Saxophone solo

Moustapha Largo, Mon petit bonhomme (Morocco)

Entre le sable et l'écume

Je marche éternellement sur ces rivages

Entre le sable et l'écume
Le flux de la marée emportera l'empreinte de mes pas, et le vent emportera l'écume
Mais la mer et le rivage demeureront
Eternellement.

Khalil Gibran, le Sable et l'Ecume, 1926

Big Sur

Big Sur, belle cassure

Ying et Yang de ton voyage

Toi terre agitée et sombre

Tu t'y jète sauvagement

Pour y mourir et renaître

Plus belle, chaque matin

Californien.

Soit heureuse, toi

Qui porte le parfum doux de tes criques

La fourrure argentée de l'Océan

Va t'habiller!

Big Sur, elegant fracture
Ying and Yang of your voyage
You, rugged and dark earth
You dive wildly
For death and rebirth
More beautiful, every morning
Californian.
Be happy, he
Who wears the sweet perfume
Of your creeks
The silver fur of the Ocean
Will dress you!

Big Sur, California, Decembre 2011

Vintage California

California, Novembre 2011

Welterkenntnis / Menschenerkenntnis

"Willst du die Welt erkennen, schau in dich selber.

Willst du den Menschen erkennen, schau in die Welt.

Willst du den Menschen als Geist erkennen, schau in die Herrlichkeiten der vergangenen Welt.

Willst du die Herrlichkeiten der zukünftigen Welten erkennen, schau in die keimhafte Natur

der menschlichen leiblichen Gegenwart.

Es ist Menschenerkenntnis Welterkenntnis und Welterkenntnis Menschenerkenntnis."

Rudolf Steiner aus:Wie ein Atmen im Lichte,

Tellurique San Francisco

Nous émergeons des entrailles

Une fin d'après-midi d'automne

Dans San Francisco

Le regard, alors concentré de pratique

Reflète soudain le pont, finement élancé sur la baie

Il semble couver les rayons d'un soleil rasant.

Sur les artères montantes, plus haut

L'on pourrait marcher par cinquantaine.

Le calme nous surprend,

Est-il de la sauvagerie des côtes déchiquetées

Ou de la concentration intellectuelle?

Nos forces sont telluriques, elles s'accumulaient

Maintenant elles se déploient sous la lumière,

Quelle impression!

San Francisco, Novembre 2011

The future of medicine

The philosophy of wine

A philosophy professor stood before his class and had some items in front of him. When the class began, wordlessly he picked up a very large and empty mayonnaise jar and proceeded to fill it with rocks, about 2"in diameter. He then asked the students if the jar was full. They agreed that it was. So the professor then picked up a box of pebblesand poured them into the jar. He shook the jar lightly. The pebbles, of course, rolled into the open areas between the rocks. He then asked the students again if the jar was full. They agreed it was. The professor picked up a box of sand and poured it into the jar. Of course, the sand filled up everything else. He then asked once more if the jar was full. The students responded with an unanimous-yes. The professor then produced a bottle of red wine from under the table and proceeded to pour the entire contents into the jar effectively filling the empty space between the sand. The students laughed."Now," said the professor, as the laughter subsided, "I want you to recognize that this jar represents your life. The rocks are the important things-your family, your partner, your health, your children-things that if everything else was lost and only they remained, your life would still be full."The pebbles are the other things that matter like your job, your house, your car. The sand is everything else-the small stuff."If you put the sand into the jar first," he continued "there is no room for the pebbles or the rocks. The same goes for your life. If you spend all your time and energy on the small stuff, you will never have room for the things that are important to you. Pay attention to the things that are critical to your happiness. Play with your children.Take time to get medical checkups. Take your partner out dancing. There will always be time to go to work, clean the house, give a dinner party and fix the disposal."Take care of the rocks first-the things that really matter. Set your priorities. The rest is just sand."One of the students raised her hand and inquired what the wine represented. The professor smiled. "I'm glad you asked. It just goes to show you that no matter how full your life may seem, there's always room for a good bottle of wine.

