Oh.. you don't know Sheila huh?! Why she call you 12 times on friday then!?

Silly.. silly idiot.. drop the phone.. it does NOT belong to you..

I am only going to say this one time.. and if I have to repeat myself to ANYONE.. I will cyber thug you all:

DO NOT GO LOOKING FOR SOMETHING.. BECAUSE YOU WILL FIND IT!!

And when you find it.. please remember to be mad at yourself for searching and not me for doing.. HELLO!

When I was 19.. I went through my boyfriends phone.. it had been a couple of months.. he’d texted a female “friend” telling her that I wasn’t his girlfriend or some other b.s… and what did I do?! Ab-so-lut-ely nothing! I couldn’t.. I shouldn’t have been looking through his phone in the first place.. and I was NOT about to give up my position.. I learned a valuable relationshipial lesson that day:

DON’T LOOK FOR SH*T!!

This seems to be a significant issue in relationships.. looking through phones, searching pockets, reading diaries (yes, the same ex did that to me.. crazy mofo)

If you have enough distrust to search for signs of infidelity.. you have enough distrust to be by your damn self!

I will never ever understand why people go looking for possible drama.. 

Here is some advice for ya’ll:

1. Don’t ask questions you don’t really want the answers to – “did you sleep with her?”.. either way you are going to be mad.. if he lies, you’ll be mad that he cheated AND lied.. and if he tells the truth, you’ll be mad that he cheated.. if you don’t want to know.. just don’t ask
2. Don’t go looking for answers, you will find them – nothing is worse than finding something out on your own about the person you trust.. whether you’ve asked around or logged in to his facebook (#fail).. you will undoubtly find something that will wreak havoc.. even if it means nothing.. you know you will make something out of nothing..
3. Don’t reveal your sneakiness – if you decide to confront someone about information you received in an underhanded manner, you will now be the person in the hotseat.. whatever the other party did will no longer matter because you should’ve trusted them and minded your own damn business! Just tell them some guys from the baseball team told you (c) Mean Girls
||I do not condone dishonesty, but Im trying to save your ass||

Criminal justice sytem

From my book CHILDHOOD MEMOIRS

 The words crime, punishment, criminal etc. were coined in the feudal era. At the time of the the capitalist revolution in France ( 177 5 ), when wooly-eyed writers and intellectuals took it as the true revolution ,words like liberty, fraternity and equality came into vogue. Victor Hugo’s Le Mirable  for the first time, made us aware of the fact that  a thief is also a human being. Alas! We have forgotten Hugo. Is  his name mentioned in any text book?

No wonder. It is highly inconvenient to mention his name, now that money is the supreme deity (in Malayalam the word for a billionaire is KODEESWARAN !). How else can we explain public linching of a poor harijan boy in front of TV cameras? If we claim to be humanists, we should have intervened to save the poor boy. Let us re-read Hugo. The word criminal must be deleted from dictionary.

We are all fallible. I used to travel in DTC bus, paying the minimum fare, until I was caught. Did I earn money this way? It is just human tendency to enjoy any gain, howsoever pitifully trivial it may be! Yet I am not a miser. We have to continuously improve our own thinking, attitude, outlook and behaviour. (To thine own conscience, be true). The system should help us to become a true gentleman, in every sense of the term! Wash away the criminal in me. Lockup, police brutality and the jail will only make me a hardened criminal. Parents and teachers have empowered themselves to beat a child whose sole parent is God. Will He be happy with our conduct?

A pick pocket or smuggler is let away with light punishment. Their patrons are in the good books of the police. Does the system have any way of reforming a criminal? The latter is just a tool .There is no law for punishing the real villain who works behind the scene. This aspect has to be taken care of.

In the proposed set up, a team of dedicated people will conduct a thorough probe into all aspects of even a petty crime and recommend measures to eradicate it forever. If only an individual is concerned, he can be given work of cleaning the gutter, removing garbage or some such useful work. Jails can be converted into schools. Hardened criminals  can be chained like slaves and made to work hard.

The investigating team should be headed by a judge (A retired one may be preferred).

The members of the team must be well trained, thoroughly honest and dedicated. The whole department could be under the control of the Chief Justice of India and function independently, without interference from any quarter. All proceedings must be video recorded, but the proceedings must be  in camera, lest others involved may know what is happening and arm themselves accordingly. The culprit shall remain in humane custody. No bail, even if the crime is trivial. The whole lot of lawyers should be asked to go home and tend cattle!

At present they work only to distort or delay the investigation and save the culprit for the sake of money. How do we tolerate this brazen miscarriage of justice?

