Incessant flows of words, sentences, ideas, attack me in a pseudo-sleep, in the middle of the night. Like a horde of noisy birds coming to sting me, the words assail me in increasingly violent waves. I have to get up, my brain is boiling, uncontrollable. Is it dementia? I prefer to grab my pen and blacken my notebook a little more with unnecessary words, words that will never go anywhere, sentences that will run aground at the edges of the pages. I grab my Leica almost violently and take myself photographing insignificant things in a room that I know by heart.
I believe that my brain, weaned from information, from stimuli, has just put itself by short-circuit. "Threads are touching" as they say in the villages of my heart, where the air smells good and where we can still hear the bells ringing. Writing calms me down. One day, I would reread the twenty or so notebooks that collect dust, I would scan the thousands of negatives never looked at.
One day, I will make my big dream come true. Joining Saint-Jacques-de-Compostelle by walking, accompanied by my eldest sons. Then do it again by another route with my youngest son when he is old enough to do it. When he will have the age of Initiation that our Western societies have lost. The age or the young Indian of the Amazon must spend four days alone in the forest or in other regions, other rituals. We had military service, which mourned the teenager and the birth of the adult. When the landmarks fade, others take their place.
But how do you find landmarks in a world built on cardboard foundations? When you imagine that the biggest taxi company in the world doesn't own a car. That the largest host in the world, has no room, no building. Or that the two largest traders in the world have no stores. And of course, the largest "media" company in the world, which does not create any content ... How do our young people find landmarks when a good number of movements of thought are constantly trying to destroy the family, to erase our history, to disrupt the genders, to crucify the archaic white male authors of all the evils of the Earth? I love this world all too rarely. Thinking about this great walk towards myself calms me and calms me. Step by step, move forward, slowly. Photograph, write with light and with the pen. Give birth to this never-ending work. I think it has a name: "slow life".
In this case today, it was still "speed life" with a day under high pressure, which pushes me even faster towards the exit of this mini-hell. T
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