Anonymous, discovered in San Francisco, the Cliff House, 2011

How Suppressing Volatility Makes the World Less Predictable and More Dangerous

A little bit of agitation gives motivation to the soul, and what really makes the species prosper is not peace so much as freedom. With freedom comes some unpredictable fluctuation. This is one of life’s packages: there is no freedom without noise—and no stability without volatility.

http://www.foreignaffairs.com/articles/67741/nassim-nicholas-taleb-and-mark-blyth/the-black-swan-of-cairo

May/June 2011, The Black Swan of Cairo, Nassim Nicholas Taleb and Mark Blyth

De la suradaptation

Il y a complémentarité entre les deux missions de l'éducation: s'adapter à la société et adapter celle-ci à soi. L'une renvoie à l'autre dans une boucle qui devrait être féconde. Il ne s'agit pas seulement de moderniser la culture mais aussi de culturiser la modernité. Plusieurs défis sont aujourd'hui lancés à cette double mission. D'abord une pression sur-adaptative qui pousse à conformer l'enseignement et la recherche aux demandes économiques,techniques et administratives du moment, à épouser les dernières méthodes, les dernières recettes sur le marché, à réduire l'enseignement général et à marginaliser la culture humaniste. Or toujours dans la vie comme dans l'histoire, la suradaptation à des conditions données a été non pas signe de vitalité mais annonce de sénéscence et de mort par perte de substance inventive et créatrice.

Stéphane Hessel, Edgar Morin, Le chemin de l'Espérance, Paris, 2011

De la lune

La lune est la plus observatrice de la Terre. Elle a été le témoin de tous les phénomènes qui sont apparus à sa surface, de tous les évènements qui s'y sont produits. Mais la lune reste silencieuse et ne s'explique pas. Elle ne se départ jamais de son indifférence et garde précisément en elle le lourd passé terrestre. Là-bas, il n'y a pas d'air, pas de vent non plus. Le vide permet certainement de garder les souvenirs intacts. Personne ne peut dégeler le coeur de cette lune-là. Aomamé leva son verre dans sa direction.
" Ces derniers temps, as-tu étreint quelqu'un?" demanda Aomamé à la lune.
La lune ne lui répondit pas.
" As-tu des amis?" demanda Aomamé
La lune ne lui répondit pas.
"N'es-tu pas lasse de vivre ainsi, avec autant de froideur?"
La lune ne lui répondit pas.

IQ84, Livre 1, Avril-Juin, Haruki Murakami, Tokyo, 2009

Paris, rentrée

Jeans et jupes bleus
Peaux café bronzées 
C'est la rentrée!
Ces jambes s'activant rapidement
Lancent à pleine vapeur
La machine urbaine.
Au dessus de ces ports altiers
Parfois cisaillés par une sacoche de bazoche
S'élève une mer de rêves brillants
Un grand manteau d'écume lactée 
Mouvant, effrayant, fascinant
Qu'on aimerait les apercevoir
Ces vagues étoilées!

Paris, Septembre 2011

Faunes et Flores

Faunes et flores se balancent
Au grès des vents rythmés
Ils vibrent et s'étourdissent
Comme des roseaux sous la verte canopée
Et ils se brûlent sur les sables rouges..
Etoilés ou argentés
Les rayons noirs dessinent les contours
D'une plongée abyssale
Ou d'une merveilleuse escalade.


Ulm, Août 2011

Brasil soul, a Garota d'Ipanema

Olha que coisa mais linda,
Mais cheia de graça.
É ela a menina que vem e que passa,
num doce balanço a caminho do mar.
Moça do corpo dourado do sol de Ipanema,
O seu balançado é mais que um poema,
É a coisa mais linda que eu já vi passar.

Ah, por que estou tão sozinho?
Ah, por que tudo é tão triste?
Ah, a beleza que existe,
A beleza que não é só minha,
Que também passa sozinha.

Ah, se ela soubesse
Que, quando ela passa,
O mundo inteirinho se enche de graça
E fica mais lindo por causa do amor,
Por causa do amor, por causa do amor...