APPOINTMENTMENT OF JUDGES

Like the election commission, there shall be a permanent judicial commission. Appointment of judges will follow the same pattern as that of MPs (see Democratic Disfunction).T he judges too should work hard from 8 am to 6 pm every day, with weekly holiday by rotation; but they will get suitable salary because they are not elected by the people.

Even a shadow of suspicion shall debar him .Once appointed, he should work for life time, without any age limit, so long as he is healthy and willing to work .Transfer and promotion etc. must also be decided by the commission.

They may be removed any moment, if proved to be incompetent or unhealthy or on grounds for suspicion; otherwise they can serve indefinitely as in the US.(Their system is better in all respects. If their system is a motor car, ours is a bullock cart, with one wheel broken and the animal unable to pull !)

Any person, not necessarily an aggrieved one, on the basis of news ,a first information report may be lodged even by e:mail  The concerned judge shall immediately start investigation ,assisted by CIDs, police etc., but in strict secrecy .Any person may be arrested, including witnesses who shall remain in custody till investigation is over.The people detained must not be allowed to meet each other. All questioning shall be video recorded in the presence of the judge. Refusal to answer a question will be treated as confession .

The judgement shall be given then and there .

The whole system must function independently, without  interference from any quarter. Nobody will even come to know ; how can they meddle ?

The policemen must be like elder brothers to the citizens, in the model of the English police.

Yesterday, November 19th, Rita Felski of the English department at University of Virginia gave a speech, nothing short of amazing, about her interpretation of ‘hermeneutics of suspicion.’ Taking on Ricoeur’s famous concept, Felski suggests we ought to take a step back.

Ricoeur underlines three philosophers of the 19th century, Freud, Marx and Nietzsche in order to highlight the importance of suspicious reading and how, when readers attempt to pierce the veil of the superficial text they are faced with new meanings, more opportunities to understand the text in different manners. Felski thinks this is good and well; however, she notes when we are nothing but suspicious of the text, we miss opportunities, other ways in which we could connect with the material in front of us. Having the bias of suspicion, a fetish of modernity, narrows our perspective down to a relentless pursuit of the ‘ultimate truth’–if there is even such a thing–and in our quasi-enlightment-ist passion for the truth makes us miss the opportunity of trusting the text, for instance, and learn from it immensely.

Felski is suspicious of Ricoeur’s suspicion. In the spirit of this infinite regress of suspicious behavior, let me humbly contribute mine by suspecting a suspicion of suspiciousness.

 I do agree with Felski’s basic point, having a bias of suspicion will limit our relationship to a text, having a bias of anything is a limiting experience in and of itself. When we approach the question politically or religiously, however, things change a little.

Let us take, for instance, the case of Imam Ghazali. Interestingly, Ghazali is praised as one of the biggest skeptics ever to walk the face of the earth. In his work “Incoherence of Philosophers” he basically rejected the suspicious interpretation of Qur’an and suggested that we should take everything at the surface value. His suspicion of suspicious thinkers enabled non-suspicious, unquestioning minds feel greater than those who don’t just accept everything they see and this ensured a very highly regarded position among the pious students of Islam. It seems, we can now see this move as sowing the seeds of intolerant interpretations of Islam, such as Wahhabism.

Or, we can consider the ridiculous amount of information we face every day. What would taking everything as what it is lead to? Not to today’s society, of course (!).

Suspicion is not just a mode of reading or a thought. By it is very nature, it is a behavior. When we are suspicious of something, do we think or is that an action? The line between thought and action seems to be very blurry in this case. And this was, perhaps, the point Nietzsche, Marx and Freud was trying to make and Ricoeur was trying to highlight.

In political or religious terms, suspicion takes another life. We go past the content. Looking for the ultimate truth loses its meaning when we try to establish a relationship of doubt between the society and the forces that has been used to manipulate the society for thousands and thousands of years. A quest to pierce the veil of the text becomes irrelevant when we use the idea of suspicion as an action commanding doubt, an uncomfortable knot right in societies’ gut.

Just imagine what would history look like if the society had such a suspicious relationship, perhaps in Germany around 1940’s, with the powers that command trust. What if the rhetoric at that specific time and place was taken apart by common individuals and proved to be a plan of demise? What would the world look like today?

Apparently I have enough time to update my post tag list, nothing new in the land of N yet, trying to figure out how I’m going to interlink all of my story’s into movuies and stuff.

It’s been a slow week for me. No clients since D. Just a few not very promising prospects. One who wants to see me Friday afternoon, but I am still waiting to hear back on that. Another wanted to have a whole night with me but thought the price was too steep (but I mean, come on, £600 for a full night is not a lot!) so I told him the price for just four hours in hope he’ll either A.) Book that amount or B.) Realize its a better deal to just get a whole night.

