Petit

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					1- Little one Little one has been sitting down since forever, in a troubled abundant liquid, narrow space you can only wish for, but it feels good, even funnily good. That good that the idea of any kind of interrogation can‟t even be grasped. But there is a beautiful end. Here is his first experience, his first question. How much time? How much time has he got to live? His heart has „till now followed the Rhythm. The Rhythm feeds him in a sufficient quantity and with a remarkable regularity. The Rhythm keeps him warm, at the normal temperature. From the stagnant water to the blood which runs and cells that multiply better and better. Good life in its all. Little one drags on in his cellular system and he can‟t even imagine that another world is waiting for him. But even to conceive a new world is exhausting for him. How to imagine something that doesn‟t exist? He noticed that mess, far from himself, a different possible universe, sound vibrations of all sorts that had made him very uncurious so far. Bathing in what he considers to be his own juice, his own meat soup, aleatory movements of this far and heavy cradle always end up being harmonized by the omnipresent Rhythm, this invisible caisson, which means so much good. He doesn‟t worry at all. But here this generator of happiness stops being calm and generous and it begins to accelerate. Worried, the Little one observes without turning around, he contemplates everything around him. Everything becomes suspicious. Everything becomes painful. But what can he do? He doesn‟t know anything else unless it flows smoothly, very smoothly and gradually. Growing up is done. He knows that these organs and his limbs have considerably grown. The space is becoming strange. It can‟t be any other way: the end is near. Than he remembers this little life, already finished, this soap bubble which is rolling together with first intoxicating multiplications and it‟s going to the left and to the right, back and forth, and up and down, all around and all the time something‟s going on without being thought through, something automatic, that fits in time, all the time, a bunch of cells, which are atomized around the cord which is holding him tight. As long as the Little one feels secure holding on to that string, everything will be all right. But nothing‟s all right any more. It‟s time for the friendly liquid to let him fall. Being suddenly on his way, without asking for anything, here‟s the Little one in a pretty funny situation. Not "hahaha" funny, but funny in a bizarre way. Everything becomes dry around him, everything becomes hostile, with an after taste of the terminal where everybody gets off. But at the same time, it‟s a bit like he, himself, without being informed in advance, had commanded all this combat commotion. It feels like shame, it feels like mouthful panic… what is to be done? For now, the Little one knows only how to sleep, float, drink his own soup and stay where he is. In any case, there isn‟t really any other possibility, is there? In that moment, the idea of this possible other world comes to his mind, a pillar of their existence, a sort of after-existence. Will it be that? He tries with all of his strength to imagine a terrible harass, the existence of a being other than himself, who would take him, who will fiddle with him, and put him away in the hidden corner of this other world of total horror. The Rhythm moves to the superior level, never expected. It seems that everything is too late and it is exhausting him. Inhaling towards the outside, Little one feels that his own will is getting out of his hands, all those intuitions were valuable and they stick to the worst thoughts. Back in the death, in this unknown world, which will make him its slave, its pawn, and without a doubt its waste, considering that everything started aggressively, with gravity and without any management, the string stays there and it is his only hope, after the last nameless push towards this horrid world, where grinder monsters and vandals await him, empty crash and whiteness of even whiter clarity, in the end makes the world lose its conscience of comfort, an instantaneous clash which guides us straight to a certain forgetfulness, everything is deaf, everything is smooth and hard cold. The string stays but here is this suspicious being who holds on, it really does exist, it‟s for real, it‟s for good, and it is not funny.

