. . .

Reading Hard-Boiled Wonderland And The End Of The World, by Haruki Murakami.

i like it when you don't ask me my opinion on anything, Gentle Reader, because then i can just grumble at length about whatever the fuck i want

People, they are amazed that you can travel and work and study and live freely throughout Europe. (Theoretically.) You're German and you always wanted to live and work under the sun of Italy the Beautiful? You can.

It's not that incredible if you really look at it. It's only normal. What IS incredible, is that it is given to us as some exceptional achievement that required more than 40 years of work. Really. If you're a custom officer or working for the Immigration of any Western Democratic country and you think you're doing something useful then your brain is a disgrace to the evolution of Man.

All those European countries are "democracies." So why the fuck do they need borders anyway, when they are surrounded by other democracies only? One of the thing I don't like with modern Europe is that her members are opening themselves to each other in a way that exclude the rest of the world. If Europe had not lost her original dreams and was not now totally sold out to businessmen disguised as politicians at the European Parliament, then she would try and unite the world instead of only the geographical Europe.

By "opening herself up" (as she claims to do) the way she does, Europe is actually blocking the way for a larger mission, a more grandiose dream, creating a dialectic that will later be impossible to break. Europe is doomed as long as she keeps thinking of herself in strictly economic terms.

Because of that, there will never be open borders and liberty to work and live wherever you choose between European countries and Japan. Or the US. Or Australia. And why the fuck not?

The Mob never have problems to smuggle drugs, guns or women. If in post-September 11 America there are still some poor women brought to the US by fucking assholes to become prostitutes, chances are your "top security" system ain't worth a rat's fart.

Chances are some people are making a lot of money on the system.

The fact is, this "top security" system will only bother "normal", law abiding people who are working hard on their "quest to happiness" because they naively believed that "democracy" meant something.

Really, VISAS AND PASSPORTS ARE NOTHING BUT AN ORGANIZED AND LEGALIZED RACKET.

Cobra

I know there's nothing more boring than reading other people's dreams. Dreams have this special quality to them that only touches the one who had them and no matter how hard one try, this special quality (a mix of absurd, beauty, hope, fulfillment, terror, satisfaction...) remains out of reach to others. Exceptions are rare. The only I have in mind is the diner scene in Mulholland Drive where Lynch manages to create an incredible tension just with this guy telling his nightmare.

I know that dreams are boring. Unfortunately, I cannot fully make public the concerns that I have to deal with these days. And they are so urgent and overwhelming that I don't have anything else to talk about. So while I'm trying to find a solution to my problems I hope, Gentle Reader, that you will bear with me.

I'm reading Out by Natsuo Kirino.

...in my dreams I'm holding a cobra by the side of its head and it's ok except that I can see it open its mouth and poison dripping from its hooks and except that I hope that the guy who brought the snake in the first place will stop fucking around and take it back before it can find a way to bite me...

I don't like landlords (but djeeesuus is my man)

But, hey, who does!? Also, I've been specially unlucky with the last three. This month is the first time in years that I'm really late to pay the rent. Everything is fine between them and me at first. And then, after a while it turns sour. I don't even know why. Maybe they feel my contempt for their species. The way vicious dogs smell fear. Or sharks blood. If you really look at it, anybody can be a landlord. It doesn't require you to have any special skills. All you need is a calendar. Maybe being a little more greedy than the average bear helps. What you need to be a landlord is money. It's like buying your position into the church or court back in the days. Back then you could be a pedophile and still be a bishop or a cardinal -- wait, hold on, you still can! And now, you don't even have to pay your way in! Wow, no, really, mankind is improving... This relation between pedophilia and men of church (any church), it's not unlike the chicken and the egg thing... If you want my opinion (and if you don't, you can just click on the NEXT BLOG button on the top right corner of your screen, you never know, you might go to Hell just for reading this) I think that these things are unfortunately bound to happen when you put someone on a strict sex diet, have them read the same book filled with really wicked stories over and over, and then put them in a position of power with all those children who just want to be nice and not go to Hell. It's like asking for it.

