Destiny Breakdown,


“Half awake and half dozing, stuck by a drear reality, but still lost

In an inner sea fog of Danaidean dreams

I stand teeth chattering

On Memphis Station, Tennessee.

It is raining.

The night is so desolate and extinguished,
And the rain flays the ground

With a senseless, dark energy.

Everything is clammy and impenetrable.

Why does the train wait here hour after hour?

Why has my lot ground to a halt here? / why has my destiny broken down here?*

Am I to flee from rain and mind-numbingness

In Denmark, India and Japan

Only to be rained in and rot in Memphis

Tennessee, U.S.A.? ” […]
Johannes V. Jensen 

*other possible translation 

 
One of my favorite Scandinavian poem. Although this author was a controversial figure, neither my Scandinavian Literature teacher nor my researches could provide me with a definitive answer on that man. 

I really feel like my destiny has broken down,

 I can see the finishing line at the distance,  everything is going according to plans. But still, I don’t wanna go back to work just to be surrounded by people that don’t understand me or who enjoy exploiting me for the sack of the ones exploiting them, what a shame. My MacBook broke down, and my body as well, it’s hard for me to sleep and it’s hard for me to sing. However, the hardest yards are always the last ones, I’ve got to hold on for I don’t perceive victory, I see it. 

For once the “almost”-sleeping pills I take had an effect on me and I took a nap,

I better fix the engine of my destiny and get go before I snap.
Love

PB

Ichiban,


I sometimes have the impression to live in a manga, really. 

Always being the underdog fighting for the widow and the orphan can be quite exhausting after a while. I don’t see what else I could do though. Sitting on the sideline witnessing the world going to its ruin, letting the people in their misery without caring about the very persons that fed me when I was hungry, or just giving up, well that’s not for me. There’s NO WAY! Because,

I’ll be the  King of Pirate! 

That sound childish, if not immature, but I’m fighting in the adult world. I should even say that when I’m the only one in my entourage talking about debts, indoctrination , police states, surveillance states, institutional militarization etc I fell like I’m the only adult in the area, sorry. But I try to keep the heart of a child while my mind is old, too old. 

In my thoughts, I feel already old and grey.

Why, because at 26 I’ve been thinking night and day about how to improve people lives, I’ve been thinking about how to give you your freedom and dignity back, but eveytime I start, talking about the reasons why I fight, people stand gaping and tell me “why do you wanna change thing?” And I wanna scream are you freaking kidding me? But no they’re serious.

That why I have to execute a sort of  “consciousness hold up” that’s why I should “steal your mind” and lead you to thinking by yourself, it sounds counterintuitive when you talk about freedom but, think a for moment, you are already under the propaganda of the media. I should then become a pirate, and not any of them, the king of pirates. Or in other words I should become a sort of Robin Hood of your mind, stealing it for the government to give it back to you. Got it?

It sounds like a flowery dream, but I’m living a nightmare. It’s not fair, what am I doing there?
Take care,

Love

PB

Asylum,

Many times in my life I’ve been wondering how possibly could some people within the Working Class, though constantly oppressed, be so wicked.

It has never made sense to me, truly.

It derives perhaps from the fact that, in the matter of fact all Working Class member dreameth to become part of the middle class, which themselves, desire more than anything else be part of the elite also known as “the Excrements made human”.

It’s easy. If both the Working-Class and the middle-class unite, we win the world. But the middle-class has always be so keen on licking the crumble that the EMH let go off with great resentment (for instance during the “universal suffrage, for man ONLY I forgot to mention until the humankind made sense at last). It took them a lot of time before they finally realized what they really are, a debts-ridden delusional class.

The middle-class is dead, so much that they created a sort of new term to fit the leftovers status they have now; the “lower” middle-class.

How cool is that!

The EMH, (sigh) I’ve got a lot a things to talk about. But first I’d like to share with you what ebuffles me with the Working-Class. Yet, by writing that I realized that I was accepting the grammar of the rich by blaming the poor, while in fact

People are, how much they are oppressed.