L'arrosoir

De l'avenir tout est dit,
Il se lit sur la paume
De cette main divine qui, le soir
Porte un grand arrosoir.
D'une douceur fluide et généreuse
Cette pomme nous fait grâce. 

Hambourg, Juin 2011

Les démons du monde

Il y a d'abord Totoche, le dieu de la bêtise, avec son derrière rouge de singe, sa tête d'intellectuel primaire, son amour éperdu des abstractions ; en 1940, il était le chouchou et le doctrinaire des Allemands ; aujourd'hui, il se réfugie de plus en plus dans la science pure, et on peut le voir souvent penché sur l'épaule de nos savants ; à chaque explosion nucléaire, son ombre se dresse un peu plus haut sur la terre ; sa ruse préférée consiste à donner à la bêtise une forme géniale et à recruter parmi nous nos grands hommes pour assurer notre propre destruction.

Il y a Merzavska, le dieu des vérités absolues, une espèce de cosaque debout sur des cadavres, la cravache à la main, avec son bonnet de fourrure sur l'œil et son rictus hilare ; celui-la est notre plus vieux seigneur et maître ; il y a si longtemps qu'il préside à notre destin, qu'il est devenu riche et honoré ; chaque fois qu'il torture et opprime au nom des vérités absolues, religieuses, politiques ou morales, la moitié de l'humanité lui lèche les bottes avec attendrissement ; cela l'amuse énormément car elle sait très bien que les vérités absolues n'existent pas, qu'elles ne sont qu'un moyen de nous réduire à la servitude et, en ce moment même, dans l'air opalin de Big Sur, par dessus l'aboiement des phoques, les cris des cormorans, l'écho de son rire triomphant vient vers moi de très loin, et même la voix de mon frère l'océan ne parvient pas à le dominer.

Il y a aussi filoche, le dieu de la petitesse, des préjugés et de la haine - penché hors de sa loge de concierge, à l'entrée du monde habité, en train de crier « Sale américain, sale Arabe, sale Juif, sale Russe, sale Chinois, sale Nègre » - c'est un merveilleux organisateur de mouvement de masse, de guerre, de lynchages, de persécution, habile dialecticien, père de toutes les formations idéologiques, grand inquisiteur et amateur de guerres saintes, malgré son poil galeux, sa tête de hyène et ses petites pattes tordues, c'est un des dieux les plus puissants et les plus écoutés, que l'on trouve toujours dans tous les camps, un des gardiens les plus zélés de notre terre, et qui nous en dispute la possession avec le plus de ruse et d'habileté.

Romain Gary, la Promesse de l'Aube, Big Sur, California, 1971

Un modèle de la découverte de l'autre

Paris, Fevrier 2010

La lampe du corps, c'est l'oeil

Comme les disciples s'étaient rassemblés sur la montagne, il leur disait: "ne vous faites pas de trésor sur la terre, là où les mites et la rouille les dévorent, où les voleurs percent les murs pour voler. Mais faites vous des trésors dans le ciel, là où les mites et la rouille ne dévorent pas, où les voleurs ne percent pas les murs pour voler. Car là est ton trésor, là aussi sera ton coeur. La lampe du corps, c'est l'oeil. Donc si ton oeil est vraiment clair, ton corps entier sera dans la lumière; mais si ton oeil est mauvais, ton corps entier sera plongé dans les ténèbres. Si donc la lumière qui est en toi est ténèbres, quelles ténèbres y aura-t-il?

Evangile de Jesus Christ selon saint Mathieu, 6, 19-23

I have a dream

I am happy to join with you today in what will go down in history as the greatest demonstration for freedom in the history of our nation.
Five score years ago, a great American, in whose symbolic shadow we stand today, signed the Emancipation Proclamation. This momentous decree came as a great beacon light of hope to millions of Negro slaves who had been seared in the flames of withering injustice. It came as a joyous daybreak to end the long night of their captivity.