2- Playing Stone-Cat

1st rule: put the stone on the cat nd nd 2 rule: there is no 2 rule. It‟s late in the morning, and our three comrades from last night came down from the mountain after a night they spent soaked in beer and tears. They don‟t have much to say to each other for the moment and they casually sit on this beach with no sand that nobody would want, that nobody had noticed for centuries. Or in any case not since this summer. It‟s certainly hot, the sun has already done half of its day‟s work, April sun which almost made one forget that stupid saying that allows only the month of May to be happy. The First of them makes himself comfortable in an old forgotten hammock between two Mediterranean pines, which break of joy or boredom in the vulgar blue sky. The Second one of the rogues sits flat on the rock like a teenage girl, while the Third one decides to stand, after a short hesitation whether to sit or not on a metal that the sea had vomited one hot evening, ages ago. The sound of water is enough for the trio to fall asleep easily. Three rays of sunshine aim each of their faces. The one in the hammock starts to close his eyes, and seems to have nothing better to do but to observe that special effect that this ray makes through his eyelids. He thinks of the small amount of blood placed in them, which helps him see black in red. After 5 minutes, first snores are heard from under the sea. The one sitting on the rock will make the same sound, but the regular rhythm of the waves, the ray warming up his belly and his bottom, reminds him of an old story, whose name he doesn‟t know. He tries to keep his little eyes open, like the voracious lurking animals that save their energy in case some prey appears on the horizon, because the hunger is always present. The one standing approaches the water and fiddles the ground with his foot, there where the earth and the sea meet. He doesn‟t notice the immensity of the sea in front of him, just a bit of water that has just soaked the top of his too old trainers, this could simply be a pond, a pond that smells like sea. They are alone. They don‟t remember yesterday and tomorrow even less. The Second one, with a cap placed on his head, has a feeling that it is he who, in the distance, draws that line which separates the sea from the sky and the sky from the sea. A simple electrocardiogram. He automatically takes a little pebble that was by his side to occupy his fingers with, which he handles without looking at it, it‟s round, smooth, tender and warm, it‟s a little stone and one would think it‟s smiling within. Deep within itself, it‟s smiling. The Third one keeps directing his thoughts towards this border, there at his feet, this border of water, in constant movement, an animated border, which makes island‟s form imperceptible, he gets down, takes one of those pebbles that one can be found in water as well as on the beach. Not knowing where to place it, he observes it with a smile on his lips. He has just realized that nothing, absolutely nothing can be defined. The first one is still snoring and even more beautifully now, and bathing in his dreams of mouth and eyelids colored with bronze, where wives, cousins and neighbors wait in socks on their sofas in the form of a Zodiac. Heavy body in that torn hammock that doesn‟t swing anymore opens an eye and smiles at the same time. He feels like a commissioned piece of ham. The day has just started. The Third one finally aimlessly throws his pebble in that pond between the lands, in order to get rid of it, too occupied with enjoying in the idea that nothing else can freeze ever again. The pebble falls on an evil rock couple of meters from the beach, pretending to be an island. The First one finds this funny, he almost feels good and takes one as well, a big one and throws it in the sea, towards that small, steady and useless island, just as one throws a potato. The Second one continues on torturing the line of the horizon. The Third one jumps at the sound of the potato hitting the water not far from the reef. None of them has really noticed it before that. It was like some body suddenly emerged from the water to intercept the time. Completely synchronized, three of them just like brothers focused on a piece of terrestrial flesh out of all the liquid mass. The Second one sees a cat in it, the Third one sees a cat in it and the First one sees a cat in it. For once they agreed on an essential thing. But the thing that they couldn‟t see was that this feline micro island wasn‟t deserted at all. There was only one inhabitant. Or better-said female inhabitant. Black widow which was knitting its regular net, early in the morning, in the middle of the mineral cavity. Nothing but worries after having jumped at two shocking waves, one brutally dry, the other one definitely brutally wet, which splashed the sea all over its work of silk and patience. This net of flies was now completely pearled with sublime and salty water drops, which had placed themselves like a dew of the most beautiful morning in the world. In each of those pearls there was one of those three bastards who were watching at the distance of 180º and who were aiming her. From now on, eventual snack may be the end of it. Skilful Second one, with the munition in his hand, gives a shot, but tears