Yesterday I was reading on the train when those two guys come in and one of them starts yelling. He yells, Good afternoon everybody ,my friend here has a very important thing to say so please listen.
I look up. Two white guys in their twenties wearing streetwear. The small guy, the one with an important message, he yells even louder, The Church is lying to you. He says the Church is brainwashing you. The guys at the back of the next car, they would be able to hear him if he would just yell a little louder. He says that you don't need to go to Church to be at peace with Jesus (pronounce djeeesuus). The kid in streetwear, he says that he has found djeeesuus.

At this point, I'm almost happy that his speech prevents me from reading my book in PEACE. Because there's always these strange people in the cars I'm in who seem to have nothing else to do with their lives than do some wild preaching to poor people stuck in overcrowded cars after a long day's work. Reading the Bible so loud that even reading the sport section of the New York Post requires some strong neurons. So, I was scanning the car, hoping for some freak to jump with his/her Good Book in hand and kung-fu fight this white prick. Nothing of the sort happened naturally. You never find a bigot when you really need one.

The kid he yells that he used to be a bad person. From which I assumed he was alluding to drugs. He says, I used to do drugs. (No merit, it was an easy guess.) Walking back and forth in the car, he says, I used to do Marijuana, ecstasy, heroin, acid...

But the guy was lucky. One day, he challenged djeeesus to help him if He wanted to really be up to His game and save this guy from the evil of drugs. And then, the young man felt djeeesuus in his heart. AND HE QUIT DRUGS!

Wow.... my opinion, he had a flashback of ace, that's all. I know a lot of acid heads who've meet djeeesuus personally, I'm not kidding. Punkers, ravers, after doing too much acid, they will tell you what djeeesuus looks like and how cool he is. That, or they'll explain to you that they had to tear down the wall because their wallpaper was fucking up with their mind. Djeeesuus, he doesn't appear to virgins or "pure" people anymore. He must think wasted people are much more fun to hang out with.

But I digress as usual (like Byron loved to say), I had to get off before I could hear the end of the guy's story. I still think there's a very good 50% chance he asked them for change at the end of his speech. And maybe just so he would stop yelling like that they gave him some. Or maybe there's a new Church -- again...

Will you marry my daughter, please?

Being a waiter can be humbling. Humiliating too, when you have assholes for customers who like to hassle people who cannot fight back. This job also has its ego-rewarding moments of its own. Like when the two nice ladies on Table #1 open their purses to show you the pictures of their daughters who are "about your age" and "single." And really when you look at the pictures they look cute too. Later leaving a 100% tip on the table, they assure you that they will come back with them soon. And really, what can you say to that?

As your attorney I advise you to...

Today my attorney advised me to buy a single ticket to France.

The Contortionist

I have to go to work in a few hours but I can't sleep.

Read Craig Clevenger's The Contortionist's Handbook (novel.)Very good.

Today L. called and it felt so good to hear her voice. And she had good news too. Her asshole of a boyfriend disappeared after she handed him the rent money. I would have preferred some more spectacular ending, like having all the bones in his body crushed. But at least he won't beat her anymore if he's gone and that's the most important. I hope she understands her lesson this time.

Yesterday I found out that the check my last boss gave me bounced back. La moutarde m'est montee au nez.

Carrie

Today I did what I usually do when life sucks too much -- I went to Barnes & Nobles at Union Square and bought some books. I spent the night reading Stephen King's Carrie. It brought back memories of the small public library of my village and my years in college (what is it in the US? Junior High? You know, when you're about 12-13 years old...)

This is useless. The people who read this blog, they are people I've met on the net. People I seldom email to. My friends from high school, my friends from college, my friends from music playing, my hometown friends etc. they don't know about it. Chances are, if you told them about it they wouldn't believe you. This is useless, but I have to say it. These days it's been very difficult to write. Not just this "blog" or whatever it is or tries to be or fails to be. But also emails or letters. I don't know why. Really, I don't. It's just very difficult to sit down and write. So yes, all of you people who write me and yet will not read these lines, I am sorry for not sending out any news. I just can't. It's not that I have forgotten you.

The irony is, I feel this drive to write.

The thing is I'd like a cabin by a lake. I want to look out the window and watch birds do the stupid things birds do to keep themselves busy.

