The star won't give you the key to the blog; I'm not idealistic enough to make it happen that way. Even if while writing these words, in spite of myself, I have in mind the syrupy and sumptuous credits of Pinocchio, debased and magnified by the terrible machine of the great Walt. Terrible nevertheless this power of the creamy dream that still pursues us. But that's the problem. He is still chasing us, or at least he is no longer chasing us. For we know everything; we have known almost always and much more, don't we? But I might still want to pencil here and there; tag this and tag that, but like Walt, I don't. I don't know how to do Mickey, but I'm very sorry, believe it or not.
No, I can only draw in my own dirty way; on the ceiling, in the basement, in a somewhat anarchic way. It still feels good. You're still happy, and chaos has its good sides. So, for me, it's liberating not to have to give a title every time I crack a little sentence on the Web. Besides, that would be ridiculous; not every entry claims to have the content or format of an article. Yet I wouldn't want to deprive myself of that either, of this pointless graffiti. That's why I put up a wall. To be able to tag little sentences that might slip through my head and only worry about catching them on the fly, without worrying about more formal constraints. But hey, as I was saying, there's still a passage to join the blog in case you want to go deeper into its nooks and crannies. And then there's the other site, the real one, on the surface. Clickable medallions are hung or nailed on the trunk of the big root that can make you think of a tree, did you see?
Makes him look a little totemic, I think. Well, it's up to you. Yes, that's it; you'll either see well or you won't see well; or you won't see anything. It's like in the theater. It all depends on how much space you can get.
For a long time I've wanted to let a kind of rhizome like this grow across my building, right Tintin? It's gardening. But maybe the walls weren't cracked enough. Because it's a big root that I planted there, a bit like a vegetable aorta that's going to bring me some fresh blood in my veins. Blood, or in this case, sap drawn from deeper layers. At least that's what I tell myself, because I have a difficult, capricious circulatory system. It doesn't circulate enough; it even clogs up sometimes. Something must be obstructing it, surely. I don't know what it is. I don't know what. I don't know what to do. But since I don't want to risk an embolism, I build a building - oh let's hear it, nothing luxurious - I call it a "building" but I could just as well say a pile of bricks - I shape a pile of materials so I try to make it stand upright.
Then when it's a bit old, dry, and has been around for a while, I wait for a big bramble or something to invade it, cross it, embrace it, and pierce it, until the rubble comes apart, because there are still a few in places. Yes, it is sometimes possible to come across some real, old stones on my building site. That's because I recycle a lot. I take what I find. I make do with what I have; what the environment has at hand. All these components necessarily form a very heterogeneous whole which can be unstable. But I think I like that. I feel at home in the ruins.