It took no time for the dadaists to explicitly demonstrate that art wasn’t the untouchable metaphysical “divine”, but a rather contaminated domain full of nonsensical sempiternal blah-blah. Hello iconoclast, where art thou ? As one might quote Goethe (?), all you need is solid connections and all your artistic nonsense shall be propelled to the influential circles. Your crap to inculcate future generations. Fables. Now this reminds me of Schopenhauer versus Hegel. Or Hegel the propelled-by-the-connections-of-his-days, i.e. the influential. And M. Bakunin looks at you with a scorn. For you have hijacked and appropriated his stuff. These, now dilute and replete with pseudo intellectual jargon; but just where are the puppeteers ? Pseudo revolutionaries in total symbiosis with the system. The throng is entertained. A mass pathology. Okay, I’m going to bed. So basically, use the word ART with caution. 

Depuis que j’ai pris la sage décision de ne parler qu’à moi même et mon esprit, j’ai aussi, involontairement je dois dire, mis fin à l’étalage de mes pensées pas vraiment profondes. Et ceci pour éviter le déchiffrage de mes intentions et plans qui sont, je l’admets, aussi bidons et terre à terre que ce texte intitulé Toujours rien.

Après des années dans cette cour de l’ostentation où l’on ne se fait valoir qu’en ouvrant sa bouche puante et laissant glisser quelques vocables insensés et gestes artificieux, et c’est par inadvertance (pour certains) que l’on finit par dévoiler l’handicap de ses capacités cérébrales.  Celles ci, sur des béquilles et toujours accompagnées de bourdes et bévues qui polluent ma tête jusqu’en ce moment même de la rédaction de ce paragraphe qui n’a rien en commun avec le reste du texte. Ni avec le paragraphe  précédent, ni avec le suivant.   

J’ai désormais un diary/book de je ne sais combien de centaines de pages et je l’avoue, ce format A5 est un chef d’oeuvre d’abord par sa couverture bleu foncé puis par la qualité de ses pages. Merci aux environnementalistes suédois. Viens chez moi, je te le montrerai mais à une seule condition: y accoucher au moins une page. C’est sans vergogne que j’y ponds mes folies sans me soucier de mon absence sur cet internet désolant. Les réponses à contre temps, les multiples adieux qui se suivirent par ci par là, insatisfaction accablante à Copenhague, je m’en souviendrai cette période durant laquelle  la mélancolie fut tellement intense que je me mis à dévorer les livres à la recherche de je ne sais quoi. Tout ceci pour dire que c’est avec une joie quasi stoïque que j’ai dû m’éclipser galamment de cette scène théâtrale.

So, here I go again. Foolish Gilles. After reluctantly posting some not-really-descriptive few points that I was supposed to stick to, or rather my pseudo cool plan to revolutionize myself,  I went to bed. Shamelessly and precipitately, I woke up the next day, with my mouse firmly gripped between my five long fingers, i hovered over the post and hit “delete”. This happened a few weeks ago.

Yesterday marked another nth step in this never-ending aimless journey towards nowhere/somewhere inside myself. Sinusoidal humor with occasional blah-blah-blah. The thing is, I deleted my other two blogs. Yes, the one on blogspot filled with my follies (and much more) that I will never dare penning down. Again. I printed a copy of it though. It is well placed under my numerous papers on my quasi 2 meter sofa. Adios to Plato’s cosmos, Hello to Heraclitus’s chaos.  Yes, and the other blog on wordpress, deleted. Misnomered to fool the gullibles and above all, myself. It was full of nonsense written by myself.  Its shallowness became unbearable. Put in another way, this is my only blog now, my only mirror, another outlet of the inner turmoil. Going nowhere.

And the inner pendulum continues its path, constantly swinging between euphoria and dysphoria while meandering through la fata morgana.

Rendez-vous au crépuscule. À coté du boulevard de la pseudo-vie, sur le chemin de la route d’une (autre) génération perdue. Ce chemin, long et tortueux, qui nous mène au centre de la boîte du néant où nos espérances chimériques et satisfactions insatisfaites convergent. Et les multiples questions existentielles du temps jadis se posent toujours. 

Full of existential questions, i’m now comfortably stuck in a closed loop created by the fool inside me. Avoiding any unnecessary waste of saliva, pulmonary gymnastics, the blah-blah-blah-omg-omg and most importantly any waste of time, i gladly keep my mouth shut. Talking less, making sure any possible interpersonal relationship is exclusively between me and the other-me i.e me. Now i just watch & pretend to listen. Silence answers everything. Hermetically sealed inside the exoskeleton that has matured through the dark ages of time. 

Enough quoting, enough namedropping. Assez, je dis assez ! This/my blog need one brand new post from the stupid me. These historians, poets, writers, artists;and above all, these admirable existentialists (whose names i won’t mention for my own not-really-defined reasons) seem to be equipped with mirrors through which i now constantly contemplate my own moronic and quasi-psychopathic reflection that is now replete with pseudo-realistic dreams that keep me standing here - I admit, right now i’m sitting on my chair (and not standing !) listening to Georges Moustaki (and not you !).  

Well, well; the melancholic and melomaniac dreamer, the lonesome vagabond - now gone schizoid - avoids all sorts of self-delusional hedonistic/epicurean kind of socializing… nay, pseudo-socializing. And though i may look like one unsocial misanthropic fool (which both you and i are convinced of, or rather that i try not to accept), i have an unbelievable amount of philanthropic genes, well encapsulated inside my ectomorphic body (which i often admire with all the humility of the immaculate side of the other-me whose manifestation you rarely see but might witness someday), and numerous enough to gradually undermine your culturally biased philosophy of life deeply glued on the ocean of historical ignorance. 

Or ? Or maybe i should cross out all the above senseless, jejune and pathetic lines and start indulging myself into some of these bacchanal orgies. Yes, can i join ? Or ? Or another huge cup of FML ! Now, allow me stranger, time to go to bed.