The thing is I'd like to be in a car. I haven't driven in a year and a half now, and I miss it so bad. If you don't like to drive, this is a thing you cannot understand. I like to drive at night, in the rain, in the snow... whatever. I like to drive with the music off also. Listening to the strange noisy silence. You can daydream while you drive. But part of your brains also focuses on the road, changing gears, stopping at a red light etc. While your brains is stretching like that -- performing a very complex operation on the one hand while letting go on the other -- you'd be surprise by what it can dig out. Better than talking to your shrink. For all I know. I never had a shrink. Also, it helps a lot if you have no specific destination. Just fill in the tank, and let the night lead you somewhere.

Right now -- and over the last 6 months -- my life has been a long controlled skid. Really. Same sensation. That of being in control in an unusual situation, but also that of being so totally not in control of anything. As far as I can tell, you can't just get out of a controlled skid anytime you want. Not in a curb. Not when there's also a little of ice or aquaplanning involved. Really, even at best, there's a limit to your control. The good thing is, there is the thrill. The bad thing is, most of the time you put your car into a skid there is a moment when you just wonder whether it was that good an idea. But there is a timing involved. A timing that you canno explain. You just have to feel it. Or crash.

Right now, I wouldn't mind being in a car even if I was not the driver. Just give me someone who can really drive. I want to see the road. I want to be in this capsule traveling in space and time. I want to push the electric lighter. I want to turn up the volume and tell the driver, You have to listen to the [choose an instrument of your choice] part on this song. I want to put my head against the window and watch the poles, the cows, the other cars, the houses rush towards me and disappear.

"Pour une seconde,
Et pour essayer.
Voir si la route est longue
et si elle nous plait."

-- Noir Desir.

In my dreams...

...in my dreams I was taking photographs of the Ocean through a stone arch
...in my dreams I was back in France and the first thing I wanted to do after the welcoming family banquet was to see the family's doctor so that I could at last get an RX of Xanax or Lexomil

I'm reading Chuck Palahniuk's DIARY, and even if I think it is not his best book, his writing still has this magic quality to it. The guy's style is incredible, adding so much to the characters and the atmosphere. And so addictive too. Once you get used to it, really, you don't want to read Proust or Balzac ever again.

I'm also still in the middle of this new collection of scholarly essays on William S. Burroughs, and boy... it's all based on Foucault, Deleuze & Co.'s works and really, even me, I wonder if sometimes these people shouldn't just keep it simple for chrissake. Maybe I'm rusted for this kind of reading and it's my frustration talking. And I truly believe in pulling the masses up rather than chewing down everything for them the FOX-Fivish way. But still... How can you discuss Burroughs if you forget that when you use such words as "Capital," "Subjectivation," or "Materialism" you're not talking about anything?

Easy as a phone call

Sometimes it takes months to find a job.
Sometimes, all it takes is a phone call. Like Wednesday. A strange day. Tuesday night, I dreamt I was working in a pub. Bartending. The next day you call a friend, asking him if he knows of any place where they need some staff. Telling him, "Really, it's urgent." In the earpiece, you can hear music in the background and the distant hum typical of public places. Over the music, Franck says, "I'm in a restaurant now. French restaurant. They need a waiter." He says, "Let me talk to the boss."

The music is muffled. Then comes back. Franck says, "You doing something tonight?"

I say, "No."

He says, "Ok, so tonight is your first training day. Come here ASAP."

I say, "Thanks, man."

And that was it. Since then, I just had enough time to check my emails. Read a little. Keep up with a few blogs. Go to the laundry. Once again, I do not have to worry too much about the rent (except that I'm already ten days late). My training days are officially over.

Today was brunch. They warned me. They said, "Today it's going to be packed." Sweet euphemism. The dining room during today's brunch looked more like a mental institution yard where all patients would have been given a few rails of coke.

You run from the coffee machine in the bar section back to the tables. You clean tables. You pick up plates in the kitchen. You close a table on the computer. Take orders. Open a table. Bring some fresh pepper. Crack a few jokes to a table so that they don't notice you forgot to refill their coffees because the manager asked you to do a couple of things just after the waitress also asked you to do a few things. And at every step you make, there's a customer buttonholing you. Trying to catch your attention. His eyes trying to find that special connection with yours.

Everytime you move, someone asks you to do something that requires you to pass by more customers who will also ask you something that will make you pass close to more customers or people who wants to know how long for a table of 4, please, we are in a hurry?

