I have quite a large bookcase at home. And well, since my late childhood I’ve got this weird habit of naming the shelves.
Thus, I have a Jules (Verne) shelf, a Milan (Kundera) shelf, as well as André, Alessandro, Ernest, Anaïs, Philip, Hermann, Roald, Mircea, Jorge shelves… and so on for a total of 24.
However, one of them is always empty. I call it Dobby.
Because, yes, Dobby is a free (sh)elf.
Question.
In the end, what kills us?
Possibilities.
Pollution? Cyanide? Asteroids? Volcanoes? Bioterrorism?
Global warming? Nuclear mushrooms? Gamma rays?
Answer.
Simple: breathing kills us, little by little.
Elementary: oxygen oxidizes our organisms.
Ironic: our vital element is our lethal element.
Ramifications.
Through the tips of our nails, through the stubs of our hair, through our open pores, with every breath, with each feeling, with any thought, life leaves us, using us, slowly but surely, like it would use history supplies.
Definition.
History \ˈhis-t(ə-)rē\, n pl -ries • A huge cosmic machine which functions entirely ecologically, based on biomass.
Repercussions.
For history, our bones are coal, our blood is oil, our lives are fossil fuel, keeping in motion the cosmic mill. The mill grinds beings, sensations and ideas on the stone of time, and what results, opposing all deceit, is but dust in the sidereal wind, which may subcutaneously instill some uncertain thrill in us, as the night of our fleeting peace falls.
Indication.
Breathe, now.
I was lying on a flat surface. It was dark and cold. In fact, I had no idea where and when I was. That uncertainty lasted for a few breaths, then my neural circuits switched on. I was in my bedroom, it was 11 pm, the window was open and the air was fresh and clean.
I had a warm hand, the one that remained under the quilt, and a cold hand, the one that embraced the pillow while asleep. Lying there horizontally, I couln’t stop thinking that it was indeed a very special occurence to be able to hold my own hand, right after waking up, and to be so tangibly different for my own self.
I got up, I opened the door and it was suddenly morning.
There are silences that weigh as much as an initiation rite.
Sensitive souls may experience burdensome silences. But what is weighing on them, in fact, if not the very profound realization, the avant-goût of the ultimate sin of knowledge, the revelation brought reflexively at an arm’s length?
Knowledge that permeates through silence is poignant and fierce. For it is from within the silence gaps that figures grow, signs emerge, and meanings crystallize into shadows of being, ectoplasms of knowledge.
The anxiety of potential knowledge may weigh on sensitive souls. It may burden them, for they are sensitive souls, not consciences.
Every first Wednesday of each month, at precisely 12.00pm, sirens resound throughout Paris, catching by surprise the unsuspecting visitor with their terrible, unnerving noise.
Apparently, it’s a celebratory gesture, dedicated to the memory of the victims of the Second World War.
…Which does not prevent the sirens from sounding exactly, but exactly like the siren in the “Silent Hill” series, pour les connaisseurs of the horror/gore genre.
At first, it was about protection. But today…
“Protection from what? Zee Germans?”
No, Turkish, Zee Zombies.
We wear different layers and we use different bodies to eventually find ourselves, in joy as in sorrow, in truth as in deceit, in light as in darkness, in past as in future. We are so accustomed to our impressive wardrobe of masks and costumes that the quest for the right disguise, simulation and deception slowly becomes our second nature. A nature against nature. A defiance towards humanity, an alienation of the genuine, a plunge into the abyss of the burlesque theater of social comedy.
Let yourself be led by the idea, follow it without bias or reluctance, devote yourself entirely to the idea, let it dissolve in you and let yourself dissolve in it, all the way, to the last form of expression, up to the point of sublimation, like that dancer that begins in control of the dance and ends being controlled by the dance, because there comes a moment when there remains only the dance and the dancer disappears, when there remains only the idea and the thinker vanishes behind it, in order to live fully, in order to finally come alive.
Waiting in itself is not criminal, but the time spent waiting surely is. If we would make a statistical evaluation of the time spent waiting, we would be amazed by its prevalence in our lives, in relation to other activities that we consider essential. However, this murderous waiting humanizes us, it gives us substance and meaning. Gods never wait, they are not subject to human indeterminacy. Without the waiting, gods are void.
After finishing yesterday’s post, I took some time to consider things.
Well, it’s always fun to fiddle with the famous French cultural sensitivity, but what if I’m too harsh? After all, the lyrical French only try to rename movies (sometimes quite creatively), while the intrepid Americans… remake them entirely. Because, hell yeah, why stop at a title? Plus, who bothers to actually read, these days? And finally: “Amagawd, 3D and subtitles?” *scoff.
Don’t get me wrong: I like the American people, and I love Hollywood.
