got up four hours later. It is indeed an impulse to which I give the predominance, since my relative night hardly finished, I rush to write and describe as a rarity - sufficiently in my eyes to give it time and space - this energy as useless as unsatisfactory which propels me in the heart of the Web (even if it does not have any) via the computer, before having satisfied my urge to urinate however very present. The two necessities are almost concomitant, but which one precipitated the other? I have to say I wonder, and that may even be enough for my day.

Like Mother Nature, I am content with little.

I write under the impact of extreme fatigue; the nights follow one another; one after the other, one would say, but what do the nights follow one another for? I imagine, one after the other... shaping Wordpress; not much writing yet, but already the foundations of the bunker, a tomb of bronze, rock and concrete, ready to receive them, the sentences. My site has to be as attractive as a fallout shelter so that the words don't escape.

This is my project: to unlearn how to write this writing, which we suffocate from general asphyxiation; deprivation of air and links. Because with writing, that's what's terrible and fearsome; it's a kind of incendiary napalm that takes over the skin and vaporises the dermis into carbon dust, even at a great distance, before it touches you. There's something about the process that's akin to dread, something deadly and sticky that you can't shake off without leaving bits and pieces of your superficial character behind. Something that ends up making you look like a disgusting, festering, brackish leper; like someone who thinks. And I'm in it, and I never wanted any of that thick, acrid soup; a mucus soup. Especially not; especially not that; not that protruding thing, half gaseous, half solid, not that asteroid growing at sight and which already from afar seemed so threatening. Anything or everything, but rather to do nothing with myself than to write. To give up my life if the plague reached me, that's what I told myself when I was younger, and that's where I've been for too many years now. Ah, if I could write worse than that, in a less "worked" way, maybe the sticky disease would leave me. Only the cliché of shy but ambitious young girls can dream of writing as something bigger than anything else that will make them cum without knowing it and take over their lives. A real basic porno from the 70s.

Suddenly a little calm. I stop. I take advantage of the lull. A pocket has been pierced. It empties.

I don't think that last remark makes sense. Never mind, I won't think about it further. I want to respect my postulate, which is not a decision but a need, to deliver my words here, coming back to them, ghost, as little as possible.
I would also like to say in passing that this remark - the fact that something doesn't make sense (I was just talking about young girls) - ended up there quite by chance, since I took over, to write the paragraph that has just preceded it, at any place in this fraudulent text. This remark was therefore aimed at something else, earlier in the sentence cut in two, which I no longer know and do not wish to know what it might have been about. That's fine. It's like a little oxygen. Not the pure air of the peaks, I wouldn't know how to breathe it - that would make me nauseous or dizzy, but the air that simply enters through the crack of the window. That's enough; a few molecules of vague literature that are destroyed. It's not much compared to what needs to be destroyed.

(Passage unreadable again)... I almost have to do, just as with my handwriting, by the way; if I didn't come back to it a little, sometimes even a lot later, but for other reasons, you wouldn't be able to read me any more. I type as badly as I write pitifully by hand, but with a different velocity. It must be said that this particular way of "doing", of moving the hand, annoys me enormously. A hand that I otherwise rather like, but that I hate in these moments, so much it hurts me in all its joints and taunts me by its clumsiness. Its transcription is so slow compared to the impulses my brain sends me! Not that it is especially fast, but so much faster compared to this horse's hoof trying to give shape to signs. It is frightening.

For the moment, since the beginning of this text, I have not looked up from the screen and I fear "the worst" when I eventually do, probably in the next minute or two. This was true at the time I was writing it, but I remind any strangely bold and oddly curious reader that it is fatally not true at the present moment, when I am inserting and sprinkling other sentences as one finishes cooking a dish. In the end, this is not very important. What is important to me is that I was not forced to do so.

