Little blue planet

December 31, 2011 - Évreux, France


Moving. Press a button and you're somewhere else. "Dreams are what you make them" says the travel agency. What used to take monthes of hard travel on horses back or by foot are now done in a few simple and automated movements.
From Kathmandu, I jump to Paris, teleportation at a click.

I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel's sake. The great affair is to move. Robert Louis Stevenson

Between the hindu and the judeo-christian world, a few hours stop by the muslam world. In the Dobba airport, a dozen of men kneel down in the praying room, while others are taking a rest under the sign "the praying room is not for sleeping". Diferent hats, diferent gods, same habits, the men pray while the women are busy taking care of business. In prayer, they take a few minutes away from the outside world, diving into the inside one, talking to whatever gods they worship. I find a seat, put on my mp3 and watch the planet pass by, as the sun goes around the airport. Ghosts covered from feet to eyes in black veils fly around like shadows, men in long robes, asians in fancy fashion, girls showing their knees in skimpy outfits, a few freaks with thailand tshirts and party on their face, mothers running after young kids, busy business men, all pass by this out of space-time: transit. Dozzing of in modern purgatory, wifi everywhere, worlds connect, I fill up my needle, and take a nice shot of electricity.


A few more hours in a coccoon, a smiling nurse feeds us drinks, foods and the usual peanut bags. Confortably numb, seated with a mini meal accompanied by a mini wine bottle, I enjoy watching out the plane window. From the sky, nepal was a few lights here and there, straight lines almost exist, just another one of mayas veil. The himalayas keep their tantric secrets in dark crystally caves, hiding from the outsiders that came from the depraved barberic lands. As soon as the plane reaches modern countries, the lights on the ground shine of a thousand petals. Squares, triangles, circles. All geometrical forms appear as if by magik, others call it technology. It's full of lights, life becomes an existential puzzle, far away from the depraved and barberic lands still living in darkness.

Up in the air, the movie of the month plays on the mini screen in front of each passenger seat. The new planets of the apes tells the story of how it all began, another tale about human pride and curiosity. Another cup of cofee, a microwaved burrito and out of the pressurized womb, I land in another world.


France, my birth country. Mam and dad pick me up, a kiss and we are in the car. Out of the airport, the roads are soft as silk, no bumps, no dust, all signs of life have been carefully bleached out. In the car, the radio gives me the news I havent heard since february, my last stay in france. Apparently the crisis is still giving journalists a job. The crisis, like a fashion word, the radio bables: crisis this and crisis that. More news, I barely pay attention, nothing has changed, nothing ever changes, the  radio prays to whatever gods they worship, a few songs play in between, some news about some far away barberic land and their wars. Outside the window, the landscape passes, it's grey and flat, manicured and immaculate. Buildings, each more square than the next, houses, streets, and we get to normandie. Fields are painted on the ground, a Picasso would be proud. The chaos of the jungle is far behind me, already hunting me like mold growing on my skin.


For the last 25 years, I have come almost every xmess, to celebrate with my family. I am not really a fan of xmess, all religious events being as foreign as the next, at best a cultural curiosity marking the passage of time. As much as I do understand their significance, even respect the gluying role they play in society, it is not something I need in order to give meaning to my life. Meaning is something I left in the jungles of the mind, a long time ago. All the meaning seems to take away from the essential beauty of life, digging at its mystery with the claws of logic, eye shadow of an artificial kind, I like life naked and wild like a smile that appears for no reason at all.

A good traveler has no fixed plans, and is not intent on arriving. Lao Tzu.

Art can take a thousand forms, yet, illusion it always remains. I am an art lover,  the religions of the world being one of the great creations of humans, I study, I pray, I sprinkle the gods on morning breakfast, like salt on my eggs. I hang out with all the Brahma I meet and disguised under his many masks, he tells me his many stories. Artist, he created the world and so all the things in it, but then he wanted to taste his own creations, to discover who he really was. He got lost in his creation, he became the old man with many stories to tell, while patient Saraswati serves the grumpy old man chai and cookies. Bhrama temples are very few, the artist, like a machine, creates. For what, for who, it doesnt matter, the artist role is to create.
We laugh at his various aspects, the preserver, the destroyer, and other colorful mood swings. We bake cakes with holy spirits, and chocolate saints. Time pass, we enjoy the sand passing through our hands.


If some people need religious events, good for them, it's just not my thing. Yet I play the game, I bring gifts, I smile, I let the priest put on a tika, I circumbulate, doing my best in the symbolic jungle. I even pray in devotion to the gods, keeping alive this inner dialogue with myself. I know all the gods exist, just as I know that the cartoon on tv is real, and the earth is a blue little planet in a far away universe.
After 2 months of religious celebrations in nepal for gods and godess in her many forms, the  man with a red coat, a white beard and a red cap seems as artificial as any other mythological creature. The radio bables that the stories are good for the kids...I wander if thats true. The kids already live in their own imaginary world, why impose grown up stories on them? Maybe the grown ups could learn a lot from listening to their kids stories and watch them play together, reguardless of colors, religions, shapes or forms. Pirates, goldoracs, giant flying monkeys and elves are as natural as stock markets, inflation, productivity and other flat words that replaced the dreams of once upon a time in fairy land.

Only he that has traveled the road knows where the holes are deep Chinese Proverbs.

xmess passes, a good meal, a family, a few treats, smiles, togetherness and the otherness that comes along. The kids go to sleep, happy about new toys they already forgot. In a couple days, some will celebrate a new year. Lutecia, dear Paris, is dressed up with all her lights, creativity written on all her walls, tourists come celebrate the city of love. People are happy, dance in the streets and it's good.


Somewhere in a galaxie, a planet keeps on turning. A little blue ball full of barberic savages, each thinking that they are better than their neighboors. Savages with heavy toys, monkeys with guns and love in their hearts, the little blue planet is the home of the human species, as lost and confused as ever. The strange circus of techno monkeys floats around in infinite space, direction unknown. The baby monkey inside of me wanders if the savages will one day learn to appreciate their diferences instead of fighting about who's right and who's wrong. The kid inside is a happy dreamer, it dreams of barberic lands and of exotic stories filled with wild gods and strong godesses. It listens to all of Brahma's stories. I let the kid inside of me dream of other worlds, meanwhile, I will choose a cake to cook for my parents. A nice fruity charlotte for passing time...for time is all we got  while breathing on barberic lands made of flesh and bones.

The longest journey a man must take is the eighteen inches from his head to his heart”  Unknown.

Better enjoy.
Happy time passing to whatever stories your inner child dreams about:)

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December 31, 2011
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