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The Adult Invention | "Parents Balls" | Microfilm | Definitive Creatures © David Noir

Journal des Parques J-20

I only sought, as long as he was alive, to disappoint the adult part that my father defended in him; this adult part that he defended perhaps in spite of himself

Yet I was determined, at least in my younger years, to place myself high in the pantheon of his admiration. I undertook this trying and partly anti-productive step in order not to be caught in the trap of his overrated, unfounded and unjust demands, because they came from a man who was incapable of answering them himself, as proven by his own failures. This impulse did not, however, lead me to flee from him, nor to reach heights far from his and closer to my own temperament, because unfortunately, his often playful character, his childish humour when he was not being playful, his often expressed tenderness and the sad disappointment that he had of himself and that at certain times he allowed me to glimpse perfectly, attached me naively to him. I therefore spent a large part of my life's capital resisting, rather than fighting, the affection I bore for a man I would have liked to reject, so much did he disappoint me, from stunned astonishment to disillusioned discoveries, by the weakness of his real nature. He was a paper lion, a wizard of Oz gesticulating and waving pathetic shadow puppets in front of my eyes; in the end, simply a representative of the art of prestidigitation that he practised assiduously in his youth: in short, an illusionist of life.

How many so-called adults are vainly like him and replay the scenario of this charade over and over again?

He himself probably deluded himself a great deal throughout his life, encouraged in this by his bourgeois family, whose vanity in feeling that they had a great name in painting did not help him. The poor man would obviously have been happier and more fortunate if he had become an actor or a theatrical prop, for which he had definite qualities, rather than aiming for heights that, perhaps, his own ego did not even desire. The eternally cruel idiocy of those families, of whatever social class, which are nothing but factories for destroying the talents and hopes of the youngest, by substituting the aspirations of the old. Even when things seem to be going well and the sons, but also the daughters, based on other values that are just as skilfully inculcated in them, proudly hold up the torch that they have taken from their parents, I can't help but feel a pang of anxiety.

My quest, at the end of which it seems that there can be no victory, so short does a human life seem to be to escape a oneself The fact that I have been preconceived by others pushes me against all odds to want to invent a free will for myself. Spontaneous generation was a concept that came up frequently in discussions with my father and if he was just a clown, sometimes sad as well as scary as they all are, he was very sensitive and far from being stupid. Many tête-à-têtes gave me the opportunity to understand that he was trying to make me feel the tragedy of his life of having remained attached to a father who, behind the mask of a charming affection, never took care to make him understand clearly that he would not live in his place and that he had to think of looking elsewhere than in his bosom to become the man he would have liked to be. But wasn't this just one of many examples of the failed lives of many children of both sexes whose entire existence consists of slowly wasting away in blind attachment, never managing to break the link with the beloved parent who, strangely distracted by the ghosts of his own depressive idyll, will strangely never take notice? In his very personal philosophy, I think he liked to think that life was not important enough not to enjoy wasting it well. So he didn't really care about mine as a potential future. He didn't give a damn, in other words, but was ready to talk about it for hours on end; the intellectual elaboration was so much more fun than the tedious construction of a scaffolding that would improve my chances of succeeding in life.

As an adult, you who have not succeeded in being a man; as an adult, you who ape the enterprising woman whose fibre you lack, I am going to write simple words to you since the poetry of my world has difficulty in reaching your face.

Today I am no longer a child in the sense that you mean in your shitty world and yet I am not like you, be sure.

A confidence, you see, I did not choose to write. It was another adult like you who used my brain, then in formation, to inject his own desire to be. To direct my choice of existence. Only I don't give a damn about choices, especially when someone wants me to believe that they have been generously but firmly oriented for my good; I don't have your high awareness of responsibility for my fellow man. You see, I only care about my own butt, but I care openly. So today I'm making do with this handicap to say a few words to you if you come to read me; that of writing. It could just as well have been to be a businessman or a fireman. It doesn't matter to me because in the end it wouldn't have been mine. In any case, it could not have been mine. Because I don't have one. Because I don't want it. None of those who serve your world, as you want it to be.

As an adult, your world is a mistake from A to Z. You have been wrong and will always be wrong. In doing so, you are dragging us, those who do not want to.

There could be an intermediate position, a consensus between our two objectives, but you make sure that you don't leave us any cards in our hands that could be a serious bargaining chip so that our points of view can be crossed, and this, from the earliest age. You put all the attention you are capable of into the work you have been given. You like to reproduce so much. Copying is your forte.

So you see, for me, today is too late. I hate you in essence, that's how it is; even when I see you, as a young man, at 20 - that's where it all starts - at 30, soliciting the powerful and leering at the heels of their entourage. It has to be said that they give you a lot of credit for this implicit trust in your mafia milieu. Yes, what you think, what you believe is good or bad, what you build, even what is admirable; nothing in your vile behaviour finds favour in my eyes. It's a bit sad, but that's the way it is. I would gladly sacrifice your school, your precepts and even your good will to understand me. I wish only the death of your kind. Why do you wish it? Because you profess to neglect mine; because you educate; because you betray me. I, stupidly naive, backward, backward; I, who, at each of our meetings, love you, always innocent. Always, always, in all your forms, I regularly forget your taste for power, for domination, for the choice of the right places and of the transmission - according to your pretty words - which ensures that you put your seal on the little social world that you favour and cherish.

All of you adults are the gentle paedophile criminals, who never cease to mark the virginity of new flesh, under the heavy weight of your press, to imprint your edicts.

You violate with love to preserve savagery from itself. Oh how touching, these millions of Dr. Moreau's who caress and teach us, who indoctrinate us for the betterment of the species. "Do not crawl, that is the law! "That is the law," we repeat, poor bleating, bellowing animals. Ah, if Pinocchio could remain a donkey!