The second truth is that,

Human are wicked by nature, but the oppressed have even better reasons to be so.

Some days my household felt like an asylum. From the guy who wakes us all at 9AM a Sunday morning to make sure the whole world knew he had a brand new iPad. To the guys who share a room but who made a ritual consisting in letting the door open and shouting in the corridor. To of course, the habit of many to work, go home and drink. To I almost forgot the guy (or guys) who wanted to empower himself with a clumsy reenactment of cupboard colonialism, emptied my shelf, put his things on it, took my place in the fridge, and (maybe it’s the same person) used half of my sweet & sour sauce and then left it there. I mean, half of it! Why don’t you even make it disappear like it had vanished, because, well, when a pot is left unopened and that the next day half of it has vanished, chances are that, although I did not read or watch the Millennium saga, anyone can have enough acumen to deduce that somebody “opened” the pot and “then”, in his supreme benevolence left the remaining half on display for the whole word to see. Hold on, on second, does it make sense? And I don’t even talk about my sunflower oil bottle and my salt which, if I happened to forget it downstairs (for I have to keep it from its assailants in my room) mystically evaporates “itself”.
They are plenty other things like letting your dirty underwears hanging here and there etc but each time I’m facing this phenomena I hear this ringing in my head like a cereals commercial jingle “pathology, pathology, pathology” each of these actions can be a case study for the sack of psychoanalysis.

Each action has a meaning, or at least psychoanalytic implications.

I do feel like in a asylum, a closed place where oppressed people live for they are oppressed and can go nowhere else. We are forced to live in tiny rooms and to work without ever enjoying life. So we snap. Collectively. I’m not blaming you, no. But the oppressors shall have their rewards.

Uprise

Love for the oppressed,
It requires understanding and compassion.

PB

MacBooks,

The day after I criticized my MacBook and its cool,cold body shaped for the future, the nostalgia of our shared past caught up with me.

Organic tea! Ô you organic tea! Why did you have to drown my friend with your flavor of licorice and Ulmus Rubra? Why did you infiltrate the unibody of my companion born from technology.

I indeed didn’t really enjoy, writing a book on a MacBook, I think the experience would have been better on type writer. I still do, and you should do it to. But more than a tool to write, that computer is (was? Oh gosh no…) a part of my life.

All things considered, my secondhand MacBook still named “MacBook d’Adrien” (Adrian’s MacBook) is the only thing I’ve carried throughout my odyssey, and it’s a weird thing to say.

I bought it on a soon-to come spring morning listening to R.E.M – Everybody Hurts why at this moment, I don’t know but this track was amazing. I obtained this MacBook at the the Plan Your Escape Part. III of my life. I had promise my mum that I’d finish school before going to England, but the amount of work needed to get ready for my dream quickly overtook my scholastic pursuit. And to be honest it was flat boring. So just like that, I decided to devote myself to music and that I’d learn all the tips and tricks. Getting a MacBook was a huge step forward for me, for I could record my song, finally. I recorded some cheap demo, singing directly to my computer speakers without micro, phone. That MacBook was (is? Oh my gosh…) my comrade, and was as exited as I was. Together we learned failure, triumph, and glory, hour after after hours we were learning, on the lonely nights on  him I was leaning.

He is the only on I bought to England, the only one bold enough to come in a foreign land.

I often think about Ringo Starr‘s quote when he said that he 

“always felt sad for Elvis because, whenever something good happened in the studio he was the only one there, while the Beatles could share their victories together.”

And I felt the same way, of course I felt the same way. I’ll never forget, the first time I finished a song that (I found) was ready to go on the Internet, I stood up triumphant and I was the only one in the room. I remember that it cooled me off,

The saddest thing is not to lose alone, because you always lose alone, but to win alone.

