There's no project.

 

Becoming something would be hard enough for Gondorla. Being something is already so difficult for her.

 

I read, and saw, and listened to, and visited, marvelous things produced by mankind's genius. One day, I said to myself : this is fabulous. It doesn't have to be further duplicated. Many people just do that wonderfully.

 

Then a demented fairy cast a spell on me. She bewitched me and whispered : 'Why wouldn't you, at your own personal microscopic level, build something that doesn't already exist ?'

 

Shazam ! I ended up in a place of pleasure. The maze was welcoming. It  had a transparent roof which rested on pilars as thin and as spaced out as possible. This winter garden, these baths, this gallery, this scriptorium, were growing in an organic way. I conjured them up with drawings and words.

 

In this fantasy place, I stayed quietly by myself, or in the company of whoever dropped in for a while, sat at a table or simply rested. No drone was produced by fellow humans talking above our heads, and telling us what to think, and how to live our lives.

 

The mad fairy ran away. Some people here shouted, while bending backwards : 'Mon Dieu !' (pronounced mon-ne di-ieu - this amounts to a spectacular OMG).

 

I am not out of the woods yet. You are welcome here with me.

 

O. Novanni

 

Some serious people assure that in the late eighteenth century the world started a process of intellectual overproduction, now totally out of control.

 

Its likely causes : more general education with higher standards in broader sections of the population, in an increasing number of countries; multiple means of communication and data storage; more time devoted to other things than mere survival, etc.

 

I do not know which way to turn. I have only this life to live. So many things attract me.

 

Gondorla is happy to contribute its shiny drop to what may be seen as an invigorating wave, or an oil slick.

 

'- What are you burning there, Father ?

- A basket, Francis simply answered.

Leo looked closer. He recognized the remains of a wicker basket that was still burning.

- This was not the basket you were busy making these days ?

- Yes it is, that very basket, Francis answered.

- Why did you burn it ? You did not find it well-made ? Leo asked, surprised.

- Oh ! yes, very well-made. Too well-made, even.

- But then, why did you burn it?

- Because a moment ago, while we were reciting tierce, it distracted me to the point of taking up all my attention. It was right that in return I sacrificed it to the Lord, Francis explained.'

Father Eloi Leclerc

Wisdom of the Poverello

 

 

Years ago, I did find a bottle on a beach along the English Channel. The message it contained was written in Cyrillic script. I know none of the languages of Orthodox Slavs which use this alphabet. I kept this note until I could find someone who would translate it for me, then I lost it at some  stage in the middle of moving from one city to another.

 

Yet, it'd be extraordinary if such a find happened again.

 

'Relax, said the night man,

We are programmed to receive.

You can checkout any time you like,

But you can never leave.'

Hotel California (1976), Eagles (Don Felder, Don Henley, Glenn Frey)

 

Sometimes, when someone asks me about Gondorla, their eyes become rectangular, or drift to stare at some vague point in the distance, behind me. We leave it at that, both embarrassed or dismayed.

 

The world is a brutal place. Life has various degrees of tenderness. And yet, inexplicably, Gondorla has never let me down. When needed, she/he has stood by me and spread her kind mantle over me.