If you know the definition of the second law of thermodynamics (aka entropy), you know it just cannot go on like that forever. Nor for very long.

By then, if you still remember the shit you had to do before you received orders from the manager and the waitress, you can take your brain out and bring it to the museum of Mankind so scientists can have their kick.

No kidding.

You're literally running. Sliding to a stop. The cooks yell at you. The manager yells at you. The other waitress is just as deep in shit as you are. Oh, and also, don't forget that the barman is on training too!

That's generally the moment when someone asks you for an iced cappuccino. "Iced cappuccino? Kesako?"

That's generally when this strange guy grabs you by the arm and explain to you with an incredible richness of details that he is very sensitive to loud sounds and could you please find him a seat further away from the loudspeaker?

You go to the computer to open or close a table. You don't like to go there. There are those two parties of two still waiting for a table. A party of seven waiting on the couch to be seated at a table. This is the bar section and there's this party of 3 at the far end of the room who are still waiting just to read the menu. The bartender is nowhere in sight. And that's when the door opens again and someone asks you with the bright smile of innocence how long for a party of 5? You glance at the dining room and you see that all the tables are taken. The waitress is avoiding your desperate look like you avoid customers'. Trying to make that special connection. The manager looks like Speedy Gonzalez on speed.

"Give me 10 minutes, please." And you run to the other computer before another party shows up.

You haven't stopped to think about what needs to be done in hours. Your lips are dry but you don't have time to get yourself a glass of water, let alone drink it. Pouring orange juice to customers, you feel like drooling. That is, if you had enough saliva.

6 pm. Your first glass of water in seven hours. You still have to close your cash register. Figure out your tips. But really, you don't want to count anything. You're drinking a double vodka tonic at the bar. You think about this very cute girl alone on table 1 you didn't even have time to talk to. Shooting the shit with the other guys. You still feel on the verge of a nervous breakdown. All went well, but you can't believe it. You remember this moment (how long did it last? maybe a couple hours?) when the whole system seemed on the verge of collapsing. When you had this irresistible impulse to cut off the restaurant's phone cable. Lock the doors. Turn off the lights. Let's pretend there's nobody and then maybe people will stop coming in asking for a table for 3. Table for 7.

Printing your report, the waitress says, "Was that your first brunch?" Looking up from your plate of Yogurt Gran Fruits that taste better than anything you ate in the past 10 years, you say, "Yes." You keep it to yourself, but you also wish it was your last. Looking at the total amount on your report, she says, "You did a great fucking brunch." You say, "Thanks." You say, "Really, it was an accident."

Then you dip a bit of pineapple in the yogurt and eat. One mouthful at a time.

Strange Days...

...indeed...

Carnivàle

A la demande générale (d'au moins un(e) lecteur(trice))...

Je n'ai pas envie d'écrire en ce moment. Souvent, il m'arrive de tricher, de changer de langue pour contourner cette apathie. Mais ces jours-ci il n'y a rien à faire.

BONNE ANNÉE à toi, bien sûr. Qui que tu sois et où que tu te trouves.

Il faudrait sans doute voir là le moment parfait pour glisser quelques vœux qui trouveront dans leur expression une originalité qui masquerait leur manque de profondeur. La paix dans le monde... du bonheur... réussite... et tout le toutim... Il est l'heure d'inonder les cœurs de mièvreries joliment enrobées. De dialectiques faciles.

Comme je le disais dans un post précédent, j'aime le mois de décembre. Au moins autant que je n'aime pas janvier. Le mois de janvier, c'est un lendemain de fête, terne et froid dans la lumière rasante, sans chaleur et désagréablement aveuglante du petit matin. Quand les guirlandes et autres décorations de la soirée de la veille ont perdu tout leur charme. Quand les bouteilles sont vides et les mets froids et ratatinés.

Le mois de janvier, c'est le mois des promesses qui n'ont pas été tenues.

C'est qu'avec la fin de l'année, il y a la promesse de la FIN, tout court. On arrête de jouer. Comme si tout le monde souscrivait à la déclaration suivante: "OK, les gars. On a bien deconné, certains en ont bien chié aussi, mais y faut regarder les choses en face — la comédie ne peut plus durer." Cette espèce d'aberration parasitaire qu'est l'argent? Aux chiottes! Les politiques? Pendons-les, aux cotés de leurs engeances douteuses que sont le syndicalisme et la représentation populaire. Brûlons les autels...