But wait I wasn’t alone, my friend was there. And he was there when I crossed the sea, when I wrote a book in three day after I quit my job at Chipotle, shivering in this wrinkled house. He was there when they kicked me out with no reason (but manners and in a sensitive way, clowns) and that I found a flat in one day to follow my dreams. He was there when I gathered months after month the equipment to record, mix and produce my first song. He ate with me all the information I bolted down to be ready for the future. He witnessed my improvements, dancing alone in that tiny cube that this well mannered and sensitive well off gentlemen call “a room”. He was there, when I became a man, he was there when I became me, he was there when I transformed, he was there to keep me company.

A few weeks back Agnès discovered that Gaia her cat became blind. He was very sad and wanted to know why for Gaia was an old cat. Gaia accompanied Agnès throughout her trials, ALL THIS TIME. People couldn’t understand how she could be so attached to”a cat”. Me neither I couldn’t totally relate, not because I didn’t empathize but because I made a covenant with myself that commanded me to always keep moving. I was sad for her though. And now, it’s me who feel a bit the same way. Of course I don’t imply that it is the same thing, losing a living creature is way more painful, besides it cannot be replace. Maybe tomorrow I’ll go to the Apple Store and in one week it be fixed, up and running like a MacBook curbs. And What I felt cannot even be considered as painful it’s more about became aware of that I was growing attached to a non human thing how depressing.

Yes it’s all about that, after writing that I look to the my right, invaded percussive sounds and frequencies coming from by the loud speakers of my housemate banging Justin Bieber -Sorry and I thought,

How desperate and lonely should I be to mourn the death of an object.

Ultimately it’s just an object.

My friends brought me some cookies and brownies, although none of them brought some paper and a pen, to express my pain.
Thank you.

PB

Type Writer,


That’s the way it is, I guess, for some reason I always feel inspired while writing with the Hanx typewriter keyboard. What! Why? Because I wanted. Is it because of the “ancient” feel? Or is it that for a moment I feel like a novelist of the 30’s, alone in a radiant room filled with tabacco smoke, whiskey scent, ashes, dark thoughts and these inaudible whispering fairies, any murmur will do, anything that can distract us from our omnipresent torment, the absence of another heartbeat.

For some reason, again, in this mental “mise en scene” the one thing that catches my attention is this submissive scribe, this eloquent yet silent fellow, the enabler of my dream, the guardian of my whispers. The Typewriter. Type, writer! oh I love you. Maybe it’s the noise, maybe it’s the weight, maybe it’s the sounds, maybe it’s the presence. But there is something in the typewriter I found, that I have never seen even remotely elsewhere. The typewriter is the only object that helps the writer fight loneliness. 

I had dreamed to buy a Macbook to “feel like real writer” like those you see in series with a black cat on their left shoulders and a cup of coffee in their right hand. Always seeming to be writing some autobiographical superfluiteous toast. They always have nice bedroom though. I had this MacBook, and I wrote a book with it. But in spite of all it’s power, and beauty and functionalities, typing my first play on it was a great goal, but a bit cold. I did not feel any kind of support for, have I lost my mind, how could a machine do so? Weren’t MacBooks created for you to show off in Starbucks with the other scarecrows together, so that you feel a little bit lonelier. But you got a cup of coffee, in your right hand, and I think I was just too naive. Naive to believe that I could find some sort of support from that, “tool” but, you oh typewriter, you breathest.

I’ve always liked to create alone, but with someone watching that I was creating alone. Does it make sense? 

I don’t know. Since Paul Auster‘s New York Trilogy, everything has changed for me. Or I should better say, everything makes sense for me. One of my favorite short-story, Ghost relates the story of Mr. Blues hired to spy on Mr. Black. And you should stop here if you don’t want me to spoil the end for you. 

Basicaly, Mr. Blue was hired by Mr. Black himself to be able to write a story. I guess you’ve understood by now. 

I am Mr. Black. And you are Mr. Blue.

But unless you use shrewd plans and trickery, it is impossible to find a willing Mr. Blue. For you have to be submissive to be like him, and listen. While people want to dominate and exalt themselves, to go where? The other day, I asked them “to go where?” none of them them could provide me with a decent answer and they went back home silent, confused and their heads low. 
It’s like, when I move in my first flat alone, my mum told me to get a TV because, it creates the illusion of some sort of a “presence” when you are alone in your room.
Likewise the type machine provides with a sense of companionship nowhere to be found in any other inanimated object. This is why I love you so.

