C'est donc la photo d'une vieille femme, ayant participé aux réjouissances et portant un drapeau bleu blanc rouge, prise le jour de la victoire du foot-ball national.
Elle est visible sur instagram.
Elle est visible sur instagram.
Et commentée.
Et ce que révèlent les commentaires, par exemple ce "Pathétique", c'est le travail immense qui reste à effectuer pour secouer les archétypes, les poncifs, les préjugés, bref, tout ce qui passe gaillardement et avec une arrogance jamais démentie par dessus le savoir, et son corollaire tâcheron, l'expérience.
L'omerta dont souffre le vieillissement et surtout ce qu'on en pense et dit quand on n'est pas, encore, consciemment pris dans le mouvement, ayant la conviction de tenir le bon bout, celui des certitudes et des évidences se cristallise entière dans ce "pathétique".
Que dit-il ?
Il dit que ce qui touche à la joie, à la fête que la joie entraîne, à la célébration, aux flux d'émotions, à l'implication, au partage, ce qui touche donc à ce corps qui ressent, vibre, souffre, galope, tombe, qui se démène pour se tenir, se retenir. Tout ce qui touche à ce corps qui au fond lutte chaque jour pour offrir dignement ses compétences biochimiques, génétiques, immunitaires, son savoir minéral et son labeur incessant à celui ou celle dont il est l'intercesseur ne peut qu'être balancé par ses pairs à un moment déterminé, suivant des critères supposés objectifs et plus sournoisement moraux, hors de la sphère du vivant social, du vivant spécifiquement, incontrolablement humain, du vivant du sexe et des maux de tête, des palpitations en attente d'un coup de téléphone et des effondrements.
Et, plus, plus, de ce que chacun en crée, à sa façon et dans une liberté mêlée des impératifs plus ou moins secrets de sa propre histoire.
Avec cette idée, stupide, que ce qui caractérise les relations assez confuses à soi et à l'amour, l'amour de soi et celui, tout aussi complexe des "autres" pourrait, en fin de parcours, trouver enfin un lieu d'apaisement, de silence. Une idée que ça finira bien par finir et que lorsque l'heure semble décente, le monde demande à ses vieux de lui prouver qu'il a raison, que ce qui mène à la mort, c'est le rien, la neutralité de l'ennui et du temps qui se contente enfin de ne faire que passer.
Dans ce cercueil de l'image , cette cryogénisation du temps, on y met évidemment les femmes avec plus d'ardeur, quand elles sont supposées ne plus avoir à remplir leur tâche de repeuplement, que leur peau, malgré les soins qui devaient l'interrompre, révèlent à chaque instant les effets du temps sur l'âge. Qu'il faut anéantir, écraser, effacer.
Mais ça ne marche pas comme ça, et sans être aidé par un environnement chaleureux et surtout respectueux de ce plus que donne, quand on sait le cultiver, la création sans fin de sa propre histoire, on doit chacun et chacune pour soi s'aménager une voie d'accès à ce travail incessant qui se nomme "vivre".
Et les balises de la bienséance et de la bienpensance s'étant évanouies sous les différents assauts du "pathétique", condamnation d'un corps malgré tout, visible encore et encore désirant, qui freine, et ampute, nivelle et raye jusqu'à l'idée que pourraient encore se montrer des envies, on est réduits à un effort constant pour s'écrire, se décrire, se créer soi-même seul dans les huées ou pire la condescendance des foules gérontophages.
Ces mêmes foules qui ignorent que la jeunesse et l'idolâtrie qu'elle inspire est un concept assez récent, clairement défendu par les idéologues du libre marché, qui savent que cet âge, de l'adolescence à la trentaine est celui où l'on consomme le plus, et que quarante pour cent des achats des parents sont effectués à la demande de leurs enfants. Ceci peut générer une forme d'allergie managériale au processus, assez commun pourtant, de vieillissement et le condamner à placer sa fierté ou ce qu'il en ignore, dans les placards.