the poor trap to land at the bottom of the simple, numb sound. A twinge of sorrow, a sound from the solid ground was heard: "Cat!" She knew that she has just lost, that she wouldn‟t eat anything today and that the last pebble would probably shorten her agony. 3- Fat girl isn’t on the plane It‟s a nice Sunday. It‟s sunny. Not too hot. Mowers outside hit with all of their strength. Children shout at the rhythm of the trampolines. The bells from the next door church have already sounded dominical competition for cleaning family properties. It‟s Sunday and everybody has a right to it. Everything is in order. Even in the apartment of 28 square meters which belongs to the girl who lives on the last floor. Nobody knows her name. Her mother surely did, but she‟s been dead since last winter. Fat girl. But small…There is simply no need for detailed explications. Everybody understood. (…) A child that has become a young girl and is now on the point of becoming a young woman. She was exceptionally beautiful. Fat. Very fat. Beautiful. Very beautiful. Beautiful and Fat. Fat and Beautiful. Fat girl. It is she who gloriously, put the Capital letter on this name, which she has made her own. It is clear and good for her. Fat girl is practical. 24 hours a day. Seven days a week. Night and day. Day and night. Fatter every second. The skin tightens, nerves loosen. She‟s not winning her life, nor losing it. She simply lives it and tries not to make it too difficult. It‟s Sunday and she counts not to waste this day. Oh, well. It‟s Sunday and as it had been foreseen long ago, she won‟t move from her apartment. For the Fat girl life is like a duty free, an American airport where it doesn‟t really matter whether you‟re coming or leaving. She‟s definitely staying glued to the ground. It‟s Sunday and she finally puts her first foot on the ground. Ten minutes later the other one joins the first one. She finds herself sitting like that on the edge of her unmade bed, covered with a remote, magazines and empty paper bags. It smells after a stale smell of chips and sweat. She likes it. To succeed in this almost everyday performance of going from the horizontal to vertical position, movements have to be slow and precise. Nothing can be the result of the coincidence. It would be an incident, an accident. If she ever finds herself nailed to the ground, like a clumsy Coleopteran, a turtle, she‟ll have to press the magic button, which is hanging around her neck, like an enormous diadem until two human technicians come to put her back on her feet in order for her to continue to live normally. No, not right now. There‟s no real need for something like that right now. Not now. Slowness was in place, the precision was her big sister. Fat girl imagined her body as scenery. Fat girl imagined her body as a pile and she enjoyed seeing herself like that. The idea that her body could accumulate a gram here and a gram there, really rejoiced her. She was looking at that in the mirror. Each new roll of flesh was a victory. Each new fold was a crossed border. Finally she took her courage in her hands, her two faithful supports, a wooden cane in the left one and a stylish violet stick in the right one. Her bones were hurting her. But she needed to go. A fabulous desire to place something enormous at the bottom of the toilet stood up straight all the way in her rectum. She liked these kinds of moments. This yearning need that needed to be hold, squeezing the bottom before letting out a magnificent manure, Landes‟ dung as well as Fjords‟ shit. It depends. However, she had to reach the bathroom. The thing she couldn‟t easily do, but for her this is largely a part of a primordial excitement. Dragging her feet along, she passes by her three overfilled refrigerators, and she immediately thinks about the hunger that is overcoming her. Having arrived to the right place, she doesn‟t undress, because she lives naked. She looks at herself in the mirror. She likes herself even more than yesterday. She is divine. In the light of her new solar seat, lightened non-stop, always ready to receive her enormous triple ass. She watches that "Unique Body", made of thousand breasts, thousand bottoms, thousand lips. Bluish light invading the room, made her even more strangely beautiful, from another world where everything succumbed to her rein. But forgetting her hurried biological need, the Fat girl doesn‟t have the time to sit down on the toilet seat and she shits the way one shits a huge shitty chocolate shit. Straight like a letter i, and not any less proud it makes under her a big boomshit. A sublime joy without comparison. Even better than usually, she closes her eyes like an actor who pretends to be dead at the end of the film, when his darling comes running with her mouth full of regret. Even though the Fat girl often surprises herself thinking that all of this is better than making love, this time she has reached the peak of the existence like no other. Nirvana, Paradise, Ali Baba‟s cavern. She inhales deeply this smell, her own smell, and than a feeling of extreme happiness moves her from the bottom of her soul. Suddenly she has this last thought of compassion for those sad,