You’ll ask me, have you ever had a type machine. No, why asking?
Thanks
I love you,
PB

Open-Hearted,

Rae Morris – Walls

“This Walls, they fall.”

After posting my first article on my blog I’ve been struck  by how fast people had responded to it, but foremost I went myself as way to thank them on their respective blogs to discover to my great amazement that people were actually pouring they hearts out when I knew nothing about.
We are all caged in this heartless society, so much that I became too colder and colder, even as and artist I grew tired of always being exposed and vulnerable, while people barely share with you what they ate for breakfast. Especially at work, the corporate paradigm chokes the heart, the corporate paradigm chokes art. I thought was the last one who was talking about his feelings, I thought I was the last one with emotions.

What is really interesting in our society is that everyone enjoy faking they are emotional.Yet that only occurs for accidents, deaths, or surprisingly enough, for music or series, while they hearts are closed facing the human misery in front of their eyes on a daily basis, when it’s broadcasted on national  TV or played on Spotify, all a sudden everyone should cry, as though we enter the era of programmed emotionality. And conversely when you are talking about your own emotion not as a group, but as a feeling creature, you are considered as a pariah, and friends and family just don’t wanna hear of it.

Therefore it was with great relief and bliss that I entered the blogosphere to only understand that people were talking about their feeling way before me, and that they were way ahead of me. I, thus spurred by this true love for the reader I make a commitment unto you, my fiend, my love, my kohai, my child. I too shall be open-hearted on everything that travels my heart, it a blog not longer, but a gate to my inner-self.

love

PB
PS: Walls is my favorite song of Rae Morris, but as often after your major debut, germs go missing along the way. 

Hi everyone,

Hi everyone,

This is the first post of my long anticipated blog (well at least for me). I’ve always known that I should share my process, share what I thought, how and why I do thing and with the compound effect over time it would become a pretty huge source of knowledge for all the people who want to understand me or maybe just any artist in general. I think its all about sharing, and it is precisely what I’m about to do.

In Brighton I threw my 2015 diary (I destroyed it to be more precise) because I wrote things about someone that I had thought was not as I mentioned him in my diary (and actually I was right he was exactly the way I thought he would be) and I regret I disposed of it. Why have I had to destroy it instead of just tearing one page out or scribbling over that excerpt? Because I want to tell the truth, I want pure honesty and this is my commitment, what I’ll give you and what I owe you. But still given the fact that my intuition ended up being true I’m still a bit sad about it, it was the diary I wrote when I was still in Paris trying to figure things out to get in the UK with all my excitation, despair, lonelinesses and all my crazy marketing plans that would all have failed in a great crash. Besides it would have been a great tool to prove the chronology of my songs since I’m starting with the end and that the end is the beginning.. of the end! (Any Smashing Pumpkins fan out there?)
So my 2015 diary was dancing with the fish, but what’s with my 2016 diary? I wanted it to stick out, and that a sign, I picked the color before I choose the color red as MY brand with my emblematic Red Vans “Scallet Footsteps”. However I struggle to write in it. Who can you trust? The NSA, Google and Apple this army of monkeys steal all our information so I can’t write on my computer, so I’m to write on paper, but if my diary is stolen it’s done. So I’ll never be able to pour out everything I think ever in this era of no privacy. That’s probably why its hard for me to feed daily a diary. Then that idea came, I want type my diary, I won’t put it on paper, I will write it on hearts, human hearts, your heart. You are my living diary, my witnesses, and my testaments.
​I also like that idea of quickly jolting down my thoughts and spreading it. I’m writing the way I think (well I have to double check it though) but it’s exactly the way I speak with my friends in real life. An idea, a discussion. Imagine you’re here with me and we’re having a chat and I’m explaining you my point of view, that’s how you should read me.