Alors donc, vieillir, ce sera sans danser, sans chanter, sauf dans des chorales, sans se défoncer aux battements des musiques qui nous ont pourtant faits, sans vouloir se faire baiser, sans vouloir baiser, sans masser sa peau qui veut sentir bon, sans être convaincu d'avoir tant à dire sur ce présent qui ne se soutient ni se souvient de rien.
Alors, vieillir, ce sera tenter de dire haut et fort, que tous les clichés de cérémonial d'obsèques sont faux dans leur hypothèse de départ, tordus dans ces visions des "pathétiques" divers qui voudraient réduire une existence à des moments déterminés par le bon goût de la masse qui les commande.
Tout est faux, ce qui passe enlève tout ce qu'on en croyait savoir et ce temps qui nous pousse, qui est quoi qu'on en veuille, toujours devant nous, est aussi ce qui nous révèle, extraits enfin des emballages des fonctions qu'on se voit attribués. Vieillir, peut-on enfin pouvoir changer de peau sans se la faire faire ? EG
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7.19.2018 Age: a pathetic blemish
This is the photo of an old woman, having participated in the festivities and carrying a blue white red flag, taken on the day of the victory of the national football.
It is visible on instagram.
And commented.
And what the comments reveal, for example, this "Pathetic", is the immense work that remains to be done to shake the archetypes, the clichés, the prejudices, in short, all that passes cheerfully and with an arrogance never belied over the knowledge, and its corollary piece worker, the experience.
The omerta from which aging is suffering and especially what one thinks and says when one is not yet consciously caught up in the movement, having the conviction to hold the good end, the one of certainties and pieces of evidence crystallizes fully in this "pathetic".
What's it saying ?
It says that what touches on the joy, on the feast that joy brings, on the celebration, on the flow of emotions, on the implication, on the sharing, which therefore touches on this body that feels, vibrates, suffers, gallops or crawls, falls, fighting to stand, to hold itself. All that touches on this body which fundamentally struggles every day to offer with dignity its biochemical, genetic, immune skills, its mineral wisdom and its incessant labor given to the one of which it is the intercessor, can only be thrown away by its peers at a certain moment, according to criteria supposedly objective and more insidiously moral, outside the sphere of social life, living specifically, uncontrollably human, living sex and headaches, palpitations waiting for a phone call and collapses.
And, more, more, of what everyone creates, in his own way and in a freedom mixed with more or less secret imperatives of their own history.
With this idea, stupid, that what characterizes the relations rather confused with oneself and the love, the love of oneself and the love, as complex of the "others" could, at the end of the course, finally find a place of appeasement, silence. An idea that it will end well and that when the time seems decent, the world asks its old to prove to it that it is right, that what leads to death, it is the nothing, the neutrality of the boredom and the time that is finally satisfied to just pass.
In this coffin of the image, this cryogenic knowledge on the other, we obviously put women in more ardor, when they are supposed to have no more to fulfill their repopulation task, than their skin, despite the care who was to interrupt it, reveals at every moment the effects of time on age. That must be annihilated, crushed, erased.
But it does not work like that, and without being helped by a warm environment especially respectful of this plus that gives, when one knows how to cultivate it, the endless creation of one's own history, one must, each and every one for oneself, arrange a way of access to this incessant work that is called "to live".
And the markers of conformity and propriety having vanished under the various assaults of the "pathetic" condemnation of a body despite everything, visible again and again wanting, which brakes, and amputates, levels and lines up the idea that could still be shown desires, we are reduced to a constant effort to write, describe, create oneself alone in the boos or worse, the condescension of gerontophageous crowds
These same crowds who do not know that the youth and the idolatry that it inspires is a fairly recent concept, clearly defended by the ideologues of the free market, who know that this age, from adolescence to thirties is the one where one consumes the most, and that forty percent of parents' purchases are made at the request of their children. This can generate a form of managerial allergy to the rather common process of aging and condemn him to place his pride or ignorance in the cupboards.
So, aging, it will be without dancing, without singing, except in choirs, without breaking the beats of music that have yet made us, without wanting to be fucked, without wanting to kiss, without massaging one skin who wants to smell good, without being convinced of having so much to say about this present which neither supports itself nor remembers anything.
