Preamble to the creation

Language abhorred. Poetry with integrity.

I wish I had never read a line, never held a body, but today I enjoy being free of regret. Real life is to come. It is already here; it pours out of my head; it imposes its rhythm and its phrasing on me.

Reading a supposedly structured thought impoverishes me more in these moments of recasting than if I had to reinvent the roundness of the egg's contours myself. So I breathe in each impulse of oblivion and bury myself again, regenerated under my earth.

Burial rather than flight. No, man cannot fly. Poor machines, utilitarian but meaningless substitutes. However, he can dig the earth and feel it under his fingernails and with the tips of his hands. Digger man. Burying man.

The naked man as he is in himself, without accessories, without a dummy wing, without a diving tank, without mechanical equipment, not even that of memory forced by crude learning, what can he do? What freedom of action can he count on once he is stripped of these artifices?

The body, as long as it is not biomechanical, if that can ever happen, is still only itself, naked and vulnerable in its flesh. To train and inform oneself is a risk. The risk of seeing oneself trampled underfoot, distorted by the will of others, by the simple existence of one's own history. The risk of being polluted by influences whose traceability escapes us.

This is education, the rape of a wild land. It is necessary to choose wisely who can enter one's head, so malleable and private is it, or else one is formatted by the common yardstick.

For the globalising movement aims to make everything equal from separate sources. So correcting oneself is an insult to oneself and an all too sure chain to the world that wants only that.

Stay wild! Is it too late? No, it is not too late. It is a matter of recovering one's insubordination like a pure distillate, by concentrating on the best part of oneself.

Literature is a vomitous language of which the authors are the spittle. They haunt the walls of my mind like so many worms, mercantile wardrobes gnawing at my mind, polluted like the air and land space of the testimonies of their ego. Whatever, I will be a writer myself to fight against the tide or whatever it is that has no name. I will write against the grain, even of my own tendency. What does it matter to be understood? We will be one day; recycled if not forgotten; we will serve as an illustration. The world, so voracious, only asks for that, to understand you, to feed its greedy forge and sell you the packaged fruit.

The moment of writing is not the moment of uttering words. For the moment, alone, I exist in my own eyes, but I don't give it any more essentiality than I do to the smug heap of rubbish that is culture. I myself am culture and inherit my miserable status. I only want to observe and consider the path I have taken, like a rat hesitating at each fork in a laboratory burrow, creating the design of its own becoming in action. Only the paths taken count.

Searching for a void

The scenic abstraction alone attracts me. When all that remains for my senses is the fleeting trace of a breeze, as deep as a gash. That's all I retain from a show... or from a man: its preserved emptiness. The remnant of a distraught presence, losing momentum by dint of giving up on resistance. A man, like a show, only advances towards its end. This is the source of the invention of this man writing on an empty stage. His inspiration, as they say. In the end, he will come towards you to spit out the bubbles of his mind that have come to speckle the space and the surrounding walls.

During the minutes of the night, we can sometimes, in rare moments, decide who we are.

I want to bring everything together so that I can dissolve it all, just as the compact loaf of clay dissolves completely in water. At last I admire only the mud and all faces fade away.

My memory is blank again, like new pulp dripping onto the sieve.

At last I can't hear you anymore; what a joy.