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Our spacetimes

Last week, I fixed the last of the mold­ings in the hall­way. My ren­o­va­tions have been a bit of a laugh­ing stock because they have been drag­ging on for 10 years. In the begin­ning, it was going well, I was using the mon­ey I received from the sale of the con­do. Then, with the slow­down in my self-employ­ment activ­i­ties, and the tran­si­tion to employ­ment in a com­pa­ny, the mul­ti­ple respon­si­bil­i­ties, finan­cial sta­bi­liza­tion, but espe­cial­ly the age, oh, the age, con­struc­tion became a long-term project. It will have had its draw­backs and its advan­tages. What is not done with haste is more like­ly to be built solid­ly and intelligently.

After I installed these mold­ings, my view of the apart­ment changed. Last week­end, I took the oppor­tu­ni­ty to change the direc­tion of the bed. I brought the ellip­ti­cal back into the bed­room. The liv­ing room has two arm­chairs ; I have a table in the din­ing room, although it’s not ide­al. In fact, noth­ing is per­fect yet ; too many things are miss­ing. Not every­thing is built. I can still make a lot of peo­ple laugh.

I feel that I have com­plet­ed the spaces where I live, spaces that still belong to the bank — I have 15 more years to pay if I don’t die before then — in short, I feel that I have appro­pri­at­ed my dimen­sions. It’s a bit dif­fi­cult to express, a bit like real­iz­ing the tan­gi­ble nature of the place where I live. Things are my own size, cre­at­ed, chis­eled by me. As a result, my breath has calmed down, my gaze has some­how become silent. And because I become aware of these spaces, time itself seems to shrink, to go rel­a­tive­ly faster. I tell myself that what I pos­sess is only worth­less sand in my hands. I could leave tomor­row. That’s Jacques, my father, all spit, I think. I could also say that I have the Moon and Jupiter in Sagit­tar­ius and that the Sun and Mer­cury are in sec­tor IX, home of Jupiter. That will only tell a few peo­ple some­thing. Let’s say that Jupiter is the achieve­ment in growth, the else­where, all forward.

I’ve always had this taste for leav­ing, for being some­where else, for run­ning away, for not putting down roots.

When an adven­tur­er doesn’t have the care­less­ness or the courage to leave his port, he ends up pro­cras­ti­nat­ing, for­get­ting him­self. I’m glad I’m not the type to get lost in drugs or alco­hol because my mind is still get­ting impa­tient. It has regained its thirst to read, to under­stand, to jug­gle with real­i­ty. It wants to dive again into the ocean of time, this vari­able dimen­sion which, accord­ing to physi­cists, con­tracts on con­tact with mat­ter and also expands towards infin­i­ty when space elapses.

The dilem­ma is root­ed in this hap­pi­ness that I am expe­ri­enc­ing. I cer­tain­ly can­not com­plain. Things are going well, friends are doing well, and I seem to have my place, at least I live the illu­sion of it.

We roll our lit­tle bod­ies, we deform space­time around us, around beings, them­selves with their deform­ing grav­i­ty, get­ting caught in the bosom of our grav­i­ty, or we let our­selves be swal­lowed up by their more impos­ing attrac­tion. Our nest­ed uni­vers­es add up to those of a com­pa­ny, a coun­try, some­times a plan­et. Time becomes vari­able, escapes us because it pass­es too quick­ly in front of our enor­mous eyes, tragedies, and anx­i­eties hatch like deter­mined vol­ca­noes. The more our dimen­sions are aggre­gat­ed, the more pre­dictable we become. When we turn our atten­tion to our sin­gu­lar den­si­ty, time and all its pos­si­bil­i­ties can have the impact of a deaf­en­ing con­cert that dazes us, intox­i­cat­ing and and desta­bi­liz­ing us.

Before yes­ter­day, I dreamt that I die, but not just any­how. My soul migrat­ed in a white cush­ion in front of me. Maybe that’s how mankind lives ?

I could con­clude with that famous cliché that I’m at a cross­roads. Come to think of it, we’re always on a road full of inter­sec­tions. So the cross­roads are with­in walk­ing distance.

Time might be the direc­tion of space. When you care too much about mate­r­i­al things, you loosen your grip on the steer­ing wheel. It’s no won­der that autonomous cars are spring­ing up. Elan Musk is the next mes­si­ah. The moment we sit, breathe, lie down on a pal­let, time catch­es up with us. We brake sud­den­ly, some­times with a prodi­gious, intol­er­a­ble heave-ho, because time becomes this unex­plored and pre­cious region again. It some­how thick­ens, becomes final.

Tak­ing back con­trol of the road, accept­ing to change space, dimen­sions, is a noble adven­ture. Per­haps use­less, but noble.

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