I just looked up. 6 lines are displayed; the first ones only. I must have pressed an unfortunate key combination in my blind haste. Thank you Wordpress and your auto-save which allows me to go back in time, even if this loss would not have changed the world. Nevertheless, anyone who has experienced the frustration of losing what he or she possessed the moment before, knows that whatever the value and nature of the thing in question, a painful shadow remains for a few moments, of a more or less significant magnitude, which hovers in the air for at least several seconds before fading away and then vanishing. Something like a blow to the heart is then felt. This was the case for me a little more than a few seconds ago. I'm bringing it to you in a sort of delayed live broadcast of a few minutes now, and much more if someone stumbling upon these lines were to imagine the detailed circumstances months or even years later; since it is the great privilege of the Internet, even more so than in the publication of books, to carry for decades scattered pieces of lived moments from all over the world, made accessible, at hand, like the flow of an ocean that would be covered with plastic bottles that would be its main pollutant as much as its primary constituent. But above all, the frustration lies in the fact of being deprived of the pleasure of throwing into the fire with one's own hand, the rags that one has produced in spite of oneself; like crimes from which one would like to hide; like the rape of children irrepressibly committed with a secret voluptuousness.

Secret Defence of the Masculine

At last I am opening my eyes, which have been half closed until now, a little more.
I sometimes like to think that I write live like musicians improvise with their instruments. Like pianists in this case, given my position at the keyboard and the jolting rhythm that syncopates my typing, jazz or blues.

The "groove" as they say, the groove of my writing, the line of which translates into the autistic swaying of my torso and head back and forth; again irrepressibly; in a more than immodest, obscene attitude. Or at least, something very similar.

Again, a fright and a strange feeling; an elastic interruption and a sudden suspension; now we move on to athletics. Not completely unpleasant either, it must be said, even if the language of sport is not part of my sensual vocabulary. But did I really have to write twice directly in this little window of the software, stubbornly ignoring the swaying movements imposed on me by this detestably narrative boat?

I even feel like some of the phrases managed to jump out of the water. I still haven't really looked at my catches in detail, carelessly thrown over my head as I reel in my nets. Anyway, they will be enough today, to feed me or to poison me; it's up to me. I'll see later.

There are no roots in heaven

But now that I'm taking more time to feel them out at the bottom of the bucket, I sense some phrases so potentially pregnant with so many others that might follow, that I'm still wary.

So many themes to develop in spite of myself; so much work and hours to waste to come. Yes, beware. Fortunately the bunker is there, solid and free to find its adequate expansion to contain them by high walls. How I too would like to live within such walls; finding myself at once unreachable, invisible and at the heart of everything. That will be for another life, unless it was already the case before. No matter, today the web is enough for my escape to a safer prison. And then, I don't forget that it's precisely to capture these shots that I get up with the day to rush out of bed without getting dressed, in my unstable boat in search of "full" sentences.

Yes, I often fish naked, like a villager in Africa casting his net into a waterhole or an Amazonian Indian harpooning and pulling out a few big fish from the river. Two figures that I have never really come across or seen at work with my own eyes - other than in documentaries, but whom I know well and whose possibility of taking their food, however meagre and thus sometimes, directly from the entrails of this famous and deadly nature, I have often envied. And then what need is there for a loincloth, alone and in the open air, to do what one has to do, even if it is against one's will? Each of us only ever moves forward when pushed to do so and against our will. So, I might as well have no other discomfort on my body than this penile sheath designed to protect me from myself.

Yes, I type like a musician and like a deaf person too, which certainly amounts to the same thing. Why would one make so much noise if one could hear well? Is there nothing else to hear but the music? It's become such a habit, everywhere, all the time to think that music always does good.

I get a great deal of pleasure from swinging like this and passing the rhythm of my impulse through the keyboard. This is my drum. Finally a skin that is not mine! I hear this music. I hear those silences too; I feel them deeply and they resonate. Yes, for me I think this is music; something I feel like I'm alone in hearing.

