Foucault said that this period of time was to be lived
in a Deleuze’s trap…
There are so many different entries in this hazy society surrounding us…
Why did he come here? For what reason? And what reason has to do in there? A dream
coming true or a fantasy he’s trying to chase? Whatever! So he came to Paris,
trying to become what they all did before… full of energy and desires, a
romantic point of view… confronting an ideal past floating in the valley of
utopia with a furious present consuming around him.
Don’t give up! Feed yourself with art, go around these streets and feel
and observe. Dive into the pool of unconsciousness this world went in… be a
witness of its deconstruction! This is why he came for in a way. He prepared his
stay during a long time. Anyhow he’ll make it through; even he has to cross
loneliness and misunderstanding.
It’s funny how we can have hopes and dreams about the future, like if a
simple change of space and time would cure all the inner fears or something.
Always projecting ourselves in better state of mind, happier conditions… the
will of easiness to come… He was constantly thinking about the book he would
write in Paris, the places he’d visit and so on… being free to work, alone and
six months in front of him… meeting crazy people everyday, walking in those
famous streets with the big names of History and literature in his head, visit
the legendary museums and contemplate the masters of painting. Cultural
ecstasy! Artistic climax! He could imagine himself walking with frenzy with Tropic of Cancer under his arm reading
his old bud with bulimia, crossing the city with Miller.
Anyway
he could, he was preparing his experiment in the best dispositions… A book
about the historical repetitions… Taking one place, Paris actually and let
evolve four different times in the space. A schizoid journey! Like if Rimbaud
and Artaud were making the biggest scandal of Saint-Germain-des-Prés’s history
together with Guy Debord and an astonished citizen of the twenty first century…
The biggest challenge was first to select the appropriated periods of this
strange human history we know about. Most of his art heroes lived or went
through Paris, at one point at least, so let’s dive into the worlds they’ve all
been through and make it one imagined universe out of time.
Let’s take the fucked up 60’s, the wicked 20’s, the schizophrenic 2010’s
and the bloody 1870’s… How to construct such a novel? So he reads like a desperate
student who didn’t learn quickly enough for his exams… why so much hurry? He
reads at the same time books about the history of Paris, sociological books about
the cities, the surrealist writers, about the dada movement and Rimbaud, about
may 68, Deleuze and Debord, Zola… it’s never enough, he’s always behind his
work. So he got sent into the Library of
Babel, without knowing it yet… Trying to construct the book, he makes
plans, takes remarks and so on. He’d like to be able to have a vision of the
whole thing before throwing himself in the never-ending fiction’s
possibilities.
Then he got there. The first few days were happy. She came by and it was
alright. But he could feel the hidden fears, the gloomy shadows ready to go
through his body and make a hell of his life. Unable to name them and to see
what’s to come, he tries to enjoy those few days of weightlessness, this
bracket of illusion within a furious reality just around the corner. And it
consumed itself, the easiness of course!
And
then the void came…
…And it came tremendously, without any warning! Fucking emptiness! The
sensation took him right at the bottom of the guts, right there on the platform
when he was sayin’ goodbye… Crying all the sadness inside of him, he felt lost,
empty and desperate in the middle of this never ending city. For the first
time, he’s fully confronted to his own self… he dreamed about it, saying it was
he’s only way to experiment the spirit he came to seek… Again the bitter gap
between what he thinks and what he lives scares the shit out him. Back to the
room he’ll live in during his stay in the capital, he has a quick and lonely
look around: beside all the books and his papers, all he can look at his the
sexy little shirt she forgot… a material ruin of her celestial presence in the
room… like her smell still floating… and then it disappears. All he has is a
few euro left, a little bit of weed and the affliction he carries around!
