Warlord becomes Prince of Peace .Carrier of the double of thingshe delivers the light recluse in the box of dreams .Doubting his own visionhe puts blinkers on his thoroughbred .The accepted chance of a smudge reveals a diaphanous blue .It imperceptibly hastens the fall of the West .He faces the enormity of the task ahead .He crosses the grid of celestial space .On the edge of the world ,in the manade of his workshophis swashbuckling gesturetames the scrambles .It is people of menhirs .Sometimes tiredhis mismatched eyesfertilize the laziness of the mind .There is an ardent digital posed to the flanges of the locks .He is watchman of the watchtower ,immobile en son attente .He signs furtively with a bullfighting spasmthrough things said .He is the inflexible lawyerinfinite freedom of combinations .He opens with an axthe twice blessed with the fairness of the angel .On the faces bereaved by the rupture of appearanceshe is the ardent vandal of a barbaric demand .He courts the white spit of likeness .On the pearly face of a shoddy micaagain and again it desquamates the laughter of atoms .Il rend visible l'Apocalypse ,his , the prophet with the eyes of Voyant .He offers his face to aesthete inquisitions his , l'artiste des pleurs immédiats ,the enucleur pending .And if the discovererin its studded bracestraces the darkness of light,during , everything ignites ,eagle eyes ,to the black breath of the bison of thought ,like the heart of the Impeccably Distinguished Beauty ,like the margin of a notebook obliquely soiled with blood .The shutters slam ,the join of dualities explodes ,un éclair de vie clame l'éblouissement de la présence ,the dust dances in the ray of light ,tout se rejoint d'une amble véritable .Leaving the cave of the wanderershe submits to the springboard of servantshis , the priest of exits from exile . ( after a work by JC Guerrero )
222
Become very
young orphan of father and mother, he was taken in by an uncle from Epernay .
At thirteen he
worked as a glassblower .
With her
wife Lucy, my grandmother, they had five children, including the eldest named Jean
was to die in his first year .
After the Great War he was
hired at the Metro, at the RATP,
where he remained until retirement.
He the child of
Ardennes descended into Champagne had become Parisian.
After having
inhabited rue du Chemin Vert in Boulogne, during the thirties the couple and their
four children moved to boulevard Murat, in a large apartment that they
had to give up for acts of war , after the bombing of the factories
Renault nearby which damaged the building.
The family was
relocated rue de la Corrèze
near the site of the old fortifications in the 19th century
arrondissement .
It's here, Street
Correze,
that I was impressed by a garbage truck that fell into a gigantic
excavation that had opened up in the middle of the roadway .
I was afraid of
this grandfather who glared at me and scolded me .
Like that time I tore the living room wallpaper into little strips, this room where mum was to give birth to my sister on 13 February 1945 .
I admired the
Westminster chime that rang every half hour above the armchair
of grandfather .
Because he was
often in his chair, Grandpa Danube, as I called it because the
nearest metro station was Danube, which allowed me to
differentiate from my other grandfather, Grandpa Frugères .
And he was in
his chair, Grandpa Danube, because his legs hurt 18 May
1955.
We had to
besides cutting off his leg shortly before he died .
I had gone to
his funeral with my parents. On the way back from the cemetery in the bus which
brought us back to Porte de Pantin, I felt grandpa's presence
Danube. It was as if he was telling me important things that I didn't.
didn't understand then ; it had given me chills and a trace of this
event remains in me today. I was nine years old then , and I do not have
never again forgot his presence as a gruff man with whom I could not exchange
.
On the photos
he has a good look in a face with soft features, him the silent one who nevertheless
could fly into tantrums that terrified me.
Right here, It is
photographed in Jouy in the Eure , with his woolen waistcoat and his eternal beret
who hides his baldness he shows an affable attitude in front of Louise's house
, his wife's sister , Lucia my grandmother , and Léon the former gamekeeper,
Louise's husband .
Some time
previously, on the return from the long holidays spent as every year in
frugeres, we came back by train, mom, my sister and me, at 75 Street
Saint Charles at Grenelle.
And there, surprise
! Our kitchen wallpaper, which was at the same time living room and
bathroom, had been redone. And it was my daddy who did that, and he
did it with his father, Grandpa Danube.
The room was beaming with sunshine on this late summer day ….. and still today a light persists to our heart's content.
The wind is blowing , weary backbone , sing somewhere the bird of winter embraces .
I will not forget you , you won't forget me , for together say thank you to those who extricate us, we the umbrellas of the liturgy exit not to fall into the bottom of the basin , inhaling cooking smells half goat cheese half cabbage half fig half fig playing colin maillard from one nostril to the other .
It is permissible to say that even in trolling weather the handle stands in trust to Charlie's hands, David, Ahmed but that a burst of Kalashnikov can erase , ridiculous masquerade , dark coming of terrors that the filthy beast challenges smoky nostrils the gaping crotch engulfing in the depths of the entrails we soft irresponsabilités .
