Foucault's studio

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le carnet insolite

invitation au voyage

Invitation to a trip

First of all, this invitation to a trip… this immediate suggestion: let the party begin ! by a trip, by a pharaonic celebration, a light one, full of faint imprints, a sort of indolent cruise, a party shaded by the Nile shores’ fluid pearly gloss, with the shades of ash rosy marble, an unusual place sprinkled with hedonistic and hilarious allegators, an inevitable party…a smoky one that smells lotus flowers ?, bougainvilleas, oleanderes or hibiscus. An enigmatic trip where history blends in indifferently with the present, one that deciphers a little flavor of such unreachable, insatiable friendship, a trip to seduce the sun, to bury the day-to-day life, to… in the arms of the Nil… an hybrid trip that is impossible to delete, to forget… to share the unpredictable, the unexpected in this space crossed by the strange charm of time, to favor this regained nonchalance, forsaken to the immediacy of the senses’ blaze (washed down with Omar Rahyan.. a red Egyptian wine), to find in a moment the whole warmth, flavor, softness of the East, in this contrasted panorama ranging from Cairo to Assouan, in this permanent hubbub, starting from the call to prayer by the muezzin, to the excessive hooting of cars, to rebellious camels babbling…to end with a light touch of a finger on the night fragment, and our endless desires, in such a night encircled with an eternity evening.

un certain roman, d'une momie au long cours


A story about friendship, a group of friends singing in the way of Brassens, Christian, took us, dragged us, across the Nil waters… an epic stay, jackpot, a mocking captain, a forced, impromptu landing...suddenly sinking into the dark night of Cairo airport. We entered this cruise as if we were launching an attack, Patricia invented a new language, hardous gestures, little imp, a good enticing genius, half-angel, half-devil, followed close behind her… gathered, piled up, accompanied with Château Margot, we always end up feeling more at ease, new .. waterworks, falling to hell, in this cabine at an unsure waterline…fascinated for ever, love for Egypt is taken without preamble…finally we ended each day, by sipping a karkade, with our eyelids crossed by small fire tongues, with this voluptuous intensity, full and abundant to the sunset.

Café Fichaoui

Artist ! magical word, a word full of loneliness and swarming wealth, a word which makes of a muse a life of its own, its inspirations, its creations, that describes its revolts and violence, its softness and tenderness. Carried and fascinated by its colors, exploring more than a possible, turn by turn, pastels and softness on a scarlet palette, in which its fingertips sink, if only he could discover the spirit of this agitator who belongs only to himself.

There is the Sky, the Sun and the Sea…

On this glassy deceiving, screen, one does not feel the hand that hesitates, neither the repentence, this overload at the margin… at the angle’s view, there is this trip… a light island, a diffuse light beam, between the strips of a decrepit store and a spicy heart of a beautiful island… This scarlet flower, a charming dark-haired lady of a shadowy darkness, I will not add more here, just two or three lines… a trip to the other end of the world, love stories under the flag of convenience… high portraits, including these few famous sharks, and buccaneers of tours operators… from one site to another, can we change one’s life…

Friends First

« Philo Dinners », a small group of friends driving towards a thundering philosophy, gathering our tongues, our eyes, our appetite, with this curious coincidence, where places or things take place under appearances, existence, events, faces, emotions are dissolved, and intermingled to produce this magic at the heart of language. Individuals trigger one another - each word outbids another - and explore the space in a playfull manner… Friends, who know how to mingle party and joy of living, inspired, animated by these warm improvisations, that this golden land be generous and not exclusive, starting the borders of these little paths of Meudon so far as the bottom end of Laponia.


A restless thought to go for some ballad out of the studio, glued in this unusual jukebox, these images stuck to words. A bar at the gates of the golf Morbihan, with a the white transparency of a seasonal beer as a preamble, a deforming glass, through which I measure boredom. Well, I left Quickly back to Auray Meudon, in full heat. Back home, I had a wee, it makes one feel at ease. There was a squatter, a spider baby peeping at me. An orphan, whose mother went away at the beginning of the holidays, I talked to him kindly trying to reassure him, while imagining the mother in (drag-queen), in this improvised night club through the shower fan. a real nighmare. As if in my absence, the spiders, the flies, had a rave-up, at night around the house. I made up my mind, I would buy the two « Bégons ». the yellow and the green one ! I headed to the department store, the only « big » place that is accessible and air-conditioned, there without any particular caution, without any prior advertisement, on the supermarket shelf, fruit and vegetables, four or five meters over the melons, courgettes, cucumbers, and other sun survivers ; here it appears to me. I swear to you that I had drunk only one or two beers. The very mother, a sacred plant ! dark-haired, tanned to perfection, putting on an attractive white dress with blue stripes. How did she bet that I came from a sea shore in Britain ? and what did I have to do with this hope born at the pale light of neons, in the mercantile freshness of a superstore. the upper lady, seemed to me flunk with a strange cherub hung to its skirts. This virgin, with an intermittent show, at the same time condescending, concentrated and absent-minded, somehow bothered me. And he, very little, round-faced, with small little funny wings, stuck to its belt, feverish, innocent, and hopping. Now, the cherub hopped away. Unconscious of the show that was offered to me, the consumers, the housewives were not doubtful. Upset by the incongruity of the situation, indifferent, I remarked to the lady that I had come many times in vain. I had « made pilgrimage » around the cave, and I had sunk in the swimming-pool without any probant benefit, we were not for long with Albane, François and others, we had gone along the Gave, made a tour of the waters and fountains. Not a single shade of a miracle ! At this moment, the angelic little runt hung out his tongue to me, with an equally bold gesture, I bounced at him a Florida orange, with immateriality, my orange ignored the agitator, ricocheted on the head of a customer, to land in the widly open mouth of a shark with a sullen eye, enough is enough ! the imperial apparition raised her voice, and to my great amazement, did not order to set a church on the supermarket, to stick to the ceiling, thousands of caddies as ex-voto, no, she did not want to know anything, no proselytism, nor any casting, for the « celestial academia », suddenly, this virgin, announced that an acquaintance at the supermarket is not a simple coincidence ! and asked me to go to the net, to look for some forgotten segments. While negotiating, I wondered, if she anticipated to go parascending, I will not be disappointed.


Back and forth across the waves, between the backwash and bitterness, I still hear this ceasless rolling, shaken love, hussle and busstle against pain, lost paradise.. my steps disappear in the sand, and are erased and fragile, I no longer like this narcissitic space, this time halt, where at the crossroads, the spirit, the hand of a woman, tremble, hesitate, caressing at the same time the possible and the impossible… somehow like the little prince in the white desert… she, vulnerable, unconscious in her dreams, her bite poisons me deliciously.

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