Hollywood is a myth, a modern wonder of the world, standing tall as a solid effigy of the Dreamworks. It’s a wondrous alchemy lab responsible for uncovering unique gems and pure gold in its boiling pots and porringers (i.e. Culver, Raleigh, Ren-Mar, Columbia, Tri-Star, and the hardly surviving MGM). Yes, Hollywood is a magical place where enchanters, soothsayers and shamen abound. Their task is Paramount, and their message is Universal. In time, Hollywood insidiously but steadily mesmerised us all into following its frothy tail, like a sly Twentieth Century Fox that got the world locked up inside a plastic box.
This being said, let’s get back down to Earth for a moment. Because, let’s face it: Hollywood, we have a problem. Down here, all is not for the best in the best of all the possible worlds. Down here, it so happens that sometimes pure diamonds change into vane dust, even with the best intentions.
Actually, wait. Let’s not get back to Earth just yet. Let me tell you a story first.
The trouble started in the early 60’s, when the abovementioned soothsayers suddenly discovered that their charms and originality were beginning to gently wither and fade. With their charms almost gone, but their wit intact, the cinematic shamen eventually decided to travel to lands far, far, away, in search of inspiration.
Tacitly shifting from Pangloss to lip-gloss, but inspired by the proverbial legend of the Three Wise Men (aka Melchior, Gaspar, and Balthazar), the Hollywoodians sent towards the Eastern shores a working party of three astute executives (aka Metro, Goldwyn, and Mayer). Their task: to follow the rising star across the ocean, to find the cradle of the Nouvelle Vague (in Frenchlandia), to uncover the secrets of the Golden Age (of Korejapandia), and to bring back home a pack of Spaghetti Westerns and a slice of Dolce Vita.
The Three Astute Executives travelled the world, ravenously searching for their Fountain of Youth, their Holy Grail, their Singing Sword, only stopping for punctual SWOT analysis and monthly corporate briefings. Years passed, and the three astute executives managed to amass a very eclectic (critical) mass of tokens, artifacts, and outlandish concepts. Veni, video, vici! chanted the three, as they decided to return back home.
Behold! We bring you tidings of great joy! chanted once more the Executives, entering the pearly gates of Hollywood. And so they were received with pomp and pageantry. And for a brief moment they felt like true gods descended upon the world. And it was good.
The results were less good, though.
Let’s briefly examine the tidings of great joy, if we may:
-Et Dieu créa la femme became And God Created Woman and failed miserably, even if the Executives made the effort to import… the original director (but not Brigitte Bardot, aka La Femme);
-the French classic La cage aux folles became Birdcage, and even the common effort of Dustin Hoffman, Gene Hackman and Dianne West couldn’t save it from its mediocre adaptation;
-Godard’s astonishing A bout de souffle was recreated in 1983 under the name of Breathless, a totally dyspneic experience famous only for its sizzling pool scene and for exhibiting Richard Gere’s white butt (which on second thought is not a small thing, after all);
-the very hip Dinner for Schmucks was originally a brilliant play and film by Francis Veber, Le dîner de cons. Also, my dad is successfully using Le dîner instead of Xanax to chase the blues away; his other favorite French play and movie is the exceptional Le père Noël est une ordure, changed into Mixed Nuts for Hollywood purposes (where they were totally unable to translate the hilarious original dialogues, or to recreate the complicity between characters). For the French public, Le Père Noël, although a recent creation, is as sacred as Molière; especially since Molière would have never dared to culminate one of his dialogues with: Je t’encule Thérèse!
-even more briefly: The Woman in Red (kudos to Gene Wilder) takes after Un éléphant ça trompe énormement; Nine Months (feat. Hugh Grant) is a remake of Neuf mois; Original Sin used to go by as La sirène du Mississipi, the latter being made before Angelina Jolie was even born; Wicker Park is an adaptation of L’Appartement; the much applauded The Tourist is an exact copy of Anthony Zimmer.
And these are only some of the movies made after French originals. The tidings of great joy were also of Italian origin, like Scent of a Woman (Profumo di donna), German, like City of Angels (Der Himmel über Berlin, brilliant visual poetry by Wim Wenders), Chinese, like The Departed (Internal Affairs), Japanese, like the frantic Godzilla, The Grudge, and The Ring, Spanish, like Vanilla Sky (Abre los ojos, splendid without Tom Cruise). And so on and so forth.
Ok. I had nothing to prove initially, so I can’t really end up with a conclusion. I don’t even have a punchline, so I’ll just borrow a Hollywood joke and let it fail by itself:
Astronomers in Prague have decided today that Pluto is no longer a planet. In related news, producers in Hollywood have decided that Tom Cruise is no longer a star.
That’s All, Folks!
nametag : gateman 
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