Original my gold

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Original my gold.

From afar, from close, by night, by day, original my gold on my mind, introspective obsession, invisible disease. Grey-cloud horizon, little imperceptible successes on my path, I am on a race of a kind, a race of my own.

Comparative guilt, old materialist normations, or the confidence of age, the epiphany of genius’ squirts. Endless dynamics, faithful currents in a bottomless ocean of familiarity — between immediacy and grandeur, conditions and fruits, the creator still finds more comfort in questioning his periphery rather than diving into the Ideas.

Original my gold, western rush of my own, necessarily different, eastern, external movement for an internal pretext, introspective obsession of a man engrossed with appearances. Indeed, because, the man from Stagira aside, form matters. Form of the smooth, mystic of the cropped, absorbing paradox of the skin, temptation of the senses, in a word. Closest to the border: dream of a differential metaphysics, heart and resolution of the enigma of identity become difference. Closest to the word, caress of the expression and surface of the sentence; searching for the very beginning of ideality, localising at the closest the first meters after the border separating sign and meaning. Fantasy of a final marriage, eternal, resolved of matter and idea, schizoid ghost of our societies.

After that, philosophy will only be a word, memory of an epoch, testimony of a species, species, kind, race, race of another kind, obsolete in its monkey cries, monkeys whom we are, only that the natural border will be shifted by a vector, a change of reference, this humanity of another time will judge itself retrospectively as placed scarcely any better than a group of advanced primates. New item of a list populated with alchemies and other phrenologies, philosophy, outmoded science, will speak of a time, of an epoch of the human race, -500 +2100, twenty six centuries of a test, of a plot-twist ridden attempt, minder of the force of the ideal at the heart of an existence of species capped at the material. A baton passing, vital, but outmoded.

In memories, unknowns by the hundreds of thousands, and a few survivors, saved by the ideal intensity of their being, but also and mostly, the cult of those whom time will discover as the actual precursors. Common thread of the “beings from the sides”, from the cave painter to these few words, the creator and his opaque logic, tenacious existential coat, always too warm or too closed for the summers and winters of the human emotion. His dreams of the soft and effective breeze, when he would finally be able to throw it, the coat, flat to the troughs of his contemporaries’ faces, worked by the time of genomes, he always reminds himself, of his forebears also, and even of his descendants, finally the only addresses worthy of the potential of his thought. Squall-temptation of each instant, with a quasi-universal intention: partner, close “friends”, parents, family, and even, and especially, the least passer-by in the street — all, they deserve it, for my good and for theirs, to taste it, my coat.

Only anonymity protects, even if it frustrates, and the statistic reminders of the quantity of human destinies, to manage to overcome the risks always crippling of guilt. If it does not ensure the right creative jet, it saves us at least, momentarily, and maybe constructively, from consuming ourselves in the comparative folly.

Remains the gold and its quest; my sieve is cropped but infinitely small ; the degree of imagination of my creative ambition unfurls at the differential scale, metaphysical microscope, alias the infinitely blind to most of my species. Each estimation, the least attempt, evocative at the closest of the idea of scale, of the grain of intuition, but thus also, only echo to the distance that still separates me from it.

My path is long : rush to the eastern west going on forever, seven years in Tibet or just a little below, my excursion-incursion has become foray-forage ¹, “your naps are so sedentary”, I am told the other afternoon ; by dint of searching so passionately, I risk permanently the folly of the mirage arrival. Few counterparts to such a vital energy — an altitude higher than any emotional or even nervous level, depth only more remote from the least social or cultural. The creative delirium is its own scale, a blood-red thread [fil rouge-sang], from the big bang to the apocalypse ; unique reality of a cosmos at its fundamental metaphysical scale. When contagion takes over and one of the members-individuals gets sclerosed, the organ can do nothing but suffer the fury energy that inhabits him, upsetting all its parameters and functions, obsessing him with his justification of being, a necessarily projected reason, question of his future heritage.

Being traversed by time, throat dried by the synchronic languages of the world, he drinks the unsubstantial all day long to keep alive the idea-force which he knows to be awaited. Being, temporal and temporary form, versions and variations on the theme of times, the themes of time, impossible but heady melody, he hears the call of his muse to come join her and play. ²

Image courtesy: Texture

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