But one hundred years later, the Negro still is not free. One hundred years later, the life of the Negro is still sadly crippled by the manacles of segregation and the chains of discrimination. One hundred years later, the Negro lives on a lonely island of poverty in the midst of a vast ocean of material prosperity. One hundred years later, the Negro is still languished in the corners of American society and finds himself an exile in his own land. And so we've come here today to dramatize a shameful condition.

In a sense we've come to our nation's capital to cash a check. When the architects of our republic wrote the magnificent words of the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, they were signing a promissory note to which every American was to fall heir. This note was a promise that all men, yes, black men as well as white men, would be guaranteed the "unalienable Rights" of "Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness." It is obvious today that America has defaulted on this promissory note, insofar as her citizens of color are concerned. Instead of honoring this sacred obligation, America has given the Negro people a bad check, a check which has come back marked "insufficient funds."

But we refuse to believe that the bank of justice is bankrupt. We refuse to believe that there are insufficient funds in the great vaults of opportunity of this nation. And so, we've come to cash this check, a check that will give us upon demand the riches of freedom and the security of justice.

We have also come to this hallowed spot to remind America of the fierce urgency of Now. This is no time to engage in the luxury of cooling off or to take the tranquilizing drug of gradualism. Now is the time to make real the promises of democracy. Now is the time to rise from the dark and desolate valley of segregation to the sunlit path of racial justice. Now is the time to lift our nation from the quicksands of racial injustice to the solid rock of brotherhood. Now is the time to make justice a reality for all of God's children.

It would be fatal for the nation to overlook the urgency of the moment. This sweltering summer of the Negro's legitimate discontent will not pass until there is an invigorating autumn of freedom and equality. Nineteen sixty-three is not an end, but a beginning. And those who hope that the Negro needed to blow off steam and will now be content will have a rude awakening if the nation returns to business as usual. And there will be neither rest nor tranquility in America until the Negro is granted his citizenship rights. The whirlwinds of revolt will continue to shake the foundations of our nation until the bright day of justice emerges.

But there is something that I must say to my people, who stand on the warm threshold which leads into the palace of justice: In the process of gaining our rightful place, we must not be guilty of wrongful deeds. Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred. We must forever conduct our struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline. We must not allow our creative protest to degenerate into physical violence. Again and again, we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force.

The marvelous new militancy which has engulfed the Negro community must not lead us to a distrust of all white people, for many of our white brothers, as evidenced by their presence here today, have come to realize that their destiny is tied up with our destiny. And they have come to realize that their freedom is inextricably bound to our freedom.

We cannot walk alone.
And as we walk, we must make the pledge that we shall always march ahead.
We cannot turn back.

There are those who are asking the devotees of civil rights, "When will you be satisfied?" We can never be satisfied as long as the Negro is the victim of the unspeakable horrors of police brutality. We can never be satisfied as long as our bodies, heavy with the fatigue of travel, cannot gain lodging in the motels of the highways and the hotels of the cities. We cannot be satisfied as long as the negro's basic mobility is from a smaller ghetto to a larger one. We can never be satisfied as long as our children are stripped of their self-hood and robbed of their dignity by signs stating: "For Whites Only." We cannot be satisfied as long as a Negro in Mississippi cannot vote and a Negro in New York believes he has nothing for which to vote. No, no, we are not satisfied, and we will not be satisfied until "justice rolls down like waters, and righteousness like a mighty stream."¹

I am not unmindful that some of you have come here out of great trials and tribulations. Some of you have come fresh from narrow jail cells. And some of you have come from areas where your quest -- quest for freedom left you battered by the storms of persecution and staggered by the winds of police brutality. You have been the veterans of creative suffering. Continue to work with the faith that unearned suffering is redemptive. Go back to Mississippi, go back to Alabama, go back to South Carolina, go back to Georgia, go back to Louisiana, go back to the slums and ghettos of our northern cities, knowing that somehow this situation can and will be changed.

Let us not wallow in the valley of despair, I say to you today, my friends.

And so even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.

I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal."

