The veil is torn out by brief jerks of blinding lucidity. You catch the beast doing some damages and then nothing - but I remember - and I think I understand what the other ones the Elders saw, the old cursed Sade, Nerval, Lautréamont, Rimbaud and more closely Artaud and others : Bosch, Cousin, Goya, Ensor, Van Gogh.
These men they saw or glimpsed and never forgot, the Medusa, the Gorgone and yet we’re only talking of those who made themselves known, how many and how many more. It requires and now I know it, a fundamental physical humor, a humor of essence such as that of Gurdjieff not to sink, because sometimes to see the human figures as they are and as easily as the skeleton appears with the X-Rays, to see these poor masks in the decline of life and even before, all twisted to have not been able to equate themselves to the conscience, all scratched of not being able to overcome the fear, the hate and the tiger which inhabit them.
I hate all these social forms of order, of morality, of ethics, of duty binding enough to transform this beautiful and free animal by the incessant torture of a behavior which is really inapplicable to every conscience, and which is inculcated to it from the very first interviews with its peers. The scars of a struggle for life, of a natural anxiety, of an individual quest are certainly less ugly than these results of a continual and degrading shift, and between us what result ?
Over time and space in the most complete darkness, the tentacles of my mind search and reach yours and shake it like a plum tree as if to convince itself of its existence.
I love you.
I live from you and through you.