Reflections


Reflections of Hong Kong, New York, and Los Angeles, whose distant shores watch another west, Beyond which is an ocean, which brings us back, after having passed a continent of turpitude now buried. 
Va'a on canoes, Polynesian discovering, we sail in bold horizons and fearful, to the land opposite. Cikanam! 
  
The moon is full, the mirror is uncovered. 
Stupor, the languor, fear brush against 
But I like to simmer, I want to feel. 

New ground again I penetrate you.. 

But where are the lions, and dirty streets? 
Garbage in which we live and the skeletons that walk? 
The leopard which break our neck and these big eyes that get lost in the endless repetition of “help me”? 
Clothes torn and weary, the without stories? 
The monkeys that we mimic and corruption that undermine us? 

Ah! Timbuktu its ruins and monuments as in the West, his books and mysteries religiously maintained. Its trades are reported, documented, unconcerned by its here, but by its there and morrow, we retain traceability, archiving, and its complement, consultation, are possible, the visit. 

The giraffes are also available, not for their writings, or paintings, but by their presence, existence itself. They are observable, can be studied (When the words play, the devils come out interrogating! Are you?), documented. Giraffes live in a self repeating time which is the giraffe time. A giraffe of today equals (almost) a giraffe of yesterday or tomorrow. The giraffes will not begin to tell the story of their parents and different civilizations of the giraffe, for example, birth and decline of the dynasty of Girafaculatae, Girafa reticulata Girafaculata I to Girafaculata IX. 

This is where we see, from Prague, radiant city, for a time, city of Mr. Mozart,for a time, from the heights of the castle remained intact through centuries of vicissitudes, a minister in sahelian pyjamas land in Paris at a five star intercontinental hotel to negotiate the price, in millions of dollars, for a soil of 52 km2 in the country he represents. 
In pyjamas? Yes, that is how the potential buyers have recounted it. I hope it was a garment worth at least 150,000 CFA anyway, that you appreciate or not the quality of the design it elevated that day. A question that the contacts could not give a reply to, who paid little attention to the patterns on the cloth, as they were going to invite a man arriving directly from his bed to a meal with champagne. 

The time spent scrubbing, sweeping, cleaning, back bent, the soils of earth, to make them fresh and rested under the shadow of polished huts, are of another world, they say impossible. The fresh lips of the women whisper the foreign words, squatting, which inhabit the sand winds, their learned plait flying off. The meetings are of this nature. The leopard drops his head to recollect and the cattle grazes. The design of this habitat that I contemplate is now the cover of a coffee table book. the espresso runs alongside it, as strange as that residence that protects it,inspired by Frank Lloyd Wright or Mario Botta, maybe. 
As I breathed this air, peace was expecting me, the distant cities lost. 


But all reasoning find their proof. 
As the young baye fall musician of West Africa, underpaid by his compatriot, who finds himself however in the motley Chinese city to sing for the beautiful eyes of an expatriate who got infatuated.. 
He has ended up there in this urban excess,only to help his mother, he says, but he cant make it. 
What clicks, practices and uses, will still occur, reproduce, repeat what images? Patterns inherited indoctrinated by force or reasons, fears, sufferings and varied cruelties ,aspirations; chablon of thought. 

The dug-outs empty, sailors sag to rest again in the big island near the imagined continent, and will then come the two masts and three masts, terrifying, killing, taking the useful and leaving pyjamas.

Escorted by clouds and stars and other celestial events, 
on the ocean reflected, the clear moon goes into the dark night

Antonioni's desert despair.

Red Monica Vitti's hair,

Blue ocean tinged,

Purple unending cloth of suns

towards mending.

Fulgurances

Il est Paris. Nous devons faire 1969 ou 1970.

Je ne sais plus si nous avions, mon ami et moi, écoute Miles Davis et son éclectique, électrique, polisse véhicule ou bien Milford Graves en duo, abstrait flot d'un Bronx sans rues.

Nous étions bien fatigues, je pense; j'en suis certain même, mais insouciants, cela fait un monde, beaucoup de mondes, de différence. Bref, nous étions allé; après nous être concertes longuement. Pas d'argent, pas de logement, au petit bonheur la chance. C'est lors d'une pause, je suppose, que nous rencontrâmes Daniel Caux, critique musical, homme de radio, promoteur, et sa femme.

Avec sympathie il nous invita a prendre un verre chez lui. Nous parlâmes surtout de musique, celle qui nous tient a cœur, et pendant un de ses commentaires il dit que pour lui il n'y avait que trois musiciens qui étaient fulgurants dans leur idées, leur phrase, leur émotion ; qui avaient des fulgurances, comme si elles étaient venues d'un inconnu : Louis Armstrong, Charlie Parker et Alber Ayler ! Non pas que d'autres n'eurent pas été aussi bons, non, mais ces éclairs subits d'une telle profondeur et richesse ne venaient que de ces trois gars la.

Oui, quelque chose comme ça, il y a longtemps, trop longtemps, mais cela est reste dans mon esprit comme si on l'avait évoqué avant-hier.

Fulgurances.