Prelude (English)
Tonight, I would like to tell a story. A wordless story. A story better than any other…
What am I saying? It is not a question of liking to tell! That would challenge all possibilities! Such a story scares me… I have to create a monster… Or, the monster will create itself…
There I am, like a virgin - the virgin - forced to give birth to a thing - a being - which I don't want, but that I already started to love…
Tonight, I must tell a story. A story that relates to me, that tells of me, that conceives me, that gives me birth… and the virgin becomes mother of her father… she is afraid… She fears him, but she doesn't have a choice… And she starts singing:
Be damned!
For you send me to a bottomless abyss
Be damned!
My love, you are my king
For you, I want to be a slave,
For you, I yield without remorse
Take me,
Satisfy me,
With your vile face,
With your ugliness,
That disgusts me, that fascinates me…
That, like a jug, fills me up
With brandy - water of life -
With fire - water of death -
That calls me up,
That challenges me
For you, I don't want to be
But this ecstasy
This insanity…
But tonight, I must tell a story… A full story, without pausing… without words putting commas or points into the story… because tonight there are no words there is nothing but me only the story is only the story will live my death is consuming I must stop time doesn't mean anything anymore I am no longer interested in time since I yielded I don't defy anymore since I love the beast and fear the beauty since my pen doesn't raise to straighten things up to fight the glaive that doesn't bend that I can't get hold of that I wouldn't dare touch fro fear that the blood I pour be that of another that I be bad that I be punished for not showing respect for others the grown ups those which have the power of words which mean and which speak wisdom to stop history from repeating itself that the child doesn't do the same mistakes as his parents that the child grows up he needs to stay younger and listen to what he is told that he listens to the older only thus he can grow up and become older than they are but if he dared think he is grown up or even a little less younger he is damned he doesn't have the right to defy how dare him have a life when we have a better one all set up for him and what else will he ask for why doesn't he ask for death while he is at it no one doesn't revolt when one is well educated we didn't educate him right this young fellow that wants to challenge us when we are so proud of him now that he is grown man and that we have educated him so well and that he is almost perfect if only he didn't try so hard to be himself if he would let us guide him he would be perfect he will understand eventually that he was wrong…
So, let the word speak, and let's listen to nothingness… the nothingness that lives on a blank page… that I have already sullied with my presence… the presence of my shade, my spectrum, my reflection…
The page keeps its shininess, although soiled by my useless thought... hopefully useless... because uselessness makes one live... uselessness makes life… and only life I wants to sow on the page... the page I love; that I loved even more when it was virgin, but its sacrifice weighs on me and increases my love and my devotion.
I must love this page; I must give her evidence of it, and keep giving her my blood, which, even as it tarnishes and sullies her, compensated for the blood she poured for me… And our two liquids will mix to make a text… a story…
Tonight, I must tell a story. Or, to be more precise, we must tell a story, me and the page. A useless story, since we need to reach happiness for two flesh bodies… The end of calculation… the end of usefulness…
Useless thus, thriving for the unity of two. And for pleasure, the useless is king! I must tell a useless story... Useless to me, to the page, and... to others; the others which should be forgotten, which cannot exist any more... I want to be useless to others, and tell... I should not inform, I just must tell. I particularly should not inform analyze, prophesize...
Then, the prophets are dead... Prophets can no longer be, since I am talking of pleasure… And prophets are not actual since the city buried all hope… Since the lights made us forget the glare of the moon, which doesn't shine anymore but stares from far away, like a semi-closed eye of a sleeping spy. A spy known to be great, whose indiscretion is proverbial, although it never tells... and perhaps it would gain to tell... May be he wouldn't have died, or may be he would have resurrected.
But, the sound of sea waves, at night, washes the beach of all the stains which are not made in love... Because, there are no more lovers... Love can not survive in the lights of the city, which I see from far away, through my window.
Here I am, thus, born in the countryside. The moon sends me a warming shade, excites my heart, so that I retain nothing... so that I confess... the story...
I must tell of the birth, then. Can one tell anything else? But to do so, I must remember, I must dig into my memory… hoping that if I dig deep enough, at the end, there will be no memory…
Freed from all past, thus from all future. Freed from the power of time… that obsesses me… that kills me… Time, link to the city… tyrant with growing power, since he is the master of all evolution and since there can be no revolution…
This must not stop me from searching in my memories - my true memories; not the ones I can remember, but those I have definitively forgotten, since they did not occur…
Here we are, therefore! All the preliminaries are consumed; all barrier-taboos, lifted. We are here face to face. Here I am in the page... in your page, dear reader... I speak to you from this maternal belly necessary to my survival... and to telling the story...
Pageries
2/8/2004 2:14:09 AM UTC 
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