Now, there is the issue of a new guy, E. He wants a full out porn star experience (or a PSE). With Double Anal and Vag. I think I can handle the double vag (although Im a bit scared Ill never go back to regular size again!)  and the Double Anal….can we say ‘ouch!’? First he wants to try it out with just the two of us and a vibrator. So I may be meeting him tomorrow and see how this all goes, and if it goes well, he is going to book a very expensive night for a full PSE, including well…you’ve seen porn before, I’m sure! Any double anything going on though costs an additional £100 to the fee we already agreed on. I hope he does meet tomorrow and that he books the full night cause then I’ll have more than enough for my visa and to get a place of my own for a bit so I can scratch off that squatter bit for a while. Anyway, this isn’t the issue per se. The real problem is that the boundries between escort and client are being crossed. Meaning we are talking on msn and skype…mostly about sex and planning things out, but other things as well. I told him that I didn’t know how I felt about this because I know its breaking a rule, but I do enjoy talking to him. Not in a way that I’d ever get attached, but it’s just fun. He asked me if we could talk socially outside of our sessions (of which, he says he wants many because he fancies me). Apparently, I am the only escort he has ever met with whom he could actually have and want to have a conversation with. Who can speak proper English, and who has a personality. Where is he getting his escorts?! And how is someone a year younger than I am able to afford all of this?! He says he worked as a banker before going to uni, but still…..Perhaps I will investigate further.

Different Parts of the Mind

The Questioning Part of the Mind

Thoughts are negative or positive as classified by us. Whenever mind raises a doubt about a given situation treat it as a question. How do I do that? For example, a thought may come to you. “Am I capable? Can I do this?” Don’t feel sad about this. Treat this as a question by one part of the mind. One part of the mind wants to know that. So that part of the mind puts a question. Provide an answer it, as if you answer to a person, in front of you.

The Answering Part of the Mind

Mind works by parts. One part of your mind genuinely asks the question, keeping your welfare in mind. Instead of worrying about the questioning part, just answer that question. Then mind will ask stop raising doubts. Answering is done by another part.

We Can Make Our Life Situations Positive

If you raise yourself spiritually, everything will become positive around you. No unwanted thoughts can come in front of Ramana Maharishi – the great sage of Arunachala. Even a thief will keep his habitual self of robbing others quiet. Like that we could also influence the situations around us.

Negative Situations Begs you, “Please heal me!”

If you feel negative vibes around you, the message to you from it is, “please heal me”. If you can heal it, heal. On the contrary if you are afraid of it, then move out of the situation. Try to heal the negative vibes by calling the Sun God, and ask it to clear it. The negative vibes will turn into love and light and bless us in turn.

God is inside us – a gentle reminder to you

When somebody is angry it shows that he needs healing and he is asking for it indirectly. Somebody may ask it directly. Instead of thinking of why they are behaving negatively, ask inside yourself what you can do to them. What are the lessons we can learn from the situation. We can’t change the circumstances and people around, we can only change ourselves. Why we are asked to change? So as to remind us that god is inside us. Then automatically we become the god and we will have the power to heal.

We’re caught in a trap, I can’t walk out…damn, that song has been running through my head all day long!

But, I find it amazing how quickly I jumped to the conclusion that ‘he’s got another woman’.  OK, I didn’t jump THAT quickly, at the time, it seemed like the clues and hints were coming very slowly, but given the hindsight of only 2 1/2 months or so, the change in his behaviour was overnight.

How did that happen?  Well, as I mentioned, he was in a foul mood because of that course…then, over the following couple of weeks, his behaviour towards me cooled.  It’s hard to remember what order things happened, but, in summary, during that time period, he went from being a loving husband to being cold towards me.  He actually had a cold for part of that time.  That was his excuse, anyway.  ‘I’m not going to kiss you because I don’t want you to catch my cold.’  And then a few days later, when I had the sniffles, ‘I’m not going to kiss you because I don’t want to catch your cold.’  There was the avoidance of hugging.  There was a lack of response to me saying ‘I love you’.  Sometimes I got a ‘hmm’ in response, sometimes no response at all.  Although it bothered me somewhat, he was busy complaining about work and I was busy getting stressed out about work as I was about to start a new position and just didn’t have time to pay attention.  Not that it would’ve made much difference…

In the middle of all that stuff, I discover that he’s changed his password on his email account!  It’s not because I was trying to get into his email account, although we knew/know each other’s passwords.  It’s because our email accounts are ‘linked’ in that my email address is in his account and his is in mine as being the contact if we ever forget our password…not our choice to do it that way, but when he changed his password, I got an email to say it had been done!  My immediate thought?  ‘He’s got another woman.’

