Small article short to inform that last night I was robbed

... in a dream.

It's a funny feeling when I wake up, because it's devoid of any dramatic feeling. No, rather, life as I would like to be able to live it, but all is not yet lost. I'm taking advantage of this blog to replace my analysis session which is skipping during the holidays.

Yes, I felt the dream was sympathetic when I came out of it, for its décor had a sense of calm freedom without being stale. My flat was a bright, relatively large ground floor, consisting mainly of a living room of about thirty square metres, the characteristic feature of which was its large French windows with small panes of glass and wooden crosspieces. One of these doors opened onto a tiny paved courtyard that was too high to give access to any opposite side. An old wooden garden table, originally white, and two slightly rickety chairs occupied it. A few plants, which one would define as weeds, were growing between the flagstones and escaping almost horizontally from the slope. The other French window was in fact the front door. The panes were obscured by a sort of copper-coloured metallic coating which must have given a mirror effect when seen from the entrance hall, rather like the doors of the caretaker's lodges in Haussmann buildings in Paris. This coating was considerably chipped and revealed the transparent glass in many places. I don't know if it was originally designed to be a one-way glass to see visitors passing or coming through the door, but I hope not, as I would find it highly distressing to watch the parade of passers-by passing through the hall or taking the stairs all the time. Still, and this is certainly the origin of the burglary, this meagre separation did not offer much security against an outside intrusion. A simple handle, too often repainted and badly turned, operated a slightly twisted steel bar, which was supposed to penetrate the ceiling and the floor to constitute a three-point lock in the style of the 19th century.^th  century. A third window, of normal height this time, was visible behind the counter that half closed an American-style kitchen area, which was also luminous like the rest of the flat, except, curiously, the courtyard. In fact, I think I have described all the space constituting my living space in this dream, except for a small shower room about which I have no visual information, but which I imagine modest, sufficiently luminous, of a faded blue colour, without much comfort, except for an old central heating radiator that has been repainted too many times, of the same faded baby blue as the walls. The stainless steel shower, fixed to a corner of a tiled wall, must not, despite a large shower head, deliver a very powerful flow. But now I'm extrapolating after the fact and starting to write a novel. This is not my aim. So let's get back to the data of the dream itself. I'll end with the description of this place, because to complete the picture of what should finally be called a large studio, you have to imagine the whole thing as completely faded. The floor is covered with a grey-green carpet, turning yellow in places where the sun regularly shines in summer. It should be noted that paradoxically and despite the rather luminous feeling of the space, the only real source of outside light would be the window in the kitchen area, whose daylight is partly blocked by the brick and wood bar forming the separation from the living room. The French windows, I recall, open respectively onto a sunless courtyard, the other onto a vast building hall, only dimly lit as most of them are, by electricity. The faded green carpet is dirty and heavily stained in places; it may even be marked with a large fold on one side where, imagining it barely fixed to an old parquet floor, it would have kept slipping with each passage, in one direction or the other, over a very small width, but sufficient to mark this fold that has become ineffaceable. In the centre, an imposing and old but comfortable fabric sofa, today of an old pink colour, but probably red or burgundy originally; that is to say its age. It hides a metal box spring, giving access, when deployed, to a very honest bed, although squeaking a little in response to too many abrupt movements. A lamp, a few pieces of furniture, all of which are outdated like the decor, an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts, a glass used the day before, still lying on a rather ugly coffee table, complete my picture. I finally come to the situation.

When I arrive, the French windows are wide open and slamming incredibly into the wind as if we were on the open sea. To get a good idea of this, you have to imagine more precisely those spring gusts, when it is still cool, coming from who knows where and making doors and windows close with brutality, surprising everyone, as if someone had deliberately slammed them with a violent movement. This kind of micro-event is enough, when life seems gentle, to create a stir at family dinners and make the master or mistress of the house get up, in order to close the incident, which is then lathered up for a few more moments to delude ourselves together, with a shared but unstated enjoyment of the present moment, about a life whose only dangers can be summed up in a few warning blows given by the wind, and which is resolved with a firm hand after having been quite scared together. So much for my Proustian phrase.

It must be said that the door of the building, through which I see myself arriving, is also wide open, logically favouring the draughts.

The sensation of entering one's home on the same level, in one go, without having any obstacles to push is truly magical. It is the physical embodiment of the free flow of ideas, words and bodies in a pleasant movement of ambient air.

Everything seems possible and work, in its bad acceptation, i.e. forced, does not exist. Everything leads one to believe, and this sensation all the more so, that my burglary took on the appearance of a move, or even a move into this effectively familiar place, like all places that one invests with pleasure without having lived there. One projects oneself there, relaxed and ready to live a great life despite the inevitable dark periods to come, which one knows will find consolation in this living space. I'm finally comforted in the idea of moving in by the fact that there's even an abandoned devil in the entrance hall, poor devil, and two rather round but well-built guys in blue overalls, whom I catch just as they gently land my old sofa, which weighs its weight well, and its four short little feet take their place, if not for eternity, at least for a long time, on the thin skin of this unfortunate used carpet that I decidedly like and would not change for anything in the world. I thank the two men, pour each of them a glass of orangeade from a cardboard box that I have in a plastic bag in my hand. They drink in one gulp, not without giving me a "I'll take it" while sponging their red and sweaty faces. They seem to be clones of each other. They are leaving.

