A Monologue by Jean-Pierre Martinez
Do you remember? Ah, the good old days… or so they say. It’s what we’ve come to believe. Was it really as good as they say it was before? Anyway, it was the beginning. The start of it all. The first of the Mohicans. Religion is the ritualisation of an imaginary memory. We begin by daydreaming in front of the windows of fancy restaurants, the places forbidden to those under eighteen, and when we finally get the chance to go there, it’s the hunger of the beginning that we miss. The good old days when we still had an appetite. When curiosity wasn’t yet a nasty flaw. Ataraxia is not a childhood disease; it’s the excuse that helps the elderly come to terms with things. To escape this fate, we would need to reverse the order of the courses that history serves us. Sit at the table with empty pockets. Let the appetite come while eating. And stay hungry. Unfortunately, here and there, it’s the small streams that make the big rivers. The small vessels, the big arteries. We spend our entire lives waiting for the fortuitous twist that will change our trajectory. And when this event happens, the heart is no longer in it. When it’s not a heart attack… Old age is a shipwreck that doesn’t always end well. Save our souls. Or find them a deserted island to wash up on the beach. And start all over again from the beginning. Where did we go wrong? Even today, I ask myself this question: is this gigantic mess the result of a distant misunderstanding that a frank explanation, even belated, might have clarified, or is it ultimately just the logical consequence of an endless dialogue of the deaf? Come on, upon closer reflection, if we’re a bit clever, maybe we can remember being a monkey. Or even a vine. Sometimes, in this jungle, I remember the time when I was as flexible as a vine. When that sheer exultation was enough to turn my desire into fulfilment.
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A sketch from the collection Like a fish in the air
Link to the collection for free download (PDF)
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