That's it, I think I've understood how to effectively fight against the possibility of losing your work in progress by writing directly in Wordpress. This isn't a technical forum and I'm not going to give you the details of the manipulation, as I think I've already forgotten them, but there's something pleasing about noticing once again that in computing, backtracking is often feasible; that operations are designed to never be destructive, which makes me even more enthusiastic about the seductive idea of inhabiting this digital world, at least as much as the other one, and taking this option more seriously than I really have until now.

My real basic question, which is the subject and future experience of this blog, is: why the need to set up yet another site (I have more or less twelve, although their interlocking nature does not always make them distinct from each other in the eyes of the visitor, and some are not even fundamentally intended to be seen)?

This was true at the time of writing in August 2015. During my years of preparatory experience, I have created up to 14 different sites, all of which have now been brought together into one, the one you are now browsing.

Horror shift                    

 

A creature emerges from the lake, naked; emerges from the black lake. What are we playing if it eats us tonight?

Yes, why not make this new little blog, this eternally good little joke, on, under, behind... one of these existing platforms. Or just compile the tons of notes that surround me from the accumulation of the fruits of daily impulses into one big thud? BOOM!

Fortunately, I have taken to throwing most of it back into its natural element, the bin. Long live eco-friendly fishing. Boom again!

When I return from time to time, I return the older specimens to their environment if I don't eat them raw and fresh immediately. The world of the mind is vast and I aim to stop canning. I have noticed that I will always find something to sustain myself on the spot. In that sense my industry is quite ecological after all. Re-Re-Re-Boom!

But this autarkic autonomy also makes me the one who suffers, since, inexorably and according to the regular rhythm of the seasons, these brave bugs return in numbers to spawn in my head and once again lay eggs and prosper, grow and multiply.

This is where the problem lies and this is what needs to be corrected. Consequently, pollute my head so that the brave creatures find it less attractive to come and reproduce there. For the time being, it is still my burden as a village fisherman to transcribe them into writing. I have become accustomed to it. Thus, to escape a little from their grip, I become a musician syncopating rituals or a fisherman on the shores of a large lake on the plains or in the mountains, in Africa, Asia, Oceania or America, about which I have no illusions that they are images of a time that will soon have disappeared for good. Mother Nature will be fine.

These places of the virtual and the tangible imaginary exist quite concretely for me. They are my living spaces and even my second homes. One of their structural limits is that it is less easy to invite others into them; it is not enough in these worlds, which are alternately video and playful, no, it is not enough for doors to be opened or closed. There are only thresholds to be crossed in a permanent house. Here, it is the joint efforts of slave and master that form the exits.

If you let me dream you, I won't dissolve you.

Perhaps it is part of the job of setting the table and making visible and palpable and audible what no one else could perceive alone. Nothing is less certain. It is also possible to set one's world on fire by creating it in order to give oneself light, to generate an intense illumination and a projection effect from the interiorities of one's own world. Spectators, spectatrixes, all isolated in their own world under the pretext of witnessing the burning of someone else's world. I like the idea and I believe it to be potentially real.

That doesn't answer the strange need to come and display my game or shellfish on the net markets. Or rather, that would be it; I arrange my catch on my stall. I wait for the barge, which apparently has the same etymology as 'gallant'; in both cases, 'one who bears interest', but which is also the boat that brings back the fruits of its catch.

Freshly caught and cheap. Cerebral handmade production, captured and then fed by hand. Perhaps, the virtual worlds will begin their metamorphosis to sentient matter and perhaps they will make themselves visible to us in the way we hoped for from the dreaded aliens in their silver plastic suits of the beautiful atomic delusions of the 1950s? For soon, the above-ground, above-ground, gold... culture will live on?

Impregnation: experience lived day after day in front of our computer screen interlocutors. For sure, they will not let us leave their world as easily as that.

The end of the innocents will be accomplished in the cloudbuster that thunders the time that their quest for mouths on decapitation of beliefs.

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