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Fencing Diary D-6

A night at the Paradox Hotel

Relaxation in the midst of my hectic pace

An enchanting interlude, an incursion of a bit of midnight sun into my dark night, never gloomy, but as hardworking as that of a night-time miner, I happily resolve to respond positively to the pneumatic letter I received that very morning, informing me of the invitation to stay for one evening at the Hotel Paradoxe.

Any Tingay and Anne Dreyfus, also in search of fresh air, decided to accompany me and to be part of the trip. In just a few hours, we arrive in sight of the residence located on the heights of Radio Libertaire, whose torn peaks clash in the disrupted landscape of anarchic disorder, under a sky of red and black turmoil.

89.4, the coordinates transmitted by the operator were correct. The building takes shape in all the extent of its improbable balance, planted by the ridge in the rocky ground. We will enter through the cellars at the end of which the corridors of a shelter built during the cyberpunk apocalypse by the replicants and abandoned since, will lead us to the reception. We will quickly arrive at our destination, thanks to the three-dimensional map we received in our mailboxes as soon as we confirmed our reservations, and which we will follow scrupulously step by step, fearing to get lost in the organic maze that surrounds us.

It turns out, indeed, that the hotel lives. Its high walls are not of stone, but of skin, flesh, bone and blood. As we move forward, we feel it pulsating around us, no doubt sensing our presence in its bowels. The racing and powerful rhythm of its pulse in our ears and under our steps, confirm that we are going in the right direction and that we are approaching the heart.

After climbing a few stairs up and then down and back up again, we finally arrive at the threshold of the impressive building, now made famous for the peculiar way time flows within its walls, the study of which has never ceased to baffle scientific observers. Sometimes in reverse or in a mad acceleration suddenly calmed by a return to normal, the paradoxical minutes tick by without concern for the common sense usually attributed to their obedient nature. We briefly go to the reception desk to get the keys to our rooms, greeted by a receptionist with the name of a Murnau-like dawn, tormented by the sound of the shots from the heist of the century, but ultimately peaceful, Aurore Laloy invites us to relax our legs, tested by our fast, lively and intense trip on the back of a Hydra, an elephant and a cowboy guarding a milk cow, dispatched to our attention and whose sides we had to incessantly compress to make them move forward.

Following his advice, we go to the vast private park of the Hotel Paradoxe for this purpose, not without having paid our respects to the affable and impeccably distinguished staff gathered in the lobby, following a very strict protocol for the arrival of new visitors.

François, the concierge with a large trousseau, Orfo, the night watchman, who we will learn prowls the floors at night, haggard, but we shouldn't be afraid of him, Arnaud, the doctor in charge of sound emergencies on duty, just in case; Équinoxe, the barmaid perched at the zenith of the terrestrial equator, Mailyss, the switchboard operator, give us a welcome that is reminiscent of the one we received during our distant diplomatic trip, which we have since returned to many times, with the Transsexuals of Transylvania. Later, we will cross in the crack of a door, the furtive silhouette of Autumn pushing her cart of wood and ropes, real maid and false Quebecer, having just changed the sheets of our beds for the night ahead. But far from going to bed, we discover, camouflaged by the French groves adorning the southernmost part of the park, the ruins of an old merry-go-round with its heterogeneous statuary, which still seems to be working.

Stopped for a moment in our walk and dumbfounded, Any decides to take a decisive step towards the strange carousel and then triggers, as if she had cut the beam of some hidden photoelectric system, the setting in rotary motion of the wooden figures pierced from their axes. The lights, already on when we arrive, start to flicker; the random sound of music coming from a region of the ambiguous space occupied by the Killer Clowns, starts until it finds the stability of its balance. Aurore, appearing like Alice's cat on the back of an ebony horse, beckons us to join her. Hesitantly for a moment, we do so, Anne, Any and I, and mount our horses without difficulty, although they have already reached a respectable speed. Riding up and down at the rhythm of the phantasmagorical animals that carry them, the entire hotel staff is there, invisible to our eyes until then, as long as our feet had remained in contact with the ground.

Soon, like centaurs, they will melt into their magical steeds to become one with them. Clyde on a ride, who has come without Bonnie, but carrying on his shoulders, Medea, temporarily washed of the blood of her offspring, suddenly emerges from the moving floor, while a birdie with a deep bass song, named Émilien, sternly cries out that someone wanted to catch him.

The merry-go-round then turns without it being possible to stop it. The rooms were perfectly tidy, but only for decoration. We understand, taken by a light trance pleasant as a breeze, that it is with, between the legs, these creatures, that we will spend the night. Before being totally absorbed by the suction of the vortex of this attractive world, I remember that I came, equipped by chance with a small pocket recorder whose pressure I feel on my thigh. Discreetly, unbeknownst to the beings around me, I delicately activate the REC button, whose cubic volume is sensitive to my finger through the fabric of my pants. No one will know.

Here is the volatile trace of these sound images, as a testimony to the veracity of our strange adventure...

The full recording of the show (start at 11'38'')

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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 4 Comments

  1. VIP

    Thank you for this hallucinogenic sound post!
    It is with a certain apprehension that I see these famous D days coming, not that I care about them, they will be the almost non-achievement of a Monumental Work.... No. Let's say more simply that they will be the ejaculation of magnificent micro-gerbs, a multitude of swarms, a five-legged sheep and a real firework display.
    It's obviously the aftermath that makes me anxious, for those who, like me, will have benefited from a daily DN shoot for almost two months.
    I am afraid that a brutal withdrawal will be fatal for us. David Noir I solemnly ask you in the name of the heroes in the man and woman that we have become, to show a little humanity and to consider a few J+ cleverly distilled and gradually diminished.

    Thank you in advance.
    Yours very sincerely

    1. David Noir

      I think that I will be relieved to let go of the daily rhythm, but that the impulse to write and describe, at least the dross of events that I hope will have existed during the Fates, will be inevitable. I do not wish to avoid them and I owe it to you, who regularly expressed your attachment to these posts and gave them a special value. Thank you.

  2. vav rem

    I agree with VIP.
    Like the Little Prince, you have tamed the foxes...
    thank you

    1. David Noir

      Thank you so much for this kind comparison which touches me deeply

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