It's time to marry towards each other in the blue of our folds , to dress up in smiles the passage of the officiants on the gravel driveway scrolling with counted steps to the sacred place , beauty , amour , shared peace, beyond the numinous , in the incandescence of transparency .
This morningthere is no more gasoline in the sleeve ,the ash is cold ,we would have put fake flowersthat the effect would have been more smoking .Not enough to lament ,there is also a fight to fight .We fight , he is bat .But against whom ?against what ?I fight against Pierre or Jacques ,while it's me who imagines lots of things about them .I fight against the world ,but why cut the branch i'm sitting on ?I am fighting against nature ,but why fight what feeds me .While life is herelike this waterdrip of a clepsydra in imbalancethe glass iridescent by an emblazoned sun ,like this hourglasswhich grain by grainnibbles the time of conflict .Any fight seems ridiculousbecause nothing stops life ,go forward ,go around obstacles ,walk ,ascend ,even go down ,to go up , rich in the ordeal encountered .Never force the passage ,not even to drill a small hole in the hollow of the memory .And my cigarette still not lit ...( Photo taken from a work by Elianthe Dautais )218
Sedimentary frostbite on your ebony skin ,the storm requires sound and light .Dance of water and reflection ,texture rush ,intersecting genealogies ,connections are made .Sharp gazeof the man already there ;in receptionscientist signalsthat are ego demands .Expanded consciousness ,vigilance and porosity ,thin slice of the momentspeaking the wordle temps d'une caresse nocturne .This will in ancestry ;image revelationbromide in his bath .Awakening of each fiberin the rainbow of weavingout of the frozen detachment ;ultimate schoolwhere the expectationsdeflects doubtand delights the new meaning ,trace unique ,old music ,the lilac of fragile nights ,soap bubbles ,pointy hats ,Magic wand ,for stars of your eyesrévéler le dialogue avec l'invisible .219
In necessity of chance ,without linearity ,without the label being stuck ,there is no plan or lawpour cette occupation d'espace ,we immemorial ,to blindfold in front of the evidence ,de coïncidence en coïncidence ,lift the veil of mixed signs and words .In the garden of delights ,Isis nude ,Isis the decision-makerthat the discord makes give up the livestock ,Isis the very beautiful ,the streak of our dreams ,the correspondence collector ,the cosmic embellisher ,the whisperer in the deaf ear ,the woman made light ,in perpetual overlapof immemorial breaththat the big tree proposes ,devolved tree ,tree at the end of the world ,arbre élevé dans la métaphore ,fruits of indecision ,fruits replets du plaisir à venirflowing , river of a timebetween the real reefs ,le long des golfesof openness to the divinethat the beast proposesin the quivering of his mustaches .217
To want to seize , of this effort to pronounce your name , of this insistence on taking you for granted , of this tourism to the places of birth , of this lack of grandparent tools , from this gorilla to the phylactery , Sylvain my son, speaking low , with words from an elephant trunk , of these breaks between objects , of this hunt for disjointed words , the door opens , reveals , organise , exalted the chaotic world des grands chevaux de la présence . Stealth intervention from inclement weather liquids and solids mathematically inclined à la levée du sens . There was a time of presentation alive and fruitful , twigs and dry grasses on the lapel of the jacket , in front of the gate of reality place of the fall body , place of elevation , lieu de joie au-delà de l'oubli .
Live in intensity in college of tight hearts , open gills , reflection of rising souls . There are beaches crowned with jellyfish , of joint complaints , the sacred orb allowing the hand to pass outside the palm groves . Waiting , immobile , to be present at the first hour of the sun slamming its excessiveness behind the sharp rock made according to the jolt of birth . And harmony to be fulfilled , no longer draw with our gloved hands to donor sources , be the quick , scarlet fever , the no regrets , The radical on the garland of moments . Let's set aside the landscape , let's be the only trace at the center of expectations , let's be bronze bell on the fly speaking on the loam fields , let's be the service on the wing of the phoenix .
What exceeds man at the end of life , a peninsula . With for isthmus what we are , fragile man , in our finery of science , of art and spirituality mixed . To be a man among men , unborn human humus , whose roots plunge into our vicissitudes , we , the wanderers , the poor doing genealogy , for step by step , from posture to posture , rise to the accomplishment with a lot of fifes and tambourines we , the matamores of the established order , the couriers of the emotional horde , adorned with the feathers of mimicry . There is a time so close a fearless time a time beyond our time that the new man walks in his thinking life fit to be beyond our minerality , of our animality , of our historicity , a conscience with propitiatory signs , a graph of the Unknowable .
Finally aging and let the wind come to me cool on the neck . No matter the age as long as we have childhood , no matter the paths taken as long as we have the vision , whatever the weak body provided we have height , no matter the addiction as long as we are mature , what does it matter if you can't climb the ladder because we are ladder with this freedom to connect . Openness and softness of a peace adorned with small steps around the pond where everything rests . Finally aging and let the wind come to me cool on the neck . 213
