Incest

I associate things others don’t associate, I bring together things that don’t fit together. Dog-child, incest-homosexuality or AIDS, cousin-couple, blonde-bitch, money-hate, movie star-bitch, Léonore-gold, mass grave-gold mine, Holocaust-ghetto, worker-black, etc., etc., and what’s more, I highlight opposites, all the time, for example: Eustache is better than Nadine Casta, Dominique Quentin is also better than NC, I bring things into focus. Frédéric is right, she’s Nadine’s cousin, she could have been a cousin of Le Pen. He’s right but it blocks me. I have to get rid of the block, unblock it all.

I am used to rather particular punctuation. I punctuate my sentences in an unusual way, I’m going to try to stop. I will use punctuation only for clarity, so that readers can find their way. The clarity of my statements. So that my statements are clear, are understood. A bit fastidious, maybe, but this time properly. I won’t write anymore, for example, “I licked her, this woman, whose child is a dog,” I won’t write that anymore, what’s the point? Other than ending up alone. We’re now separated for good, for good this time. I will no longer write, Nadine Casta, NC, haine c’est, hate is, it’s hatred. Not that either.

How I went insane because of a simple trigger, Christmas. A three-day momentary fit of insanity. Before I would have written: momentary fit of insanity, three days. My system of punctuation, I need to get rid of it, to find one that’s more common, more natural, so that people won’t have to make as much of an effort, it’s ridiculous, it was ridiculous. Especially since virgule, comma, etymologically means verge, little penis. I just learned this, I had lunch with Laurent Goumarre and two of his friends, psychoanalysts. I’m losing the thread, I was talking about the trigger. About the three-day momentary fit of insanity. Of breakdown. Which does not mean that I didn’t become profoundly and completely, totally insane, no, I really am insane. The trigger. What the trigger is that occurred, let’s be precise, on Wednesday, at noon on Wednesday, that led me this morning, after a night of trembling, trembling really trembling, my entire body, even though I took my dose of pills, to decide to ask Moufid Zériahen to accept me into L’Alironde for a time.

The trigger

November 25th, a month to the day before Christmas. For years Marie-Christine has spent Christmas in Paris with Nadine Casta, her actress cousin. Surrounded by family. It’s a “ritual” from “time immemorial,” it’s “family” and besides, it’s “one day of the year.”

Rewind: November 15th, we’re at Frédéric’s. We’re happy to see each other, it’s obvious. A pleasant evening aside from two false notes, nothing serious, life is full of them. The conversation turned to Nadine Casta’s Chambord with Decourt, Dupont, Durand. Doesn’t matter. I’m not obligated to like her cousin’s films. Like Frédéric says, she could have been a cousin of Le Pen. At least Le Pen is not an artist. I rant, I take it back, I let it go so everyone knows where I stand. Second false note, during dinner, someone trots out Christmas. Second slap in the face. It was still a very nice evening, our need to be alone together was urgent. We call a taxi, in the taxi, we’ve barely sat down, we start in. We get to the hotel, far from making love, we hate each other, we go to bed, I cry. I cry, I cry, I can’t breathe and am in a very very bad way, my anxiety level is rising. It’s horrible. It’s because of Christmas. I put on an act, OK, maybe, no doubt. I ask her to go back to her cousin’s to sleep, it was a mistake to get together again, we were better apart. It’s too late, but she’s going to get another room, she calls reception, I stop her at the last minute, she lets me. She goes back to bed. My anxiety level is still rising. I get out of bed, fall to my knees, I try to breathe, it’s blocked, I pant (putting on an act doesn’t mean you aren’t suffering), I insult her, with her cousin, like all good homosexuals, she’s the family lackey, always available to serve the real woman. She has paid no attention to me at all for Christmas, and yet she still claims she loves me. In response, I get to hear it all, in short: poor thing, you’re not making any sense, you’re mixing everything up. The ‘poor thing’ is the insult-trigger: I screamed, I think the entire hotel heard me. I hit her hard, on the head, and for a long time. She hit me on the side of the head, my temple, her fingernail on my eyelid, another fingernail on my ear. I had a hematoma, I still have it, a scar on my eye.