Then, aging, it will be trying to say loud and clear, that all funeral ceremonial clichés are false as to their initial hypothesis, twisted in these visions of various "pathetic" who would reduce an existence at periods of time determined by the good taste of the mass that commands them.
Everything is false, what passes removes everything we thought we knew and that time that pushes us, which is what we want, always before us, is also what reveals us, finally extracted from the packaging of the functions that we are awarded. Aging, can we finally be able to change our skin without getting it done? EG
_______________________________________________________________________________
7.19.2018 Age: a pathetic blemish
This is the photo of an old woman, having participated in the festivities and carrying a blue white red flag, taken on the day of the victory of the national football.
It is visible on instagram.
And commented.
And what the comments reveal, for example, this "Pathetic", is the immense work that remains to be done to shake the archetypes, the clichés, the prejudices, in short, all that passes cheerfully and with an arrogance never belied over the knowledge, and its corollary piece worker, the experience.
The omerta from which aging is suffering and especially what one thinks and says when one is not yet consciously caught up in the movement, having the conviction to hold the good end, the one of certainties and pieces of evidence crystallizes fully in this "pathetic".
What's it saying ?
It says that what touches on the joy, on the feast that joy brings, on the celebration, on the flow of emotions, on the implication, on the sharing, which therefore touches on this body that feels, vibrates, suffers, gallops or crawls, falls, fighting to stand, to hold itself. All that touches on this body which fundamentally struggles every day to offer with dignity its biochemical, genetic, immune skills, its mineral wisdom and its incessant labor given to the one of which it is the intercessor, can only be thrown away by its peers at a certain moment, according to criteria supposedly objective and more insidiously moral, outside the sphere of social life, living specifically, uncontrollably human, living sex and headaches, palpitations waiting for a phone call and collapses.
And, more, more, of what everyone creates, in his own way and in a freedom mixed with more or less secret imperatives of their own history.
With this idea, stupid, that what characterizes the relations rather confused with oneself and the love, the love of oneself and the love, as complex of the "others" could, at the end of the course, finally find a place of appeasement, silence. An idea that it will end well and that when the time seems decent, the world asks its old to prove to it that it is right, that what leads to death, it is the nothing, the neutrality of the boredom and the time that is finally satisfied to just pass.
In this coffin of the image, this cryogenic knowledge on the other, we obviously put women in more ardor, when they are supposed to have no more to fulfill their repopulation task, than their skin, despite the care who was to interrupt it, reveals at every moment the effects of time on age. That must be annihilated, crushed, erased.
But it does not work like that, and without being helped by a warm environment especially respectful of this plus that gives, when one knows how to cultivate it, the endless creation of one's own history, one must, each and every one for oneself, arrange a way of access to this incessant work that is called "to live".
And the markers of conformity and propriety having vanished under the various assaults of the "pathetic" condemnation of a body despite everything, visible again and again wanting, which brakes, and amputates, levels and lines up the idea that could still be shown desires, we are reduced to a constant effort to write, describe, create oneself alone in the boos or worse, the condescension of gerontophageous crowds
These same crowds who do not know that the youth and the idolatry that it inspires is a fairly recent concept, clearly defended by the ideologues of the free market, who know that this age, from adolescence to thirties is the one where one consumes the most, and that forty percent of parents' purchases are made at the request of their children. This can generate a form of managerial allergy to the rather common process of aging and condemn him to place his pride or ignorance in the cupboards.
So, aging, it will be without dancing, without singing, except in choirs, without breaking the beats of music that have yet made us, without wanting to be fucked, without wanting to kiss, without massaging one skin who wants to smell good, without being convinced of having so much to say about this present which neither supports itself nor remembers anything.
Then, aging, it will be trying to say loud and clear, that all funeral ceremonial clichés are false as to their initial hypothesis, twisted in these visions of various "pathetic" who would reduce an existence at periods of time determined by the good taste of the mass that commands them.
Everything is false, what passes removes everything we thought we knew and that time that pushes us, which is what we want, always before us, is also what reveals us, finally extracted from the packaging of the functions that we are awarded. Aging, can we finally be able to change our skin without getting it done? EG