misfortunate and numb beings which, however, everybody posses in their wombs and shares the same secret of the eternal happiness. She is Lucky. She psses abundantly with a retro-active reflex, then warmly and then she rejoices. The image of three refrigerators where not even a light could find its place, comes to her mind one last time. The possibility of filling up that magical body one more time doesn‟t mean anything to her compared to this much ecstasy, this much liberty. Life couldn‟t be more beautiful than this. Shitting standing. Here it is she‟s pressing one “and than shit…” letting her fall in the smell, softly rolling between the shit and the solar seat. Floating in the Blue. Nobody will come this Sunday. Fat girl won‟t press the button. 4- The best Solider in the World It‟s not without the reason that the whole world named him The Best. Unarmed, without the armour and without hatred, he had fought for years the enemies of this world, never failing, without ever retreating, or suffering from any wound, with only one scar, the one his mother wanted to leave him at birth. Death was some other. Until the day, he left alone, just as he was used to doing, for some uncounted battle, he stopped his faithful young horse to drink a bit of water from this river whose name nor existence was familiar to him. However, it was quite large and it possessed an impressive stream, which was breaking stubborn rocks. It surely came down the Mountain of the Lost, known by everyone. He imagined that the water there was pure and fresh, so he got off his 5 year old horse Regina in a white and gold robe. He kneeled and in the palm of his right hand, he imprisoned half a glass of this crystal liquid full of life. He could see sky grey reflecting in his palm. He thought: “I have some grey colour in my hand”. And he couldn‟t stop contemplating that degraded grey metallic lake that kept changing, and he couldn‟t drink from it the way his thirst had ordered him. His look numbed by this water full of cumulus, full of rain, all of a sudden he felt his thoughts freeze. Nothing else matters. An infernal wheel started to roll in his head and The best Soldier in the World felt stuck between the space of his hand and the sky. He had known a similar situation, when as a little child he observed his first victim, die in front of his eyes. Without any fear or taste, he watched the bleeding, then he went back to the cerebral circle, staring at the pond of blood, which was spreading on the ground, and his enemy‟s eyelids that were closing in a synchronised perfection. It was a bit different there. He than tried to realize whether his whole life, those eternal seasons of victory were only the one and the same spiral, and that maybe it was coming to its end. But this mental paralysis was interrupted suddenly when he felt that on the other side of the lake, an animal look placing on him. Led by his professional reflex, he thought of his horse, which could be the prey of any starving predator, The Mountain of the Lost was known to be hiding many of them, and some of them were the most beautiful species. But there is nothing to it. Two eyes looking at him without moving the eyelids were on the body of a cat, a cat in the most common and banal sense of the word. Putting his hand in a perfect horizontal, he felt that this cat didn‟t want to do him any harm. He was sitting on a rock covered with moss and he wouldn‟t stop looking at it, not in the eyes, but just above, in the deepest part of the forehead. He wondered whether he should keep looking at it or just simply ignore it and continue his way. It was a long road until the next massacre. So he decided to keep up the spirit, to quench his thirst for once and for all and to go his way. But his knees stayed bended, his hand couldn‟t reach his mouth, the paralysis has now regained his entire body, his head stayed turned in the direction of the animal from the other side of the bank, just as if that cat, which had come from nowhere, nailed him down to this dry solitary scenery, by the medium of thought. For the first time, not everything was so simple. He found himself in an embarrassing position, and he couldn‟t believe, not even for a second that this could last. So the persistent cat‟s look started to give him a terrible pain, just as if someone was drawing on his cortex a machine made inner tattoo. The water in his hand was becoming heavier and heavier. Heavy, he looked down on his left one so he could see if there was still some desired water in its palm. There he was strangely surprised to see that the water had turned to lead. He felt that from that moment everything was going to change considerably. That this death which came so close and which had been looking over its shoulder, at the rest of the world for years, suddenly changed the field, changed the edge, changed the bank. For the first time in his life he felt his tissue crystallize, his will wrinkle, his bones drilled, his courage faint, his blood refuse to follow the course of the history. That was without a doubt what his enemies have ever since called fear. He redirected his look, now full of doubt to the animal that had disappeared in an orange aura, while the

rest around him had become like the bottom of his hand, the bottom of his heart, lead-grey, pencil-grey, like when in the night the light isn‟t enough to catch the colour. All of a sudden, he stood up, put on his helmet without having drunk a drop, knowing that from now on the thirst would no longer leave him, that no water could quench it and that if he doesn‟t die of thirst, it will probably be without the delay of something else.

Serge comte. 2009


				
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