Monday, January 3, 2011

Watery but stony memories

Yesterday, exceptionally (largely by personal inadvertence), I happened to be invited to two fine dinners: first, at noon, by Will Walters and Sylvie Rozans at Presles.

Then, in the evening, I was invited by Serge Bellier and Tineke Bot at Choranche. In fact, it turned out to be too much… and I was ashamed to admit gastronomic defeat before Tineke's fabulous truffle-based dishes. The most marvelous aspect of the first rendezvous, in the frighteningly Siberian conditions of Presles, was the encounter of Fitzroy's family of Border Collies.

Returning home in the damp dark, I tried to unfathom sympathetic but disappearing Internet transmissions from my sister Anne Skyvington in Australia… who finally explained this mess, curiously, by saying that she hoped for a "spiritual awakening" on my my part. As if this were not enough, a friendly fellow took offense at my blog article in which I referred to the alleged Shroud of Turin as bullshit… which remains, of course, my (perfectly uninteresting) opinion.

In the midst of all this, there were nice friends who happened to express their agreement with the most fabulous "scientific" imposture of recent times in France: the suggestion by Jacques Benveniste that water might retain some kind of "memory". This notion is so empty and totally crazy—and rejected by the entire scientific community in France and elsewhere— that I don't wish to waste time talking about it.

I dare not mention what my former God-fearing friend Natacha (with whom I no longer have any significant communications) might or might believe about all these hallucinations. To reply to all these apparent friends who surround me, I would need to get down on my knees and crawl up the stony parched track to Lourdes. I wonder at times whether they might be bearing water or rather whips…

Meanwhile, moved and immensely motivated by this strangely huge wall of misunderstanding (which could well mean, sadly, that I have fuck-all to do with the idea—in permanent question—of residing here in the wilderness of Gamone), I'm suddenly and intensely motivated by the idea of getting stuck into (at last) my autobiography: Digital Me.

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