Un démon a une activité frénétique et passe son temps en bondissements. Toujours là pour les hommes, à l'arrivée comme au départ. Les défunts, ça ne fait pas une carrière mais, puisqu'il faut des noms, je suis, si j'ai bonne mémoire, et entre des millions d'autres, le démon familier des restes méconnaissables de Pépin le Bref, d'Innocent II (j'ai toujours éprouvé une vraie joie à foutre en l'air des papes), d'Isabeau de Bavière (cette conne piriforme), de Paracelse, farouche avec son collier de barbe fauve, et mort à la fois d'un cancer et d'une fracture de l'os temporal, de dom Pierre Pérignon (j'ai champagnisé son âme, quel grand moment ce fut), d'André Grétry, de quelques autres singes parlants et petits malins, du samouraï Takamori Saigo, des quatre-vingt-huit témoins de Jéhovah qui ont brûlé ce jeudi-là dans les fours nazis, de Françoise Sagan, d'André Gorz (un samouraï, lui aussi), de Nelly Arcan (la pauvre petite, dire que j'en ai tiré satisfaction serait forcer la vérité), sans préjudice de tous les agonisants du sida et du tréponème pâle, avec lesquels on peut d'ores et déjà converser sur Facebook, réseau social pour les morts.
Saturday, February 22, 2014
Thursday, February 13, 2014
Gertrude Stein
You always have in your writing the resistance outside of you and inside of you, a shadow upon you, and the thing which you must express. In the beginning of your writing, the struggle is so tremendous that the result is ugly; and that is the reason why the followers are always accepted before the person who made the revolution. The person who has made the fight probably makes it seem ugly, although the struggle has the much greater beauty. But the followers die out; and the man who made the struggle and the quality of beauty remains in the intensity of the fight. Eventually it comes out all right, and so you have this queer situation which always happens with the followers: the original person has to have in him a certain element of ugliness. You know that is what happens over and over again: the statement made that it is ugly — the statement made against me for the last twenty years. And they are quite right, because it is ugly. But the essence of that ugliness is the thing which will always make it beautiful. I myself think it is much more interesting when it seems ugly, because in it you see the element of the fight.
Monday, February 10, 2014
The Factory - [MAP] Rights 01
You have the right to share, to analyze, to comment, to try, to write.
You have the right.
To publish.
In the freedom of your will.
In the respect of our needs.
Remember.
Everybody becomes the same rights.
Friday, February 7, 2014
Wednesday, February 5, 2014
The Factory - [MAP] foundation
A member is one of the members' plenary assembly [MAP].
Each of them becomes one vote for all of the Structural questions concerning [MAP].
Each of them becomes the right to be informed.
Each of them becomes the right to be opposed.
Each of them becomes the right to be represented.
Each of them becomes the right.
To read.
His rights.
Everybody becomes the same right.
To read.
His rights.
<= STOP =>
Each of them becomes one vote for all of the Structural questions concerning [MAP].
Each of them becomes the right to be informed.
Each of them becomes the right to be opposed.
Each of them becomes the right to be represented.
Each of them becomes the right.
To read.
His rights.
Everybody becomes the same right.
To read.
His rights.
<= STOP =>
Saturday, February 1, 2014
Ghost In The Phone — Episode One
A Beautiful Opening Day
Day ON.
His first emotion as he opened his eyes was that the current day was the most beautiful one of his entire life. Yesterday was a draft. As a code, he sang for himself a kind of Josephine Baker’s J’ai deux amours, and he opened the day as he opened a door, widely ready to live something new with a very inspiring and a very hopeful smile. C’qui m’ensorcelle, c’est Paris, c'est Paris tout entier. Thirty seconds after he got up he was already reading his program on his phone. Colors were telling him what kinds of deadlines were coming. Spearmint for his working task. Orange for his assistant work. Purple for his friends. Red for his own project. Grey for his own deadlines. He needed first assimilating his four mugs of coffee. The Coffee-machine’s self operating program was set up at 6:00 am for a long day, and at 7:00 am for normal days. Today was a normal day. Five minutes before the time, he was here, in waiting, waiting for the program to begin. It was time to look at all of the papers and books, left in front of the Coffee-machine just to be read during these five minutes. They could be news from friends, news from the World, exercises of memorization. Sometimes just the memories of reviving facts, events, yesterdays. Boys. Friends. He needed to remember his past life to ensure himself that he could bear his coming life, and needed to drink quietly a just-a-little-bit-moistened first mug of coffee. Quietly, just after having been a little bit moistened. So, he was waiting for the program to begin. The radio was broadcasting his first morning scandals. Today, the favorite player of a favorite football team was found dead, and nobody was able to tell what happened during the day before, on The Twenty-second of January, 2014. It could just be a suicide, but it wasn't really understanding. He looked at his colored daily program on his phone, and he knew now if he would have or not the teleorganic time to give to his headache a chance to disappear. Yes. One pill. No. Two pills.
Episode Two
Day ON.
His first emotion as he opened his eyes was that the current day was the most beautiful one of his entire life. Yesterday was a draft. As a code, he sang for himself a kind of Josephine Baker’s J’ai deux amours, and he opened the day as he opened a door, widely ready to live something new with a very inspiring and a very hopeful smile. C’qui m’ensorcelle, c’est Paris, c'est Paris tout entier. Thirty seconds after he got up he was already reading his program on his phone. Colors were telling him what kinds of deadlines were coming. Spearmint for his working task. Orange for his assistant work. Purple for his friends. Red for his own project. Grey for his own deadlines. He needed first assimilating his four mugs of coffee. The Coffee-machine’s self operating program was set up at 6:00 am for a long day, and at 7:00 am for normal days. Today was a normal day. Five minutes before the time, he was here, in waiting, waiting for the program to begin. It was time to look at all of the papers and books, left in front of the Coffee-machine just to be read during these five minutes. They could be news from friends, news from the World, exercises of memorization. Sometimes just the memories of reviving facts, events, yesterdays. Boys. Friends. He needed to remember his past life to ensure himself that he could bear his coming life, and needed to drink quietly a just-a-little-bit-moistened first mug of coffee. Quietly, just after having been a little bit moistened. So, he was waiting for the program to begin. The radio was broadcasting his first morning scandals. Today, the favorite player of a favorite football team was found dead, and nobody was able to tell what happened during the day before, on The Twenty-second of January, 2014. It could just be a suicide, but it wasn't really understanding. He looked at his colored daily program on his phone, and he knew now if he would have or not the teleorganic time to give to his headache a chance to disappear. Yes. One pill. No. Two pills.
Episode Two
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