I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia, the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood.

I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a state sweltering with the heat of injustice, sweltering with the heat of oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.

I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.

I have a dream today!

I have a dream that one day, down in Alabama, with its vicious racists, with its governor having his lips dripping with the words of "interposition" and "nullification" -- one day right there in Alabama little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers.

I have a dream today!

I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, and every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight; "and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed and all flesh shall see it together."2

This is our hope, and this is the faith that I go back to the South with.

With this faith, we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope. With this faith, we will be able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood. With this faith, we will be able to work together, to pray together, to struggle together, to go to jail together, to stand up for freedom together, knowing that we will be free one day.

And this will be the day -- this will be the day when all of God's children will be able to sing with new meaning:

My country 'tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing.
Land where my fathers died, land of the Pilgrim's pride,
From every mountainside, let freedom ring!
And if America is to be a great nation, this must become true.
And so let freedom ring from the prodigious hilltops of New Hampshire.
Let freedom ring from the mighty mountains of New York.
Let freedom ring from the heightening Alleghenies of Pennsylvania.
Let freedom ring from the snow-capped Rockies of Colorado.
Let freedom ring from the curvaceous slopes of California.
But not only that:
Let freedom ring from Stone Mountain of Georgia.
Let freedom ring from Lookout Mountain of Tennessee.
Let freedom ring from every hill and molehill of Mississippi.
From every mountainside, let freedom ring.

And when this happens, when we allow freedom ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God's children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual:

Free at last! Free at last!
Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!

Martin Luther King, 8 August 1963, at the Lincoln Memorial, Washington D.C

Envol

C'est l'envol silencieux des oiseaux migrateurs
Dans la morne plaine, plate et grise
L'envolée se divise
Sans cris, ni heurts
Vers les horizons prisés.
Fiers de leurs voiles déployées,
Aucun n'ose dévoiler
Sa souffrance, cachée.

Versailles, Mars 2011

Nage

Lui, nageait régulièrement et sentait les muscles de son dos rythmer son mouvement. A chaque fois qu'il levait un bras, il lançait sur la mer immense des gouttes d'argent en volées, figurant, devant le ciel muet et vivant, les semailles splendides d'une moisson de bonheur. Puis le bras replongeait et, comme un soc vigoureux, labourait, fendant les eaux en deux pour y prendre un nouvel appui et une espérance plus jeune.

Albert Camus, La mort heureuse, Alger, 1937

Ein bißchen Sonne im kalten Wasser

Unbekannt
war sie meine liebste Gestalt,
Die mich der Sorge enthob
ein Mann zu sein,
Und ich sehe sie und ich verliere sie
und ich ertrage
Mein Leid, wie ein bißchen Sonne
Im kalten Wasser

Paul Eluard, capitale de la douleur, Paris, 1926

Morphos

Ulm, February 2011
Photo: Jane Hammond, New York City, All Souls (Babel), 2004 (detail)

A Thing of Beauty is a Joy Forever

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old, and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read:
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.

John Keats, Endymion, London 1818

Rêve minéral

Ulm, Janvier 2011
Photo: Paris, Google Earth, 2011

Ecuador

Ulm, Janvier 2011
Photo: Contingente, Adriana Varejão, Rio de Janeiro, 1998-2000

Un peu de soleil dans l'eau froide

Inconnue, elle était ma forme preferée,
Celle qui m'enlevait le souci d'être un homme,
Et je la vois et je la perds et je subis
Ma douleur, comme un peu de soleil dans l'eau froide

Paul Eluard, capitale de la douleur, Paris, 1926

Les écorchés

Corps écorchés
Cœurs nus
Pourquoi cette obstination
A rester ensanglantés?
A laisser ces failles ouvertes?

La mélancolie vous enchante
Et vous attire souvent
Du fond glacé, vous observez
Des rougeoiements d’espérance
Votre intense regard fait jaillir des éruptions
Volcaniques, soudaines
Violente, la passion qui inonde le monde.

Ulm, Janvier 2011