I don't close the French windows, throw my jacket and my bag on the floor on the nice carpet whose old dirt doesn't want me any harm and throw in a similar movement my body across the sofa, which instantly becomes my own Ayers Rock, the red centre of my new and yet so immemorial continent. Here I am both happy and content. Happy with the moment and happy with the future, I would say, whatever it may be. I don't mean to imply that I would be indifferent to any drama or misfortune and that the mere fact of being here would make me feel impervious to the world, certainly not. I would not be happy at all not to feel anything, including my pains. However unpleasant they may be, their management constitutes me; they are a part of me. No, what I mean is that at this moment I have the satisfaction of being in a good position; of having a nice window on the world from my outdated, but so well ventilated den. I am the age I am, you see, but I feel eternally thirty, globetrotting in my head and also a bit outside. The outside world is all the more wonderful because I listen to it and feel it through my window which, however, lets me see almost nothing of it. I am in the posture of work.

It doesn't matter then that my computer is gone, that there are very few books on my shelves and that my entire luggage fits into a few boxes. I would always find enough means for two nice guys to agree to spare my lumbar vertebrae by carrying for me the only archaic and lithic load of all my belongings, this famous sofa, at the same time a bed and an observatory, finally a flying carpet carrying my thoughts, welcoming my observations in the air bubbles of its old perforated foam.

The place where I sit and sleep is the place where I think. It can be anywhere because it is the posture I carry.

Reflection and rest are almost enough, except for a few glasses of orangeade, for my well-being. The rest is a great, but sometimes grotesque and painful superfluity.

For example, I don't think connection is the source of happiness at all; rather, it is often the opposite, synonymous with hassle and oppression. Awareness of other existences does. It is the love of diversity and the reassuring feeling of not being the only creature in the world. At least, that's how it is for me. This is why I go out to meet others, not without bringing my room and staying at the helm of my bed, dare I say, if like children, there are some among you who follow me in this intergalactic metaphor. I am not as naked as I appear and experience contact with others only through the primary means of my most primitive head region. Some would say, instinctively. A word that I would refute in this case, as man seems to me to be three quarters devoid of it today. I would rather speak of an instantaneous faculty of analysis, a sensory and mental scanner. Like a snail or a turtle, I am never really without my bio-cyber machine, nor outside my home. I am not, however, like the divine Marcel, that I never finish reading, because there has to be time to do one's own work, nailed down in my dressing gown, scratching out paper while sitting on my big bed. Not enough or inconsiderately a writer, yet refusing to sacrifice everything to it, I still wander around outside the imperatives of my pure creation, maintaining, for example, this blog out of defiance and amusement, at a time when I would have a thousand more urgent things to do to make my project effective, which my skiff is approaching at high speed, like the Titanic's glacier; unless, moreover, it was the other way around or a combination of the two. Perhaps an irrepressible attraction between the ship and the iceberg, between the pilot and the target, so as not to escape collision this time, or even collusion with the other. Will we merge? Will we reject each other without even choosing to, in an irrepressible backward movement worthy of a pinball's journey on contact with the rubber damper? We don't know. I just hope I'll never be ready enough to anticipate or plan for it. Given the amount of time I spend on this blog, there is little danger of that, unless it is a full part of it, which I believe it is in one respect at least: that the heart of a good show, far from being reduced to what happens in it, is mainly made up, just as we are of the 90% of water we don't see, of the journey we have to make within ourselves to get to it. This is the real challenge that one sets oneself through any work, which always consists of revealing oneself in a new inner light. There is a very small chance that I, who am writing this, and you, who have read it, both partners and unknown spectators, will understand each other so well that there will be no more show, nothing to do, nothing to show, nothing to see. That would be fantastic. Let's not dream. Other cases are more likely. Perhaps you will not feel concerned or anxious, and will keep a respectable distance, thus recreating the fatal stage space? Perhaps you will take away all my toys and I can't do anything about it? Something in me secretly rejoices at this option, waiting for the return to the 'poor' life and the importance of the moment. I'm not talking about misery, but about a modest life with no plans for the future. The life that consists of living and juggling thoughts until ... nothing. But I am not so far from my dream.

I have spent my entire house, the only substantial asset I have ever had in a muddy countryside, on financing stage projects. The smallest half-timbering has found its reincarnation as a microphone stand or a Breton bar to relieve the small hollows of filming. Everything is consumed.

When I have nothing left, I will be rich because every means I use will be the fruit of necessity. This is how I like to see relationships, in the light of a consensual, fair and shared prostitution. You give me for what I give you. We don't take anything for granted when it comes to the use of one of the only goods that counts and that is given to us in the first place, time. It certainly flows inexorably, but like a flow of water receding, it leaves behind it, under the feet of the stroller, its silt of riches, of experiences of all kinds. Let's beware of gratuity, it is only in appearance and is often very expensive, unless it is obtained from a true willingness to give, which I believe to be rare, but of which I am lucky enough to know some inexhaustible sources. For the rest, a good glass of orange juice as a thank you and a few notes for the effort seem to me the surest way to keep life courteous and beautiful between us. The same should routinely be true of sex, ordinary friendship and passing loves.