Mobile Dick

Today, calm sea.

No oil, just quiet.

Doesn't mean there's nothing to be done.

Like every day, one task follows another. Not enough to get ahead, but the feeling of a relative mastery of time, at least for one day. No reason to proclaim yourself the hero.

No galloping euphoria, no bottomless despair. Writing yesterday's post brought me as much emptiness as stability. Strangely enough, there are things that need to be said, themes that need to be tackled, made as clear as possible, at least once, to be freed from the concern of their expression; things that trot and suddenly become so much more pressing at the door of one's ideas, as if they were going up the current by themselves to come to the top of the list. That was the case yesterday with pornography.

So today, more than usual, a little washed out by the effort, I write as I go along, letting my hand drag in the freshness of the wave. Nevertheless, I don't think I don't feel like saying anything, otherwise I'd write "blank page", as the navigator sometimes writes when he can't manage to refresh himself. I'm not talking about a sailor under a blazing sun, I'm just using the expressions on the Web that are properly dedicated to this situation.

Always impressive, even touching, for me who likes to have fun with the words of our language, to see the borrowing of a vocabulary belonging to a universe to be diverted to another. There are so many poetic coincidences that one would only have to bend down to pick them all up and work a lifetime to put them together. When we place ourselves, with our problems, at the intersection of these universes, we find ourselves in a privileged place of creation. The rest goes on its own. As far as I am concerned, it is clear that the links between the theatre, whose structure was erected in the past thanks to the know-how of the naval carpenters - who were also called upon to build the scaffolding, it should be noted - and the Internet flow, comparable to an infinite ocean, make me feel like a watchman surfing continuously from one wave to the next. I am less and less aware that borders are watertight.

I am aware that this may still seem curious or far-fetched to some connoisseurs of one or the other field, but the sensations I get from my transdisciplinary crossings make me feel a little more comfortable with this analogy each time. Since the first time I set foot on them, I have always felt the plateaus like the decks of ships melting over seas of spectators. Sometimes I have even played at low tide. But a recent and new feeling for me came to me when I looked into the problems of site construction a few years ago. I had to deal inevitably with the HTML code, but more particularly, the CSS which completes it by the codification of the layout. Very far from being a webmaster, I learned enough to discover the incredible organic lifeThe logic structuring these languages is almost supernatural because it is simply natural. I won't be pedantic and juggle awkwardly with concepts that are often beyond me, but I just want to express how this surface learning has nevertheless nourished my poetic imagination. For a whole period, I never got tired of playing with the various positions of the floating elements. Again, I do not choose the word on purpose to support my arguments, but simply use the term "float", which is a property that can be assigned, for example, to a block in order to remove it from the flow and place it to the left or right of its container.

It's that there's a real flow natural in the design of the code, the law of which pre-exists any changes to the elements used to create the layout. This would probably not make a computer scientist shudder, but since I have no serious mathematical knowledge, I must say I'm still babbling about it. The evocative power of this system alone would obviously make me want to know so much more, but my little head isn't really capable of taking me much further. Too bad, I just have to experiment a little and perceive all the potential richness that exists in bringing together fields as dissimilar a priori, as poetry and computer science.

 Other examples exist, such as anchors used in a web page, up to the Internet, itself an abbreviation of Network, implying the notion of net (net).

Thus, according to this fluid process of associations, which must certainly have existed since our brain has been functioning - whether it involves ideas, people, traits, words or simply chance - I humbly admit to being completely unaware of the phenomenon of the famous "blank page" mentioned differently above, and of its striking and vertiginous emptiness, which seems to be feared by so many writers seeking inspiration. I don't brag about it, seeing no point in forcing myself to write if I don't feel like saying anything. It's probably because I'm not a writer; which in a way would be a relief to me, having never wished to be one.

Why write then? In my case, because the sceneThis is the most disparate and heterogeneous material there is, which remains the famous pontoon on which I want to stand as much as possible to breathe the sea air.

In the theatre, you can do everything and tinker with everything together; that's even the reason why I've devoted myself to it, looking for the space with the least possible constraints. I was quite wrong on one aspect of this point, because anyone who practices it a little knows how much one comes up against all the variables of the human being. On the other hand, as far as creation is concerned, anything goes. Song, dance, text, deconstruction, images, sounds, objects, materials, forms and formats, everything can be modelled and modulated.

Theatre is a patchwork sewn from other arts. Wanting to value it more, it seems that it encompasses them all, that it is certainly the one in closest proximity to life. It is as much the truth of illusion, as an illusion of truth. It is his very contours, so difficult to define once and for all, that make him still attractive, despite his canonical age and his disgusting propensity to indulge in his ageless excrement. But then again, it's a cacochyme that still stands, against all odds. Good regular infusions are not too much for him to reopen a hungry eye.

The dynamics of the Web is good for his moods and I think it's important not to let him lock himself in his crimson room, recalling his glorious memories and other Jean Vilareries, even if they are only ten years old. He is a man who should be violated without accepting to accede to his deep desire to rest like a good wine. Far from acquiring style, he takes on an old taste of barrel that goes hand in hand with his pretension of believing himself eternally in the race. No, no old carne, move your soft flesh stuffed with bedsores to go and frolic a little in the open air; we need your blood to circulate. Your clots, spread out in large numbers, threaten us with embolism as much as your poor carcass, we who have the weakness to take care of you. By osmosis, thrombosis awaits us. We see it on every corner of the stage. Someday, someday perhaps you will find a new youth; there is room for hope. And on that day, believe me, I'll be one of the first to want to break out the champagne in your honor.

I don't really care if I'm part of your recovery, really, not that much. Always, like the good, foolish son I try to push away as much as I try to portray him in these texts, I will be there to assist you as I can, and more often than not, as I wish, as I want, and not by bending under the weight of your impotent body and your infamous demands. For very often, it is you the whale that swallows me and not the glorious belly of a galleon bounced up and ready to receive the fruit of my rapines. I find myself, a fool, naked without a blanket, struggling in the flimsy entrails of a monstrous comatose marine animal, a gargantuan sea elephant, whose short trunk dips flaccidly in the vomit that he regurgit with small repressed lamps, like a drooling drunk, the lippe hanging down, the ass bathing in its juice of puke, piss, shit and alcohol.

Yes, sometimes it's like that, and in the absence of rebirth, I have to expel myself from your slimy folds with the rage of an Alien who would have been in the wrong place before coming to term.

You've been talking about the sea for a few hours now, and it's already less calm. We'd better get back to the cabin before the storm hits. Gargantua, Pinocchio, Leviathan... this evening, these mythical creatures don't tell me anything worthwhile and I can see once again how much the frames of the theatres can take on, when I evoke them as protective roofs, the shapes of familiar skeletons to which are associated faces haunting the museum halls by my side.

Natural history, history without words; sometimes it is good to remain silent while contemplating the horizon, rather than risking formulas that could bring the demons out of the abyss. For the moment, my shift is over. I'm going back to the cabin.