occam, thanks for your razor

when you get a painful vaccine in your arm the world, which was waiting for this particular event to happen, goes mad: everyone seems to hit you right there, where it hurts, like they had been always planning for it. 

but it's not some conspiracy, it's all about where you put your attention or where your awareness is (temporarily) higher. 

and as my senses are usually as acute as apendicitis just before the (vermiform) appendix bursts, everything that happens around me contains some message, some reference to my mood and my feelings. especially in times of melancholy, the universe  seems to get me. (with a careful insertion of mockery laughter)

it's surely a self-preservation mechanism for the self-centric eccentrics, who know they are meaningless in the grand scheme but muster dimwit hope that, somehow, they're not. 

so, ok, then the radio is not really sympathizing with me, but i don't dislike living by means of this magical delusion.

summer bummer

(anne emond)

good i'm going back to rain. very good. how quickly we forget.

initials B.B. and M.E.

What do Mircea Eliade and Brigitte Bardot have in common? is a question anyone with a little bit of time and a little bit of imagination can answer, because it is obscure and unimportant so you can make up anything you want for the sake of conversation. And it's the kind of thing you could easily talk about at 42 degrees celsius. Especially inside your head, using different voices and maybe even different accents. But how B.B. and M.E. visited me on the same day to deliver an important message is something else. Or wait, no, it's just what I said above.

B.B. says/sings that she has a lover during the day and a husband during the night and then she exchanged the lover for a husband and got a new lover and so on and then it stops cause she's not in the mood to take another lover in the meantime (because eventually she gets old and cares more about stray dogs and their rescue and maybe putting ribbons in her hair and lots of make-up on).

J'ai pris l'amant pour mari 

Et un amant pour amant 

Qui deviendra mon mari 

Aussi longtemps 

Que je n'aurai pas envie 

De prendre un nouvel amant 

Qui remplacera mon mari 

En attendant

It's deep french pop sailing in shallow waters.

Now M.E.. Some hours before this song came into my ears I was re-reading M.E.'s Noaptea de Sanziene, where Stefan, who wants to live outside time (with a capital T) doesn't understand why he has fallen in love with Ileana while he loved his wife, Ioana.

Where can such love go? Anna Karenina, Tristan and Isolda? It would be too sad. A love that replaces another, an adultery that would be just like any other, born from Time, eroded by Time, destined to death, like any creature born out of death that returns into death. If I can't love one the same way I love the other one, what's the point of this new love? Why did I meet Ileana? Why did I fall in love with her? I've always loved Ioana; from the moment I saw her I understood that I've always loved her, that this love was destined to me. Then why did I fall in love with another? Only to sleep with her? If this new, unexpected, unsolicited love would only lead to replacing Ioana with Ileana then it would make no sense.

And on the dusty train platform, looking at the people running like mad to get on the train that wouldn't leave for another 15 minutes, this idea that we only replace one love with another, mechanically, meaninglessly, brainlessly (but not without hope), seemed extremely revolutionary, even intelligent. I don't consider it such anymore, however, it's the kind of awakening that can never come post-priori simply because we give too much meaning to our actions and attractions.

Who cares. 

That is, Dr. Who cares.

(cause he has two hearts and is a time traveller).