Il y a cette douceur des fins de courses qui flotte dans l’air de décembre, et qui imprègne tout. Remarquez bien : je ne parle pas d’un sentiment chrétien. Dieu m’en garde (l’ironie n’est pas accidentelle). Si j’écris peu ces jours-ci, en revanche je lis beaucoup. Et je suis abasourdi par la quantité de blogs religieux qui traînent sur Blogger et d’autres sites du genre. Donc voilà, je voulais être clair sur ce point.

Les gens ici, ils disent souvent que je ne dois pas être vraiment français. Parce que contrairement à cet opportuniste qu’est José Bové, j’aime les cheeseburgers. J’aime Coca-Cola. Je me fous du Pape. Je me fous de la gauche bidon qui s’en mettait plein les poches dans les années 1980 et 90 quand Mitterand était au pouvoir pendant que ma mère ne trouvait pas de travail et passait ses nuits à se demander comment elle allait payer le loyer et nourrir ses deux fils. Je me fous de la droite et de leur incompétence criante. Je n’aime bien Chirac que comme une marionnette aux Guignols de l’Info. Je n’ai pas voté lors de la dernière élection présidentielle, et les médias et les politiques ne sont pas parvenus à me faire culpabiliser sur la victoire de Jean-Marie LePen (président de l'extrême droite) au premier tour. Je n’ai participé non plus à ces ridicules manifestations qui ont suivi le premier tour, parce que contrairement à Jane Birkin et Pascal Obispo, je ne pense pas que la « démocratie » se défende en chantant la Marseillaise, le cul planté dans la rue, aux côtés de stars du show bizz. Je ne sais pas ce que c’est, moi, la « Démocratie », la « République ». Et le plus rigolo, c’est que les Français ne le savent pas non plus. J’ai vérifié. Je leur demandais. Quand ils trépignaient parce que je ne voulais pas aller secouer des drapeaux et gueuler des slogans idiots, je leur demandais, « Pourquoi faire ? » Et invariablement ils disaient, « Pour défendre la Démocratie !
— Ah bon ? Et c’est quoi la Démocratie ?
— Ben... me répondait-on, c’est le droit de s’exprimer, quoi…
— Ah !... t’es sûr que tu confonds pas avec la liberté d’expression ?
— C’est pareil, quoi. Tu t’exprimes, tu dis ton avis, tu votes, tu choisis tes représentants et tout ca. »
Et comme des fois je suis taquin, je ne pouvais m’empêcher de demander encore, « Mais alors c’est quoi la République que tu veux défendre ? Ca veut dire quoi République ? » Et là, inévitablement, le blocage.
« Ben la République, c’est… comme la Démocratie.
— Tiens ? vraiment ? il me semble que ce sont deux mots différents pourtant. S’ils avaient le même sens, on ne les trouverait sûrement pas côte-à-côte dans la même phrase, tu crois pas ?
— … »

Comment en suis-je arrivé là déjà ? Ah oui ! Moi pas français, paraît-il. Voyez-vous, on ne reconnaît pas un français parce que (contrairement à moi) il s’y connait en vin. C’est superficiel tout ça. Ca ne représente pas l’Esprit français. L’Esprit français qu’est-ce que c’est alors ? Et bien c’est faire le contraire de ce que l’on attend de vous.

L’Esprit français, c’est foutre la merde. C’est de faire comme on veut. Demandez à Bush, il vous dira. C'est pour ca qu'on s'est frité si longtemps avec les Rosbeefs. Au fond, on se ressemble trop. La seule chose qui nous départage, c'est le style. L'Anglais agit avec classe dans le foutage de merde. Le Français, c'est la campagne qui parle.

Ceci étant dit, non, je ne crois pas au « nationalisme », pas plus que je ne crois au « communisme. » Je pense que si les « démocraties » étaient à la hauteur de leurs prétentions, alors les gens seraient réellement libres de circuler de l’une à l’autre sans avoir à participer malgré eux au racket des visas. Je crois à la fin des religions, à la disparition des frontières, au mélange des « races. »