On Acne and other soul pains

Anoth­er sea­son again. Already half a year accu­mu­lat­ed behind the tie. Spring has final­ly deliv­ered us sum­mer and things are going well for me. Intense­ly so too. I had con­tra­dic­to­ry emo­tions in my heart as if hap­pi­ness was the result of a series of inter­change­able thoughts and actions. Met my edi­tor on the street. She con­firms to me that the nov­el will be released this fall, but that she is late. She was accom­pa­nied by my future press offi­cer and shared with me the praise­wor­thy reac­tions of an intern who would have real­ly liked what I had writ­ten. So every­thing is going well on this side. How long it takes, all the same… Already in the sum­mer and not a first-class event on hand. Besides, it’ll be the chaot­ic weath­er of the hol­i­days. Will there be time to go to print for the fall ?

I must quick­ly dri­ve these ques­tions out of my mind, leave them to be forgotten.

On the work side, every­thing is going just as smooth­ly. I, who doubt­ed my abil­i­ties, obtained a great deal of recog­ni­tion from the employ­er, which result­ed in a gen­er­ous salary increase. Oh ! I won’t be rich yet, the finan­cial clouds are still hang­ing over the hori­zon. But still, a new breath is con­firmed. This year will be beautiful…

I can’t wait for autumn to come, live sum­mer silent­ly, fin­gers are fid­get­ing with impatience.

On the heart side, well, it’s com­pli­cat­ed, it’s beau­ti­ful, it’s deep, and it’s total­ly unavow­able or, at the very least, it’s dif­fi­cult to be rea­son­able. To explain ? What if I made a beau­ti­ful nov­el out of it ? Mon Chair Ami (My Flesh/​Dear Friend) would be the title. Not real­ly trans­lat­able in English.

Some peo­ple already know this sto­ry, oth­ers prob­a­bly live sim­i­lar ones, these loves that do not fit into the norms, this intox­i­cat­ing poi­son of being a pris­on­er, ded­i­cat­ed to the flesh and soul of anoth­er. I use big words to talk about a com­mon­place love tri­an­gle that has been going on for six years, a sto­ry that I don’t tell much because they, out­side of my pri­vate world, will say I’m wrong, a sto­ry that some­times chokes me, I con­fess to it, because I’m ulti­mate­ly a free man. The end of the Les Mailles san­guines is the ulti­mate expla­na­tion. This love that I do not yet want to tell resem­bles me, is both the demon­stra­tion that I am not made for ordi­nary life and, at the same time, made to merge into the ordi­nary soil of love. It’s bour­geois. Françoise Sagan and I, a lit­tle bit the same fight.

A few weeks ago, I tried to expe­ri­ence some­thing else. I quick­ly real­ized that, no, I was­n’t ready to start all over again on that mat­ter. It’s not easy to love, it’s not so easy to fuck. We do not aban­don a being we love under the pre­text that oth­ers could love you, and in a more open way. We must live what we want to live, estab­lish the share of things and make fun of the rest.

I am throw­ing sen­tences here, but I read­i­ly admit that every­thing is con­fus­ing with­out my want­i­ng, for the moment, to clar­i­fy things.

Again, I made a major shift last fall. It is a slow tec­ton­ic move­ment, uncon­scious­ly mea­sured. In a year or two, the great Nep­tune will become a major force in my sky. Nep­tune rep­re­sents the unclear, the spir­i­tu­al­ly grandiose or the alco­holi­cal­ly dan­ger­ous. That is to say, all my will­ing­ness to com­mune with life…

Ah ! ah ! You have to laugh about it ! Com­mu­ni­cate ! Life ! Yet I find it so dif­fi­cult to remain tan­gi­ble and embod­ied. These weeks, I spend my week­ends stay­ing in bed, play­ing Scrab­ble, mak­ing up sto­ries in Spain, sleep­ing bad­ly too. The night is still a bad dream.

At last. It’s hot today. It is 4:50PM. I went to see the Fabergé exhi­bi­tion with this flesh friend, then bought some short pants. At Simons, we weren’t the only small male cou­ple to shop… On our return, a beau­ti­ful Andalu­sian asked us for direc­tions. I would have fol­lowed him as well. Then I slept, remained naked in my bed, played Machi­nar­i­um, kicked my ass to write this post, I also have to prac­tice my singing, ah ! my singing ! Anoth­er great adventure…

Curi­ous all the same, this rich­ness in me and also this sour sweet­ness of anx­i­ety. Fas­ci­nat­ing and tire­less ener­gy of my brain that keeps burn­ing my stom­ach, caus­ing acne, pso­ri­a­sis and even hem­or­rhoids. This is me, the sub­lime and down-to-earth. I dream of being unfath­omable and my ass still hurts.

Let us go in the show­er, keep a lit­tle silence, lis­ten to life, or its absence, let us lis­ten to this back­ground noise which is none oth­er than the Absur­di­ty of all this.