Oh sure, I'm not the first, nor the most talented to do this to you. But I will try throughout my life to be at least a little effective in giving you a hard time.

As an adult, do you know that you do not exist in the state of nature, neither you nor your artificial world? You are an artifice, a toy, far from the mature individual you aspire to be. Far from being a wise man, you are a ridiculous, self-aggrandising bloat, the cancer of your childhood, a social metastasis, a religious as well as a secular, moral and political degeneration.

Do you still understand me or do I have to make it simpler? You want to reign over chaos, to impose salutary laws. For whom? For me, for us who don't care about having power beyond our arms' length? Did you see your world before you gave me that look of contempt?

As an adult, you are a sad, badly aged child who panics at the thought of being suspected of an act irresponsible. The word is out.

As an adult, you create this world even more unjust than it is by nature, so that you can more easily pour out your hypocrisy in public and weep over the misfortunes of your fellow human beings.

Adult, who wants you - oh so seriously - to be a father, a mother, a ruler, a decision-maker, a leader... responsible,

As an adult, you're just a piece of shit, with a suit around you; an air of, covered with a hat so that, as the world passes by, you can bow low.

But since we're here together, in this mess of horrors, take my hand, I'll lend it to you. Let's go for a walk in your world, let's take a tour of the owner you wanted to be.

What do you say to this mutilated corpse on the side of the road, to this raped child, whose conscience has been enlarged as much as his ass by your kind? I'm sorry, I've committed some semblance of poetry again and I know how allergic you are to it. Unless, of course, it adorns your bookshelf; unless it is ordered, bound into a collection more comprehensible to you.

As an adult, dear boy, don't you remember anything? Have you forgotten everything from when you were less stubborn, less bitter? When you didn't understand anything and didn't care? When you didn't know how to build your life. When you didn't even consider it. When you didn't even know the price.

As an adult, my friend, look a little more where I am pointing my finger, just one last time. You see, it's not just war and heinous violence. There is also, there, all small, tiny ways of being, every day of your life. There is the hatred that cannot be expressed, that comes from deep within you and that you cannot help but vomit on your children. There's that little slap of humiliation without consequence, inflicted on your deputy in passing, to make him bow his head. There is this vast secret vanity, which your admirers will take for the talent to see you one day honoured, adored by your peers. But you have nothing to do with that, because you have to eat well; you have to give birth well; you have to make a career well; you have to make your little skills look good; you have to make your light knowledge and profound opinions look serious. You have to obey all that. You have to obey... believe me.

David Noir

David Noir, performer, actor, author, director, singer, visual artist, video maker, sound designer, teacher... carries his polymorphous nudity and his costumed childhood under the eyes and ears of anyone who wants to see and hear.

This Post Has 3 Comments

  1. Patrick Speck

    What a beautiful lesson of anti-morality....but finally, it is an excellent "lesson" of true Morality....that which is addressed to the Individual but in the "existential" sense of the term; taking into account the Other when the latter has emerged from the mass, from the herd therefore....this Other capable of taking one or more different routes without seeking to imitate, without seeking to be identified, nor to identify with the local label......rejecting everything, denying everything, sullying everything, erasing everything, demolishing everything ....pour Être, tout simplement! ? ....This is the thought that comes to me after reading David....good, for what it's worth ....and I dare to publish it!

  2. VIP

    I had the feeling when I read this Easter J that I had been hit in the face by a bell back from Rome. Ding, dong, take that in your face!
    But why doesn't he just mind his own business, Mister Black? Does he think he's Jesus, that he wants to save us? Contrary to what he says, maybe he loves us, maybe he wants to be our parent? Hi, hi, hi!

    I wonder every day why I can't take a step back from the two young people who occupy my sofa and my thoughts.

    But the worry is certainly as much for them as for me. Probably the fear of not being a good mother. Ah Good Mother, how hard it is to fight against that!
    Yet yes, I know that they will have won and I with them, the day they violently kick me to the curb and loudly assert their free will.

    I hate you Mister Black for always pressing where it hurts.

    Fortunately I have an appointment on Thursday with the good doctor David, for my weekly enema.

    In the meantime I'm going to get drunk on chocolate.

    1. David Noir

      Dear VIP, you know just as well how to press the right spot, except that it doesn't hurt. No doubt, I am spared and I am dealing, by chance, with the good side of VIP, unaware of Mr ViP. You see, I'm quite a parent at heart; there must be a bit of that in all the jokers who are in the business of chaperoning actors to lead them down the 'right' path (hi, hi, hi, my turn). It's a taste, a tendency, an aptitude, I can't say, that I don't live badly; I hope you'll have the opportunity to see it during these famous Thursdays. It's just that I don't have the dreaded responsibility of accompanying children; in fact, it's quite the opposite, since you know very well how much theatre is a matter for grown-ups. But don't worry, I don't allow myself to ring anyone's bell, or if I do, it's probably to hear myself say "will you be quiet, carillonneur..." as in the song. I'm really sorry if my bell rang a bit loudly in your eardrums, my long preamble in the previous article was probably not thick enough to dampen the sound; and anyway, as you read, I'm ultimately unable to do more than relay what a lonely kid with no means of understanding much of anything continues to bellow as if he still exists. The poor fool doesn't know he's been dead for a long time. I think what he was crying out for was an instruction manual, which he never found in the big box. An oversight, no doubt. Far from a Jesus (nails hurt too much), his little holy trinity is only angry at careless manufacturers who misplace or never bother to include instructions with their machines. I'm the first one he's been busting his chops about for years. When will the death knell of the ringer be sounded?

      Here's to you, lucky you who get to gorge on chocolate, especially at Easter when it's so special 😉

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