But I brushed that thought aside.  My husband, cheating on me?  Never, not in a million years!  I forgot about it…but, not until I’d checked his Facebook account to see if he’d changed that password too.  He had, and then I forgot about it, right after making a mental note.  Sometimes he used my computer and didn’t log out of his Facebook account and I was in it whether I meant to be or not.  I reckoned he’d eventually make that mistake again and decided to just bide my time.

In the meantime, I truly convinced myself that the change in his behaviour had to do with a realisation that moving to the US next spring was not going to be easy, was probably not going to be possible.  For months, we’d been looking at job availability in the area where we wanted to move, we’d looked at housing, we’d tried to be creative about possible new jobs, and there really just weren’t many opportunities out there.  There’s a recession on!

One Saturday morning during the second half of September, we were making our bed together and he said something that set me off.  I no longer have any idea what he said, but he was being negative and nasty again so I lit into him.  I asked him to please explain his treatment of me, his behaviour towards me, why he was so cold towards me, what had caused this change?  I accused him of taking it out on me because there’s a recession and he can’t move to the US as easily as he’d like.  He wouldn’t admit to that, although he admitted that his feelings had changed and that he was confused and needed to think about what he wanted.  We went around and around like that for a few minutes, and I left the room, frustrated and in tears, not reading into what he’d said to me anything more than a sense of confusion about moving to the US.  Well, I was wrong about that!

The next two or three weeks saw us acting much as we normally would act towards one another, minus any sense of intimacy or affection.  I had so much going on at work, I felt incredibly stressed.  Actually, he did too, as he’d applied for a Band 6 position and was trying to prepare for an interview and a presentation.  It was during this time that I tried to force him, gently, to explain himself.  I probably went about it in an unusual manner – at every typical opportunity, I moved in for a kiss and/or a hug.  Amazing, how many times he turned that cheek or allowed me to hug him without reciprocating.  By that time, it didn’t really make me mad, I just felt that, eventually, he’s going to have to break down and talk to me, act like an adult and quit being afraid of whatever it was that he was afraid of.

Interestingly, on 10 October, I decided that the kiss that he avoided by turning his face so the kiss landed on his cheek was going to be the last one, that I was going to give up my efforts.  Little did I know that the next day would change my life completely.

Mike Tyson allegedly hit a photographer at Los Angeles International Airport and was booked and released on suspicion of misdemeanor battery Wednesday, police said.

The paparazzo told police that the former heavyweight boxing champion struck him once.

The photographer fell to the ground and was treated for a cut to his forehead at a hospital.

Source:
http://sportsillustrated.cnn.com/2009/mma/boxing/11/11/tyson.arrest.ap/index.html

The cure appears more pernicious than the disease. But for the disease to be annihilated, the fix must be accepted it seems.

It is hard, so hard, to relinquish a dream, such a fervent hope. Yearning, by its very nature, will not be dismissed without a fight.

But, though excruciating, it never did exist.

It was never real.

Never real.

All I wanted was an escape. I was sick of being good old Dr. Henry Jekyll. I needed something exciting in my life. I apologize to those I have hurt and to those I will hurt in the future. My two months of sobriety were the most peaceful of my life.. until the relentless itching occurred; the itching to once again embrace my evil half.

“Think of it: I did not even exist! Let me but escape into my laboratory door; give me but a second or two to mix and swallow the draught that I had always standing ready; and, whatever he had done, Edward Hyde would pass away like the stain of breath upon a mirror, and there in his stead, quietly at home trimming the midnight lamp in his study, a man who could afford to laugh at suspicion, would be Dr. Henry Jekyll” (Stevenson 89).

The images I have witnessed through mine own eyes at scenes Mr. Hyde painted make me sick and I regret everything I have ever done. But, even so, I cannot simply stop. I would admit myself into a rehabilitation center for this if such a thing existed. Sure, they have them for split personalities, but not in the literal sense such as my case is. I cannot just quit. I am addicted to Mr. Hyde, and I am afraid to say that he might just be taking over completely. The little appearances he has made in the past without aid from the potion are occurring more regularly now. Soon, my body will be taken over entirely by none other than my own creation, Edward Hyde.

There’s another thing about being single that I find uncomfortable, aside from not being able to share my life with anyone. I dislike the dating scene altogether. When a guy shows interest in me, I question his motives and/or his sincerity. I’m finding a high number of foreign-born men ask for my number or make a pass at me. Now, I’m not the best-looking girl in the world, but I know I’m not suddenly really attractive, either.

When I dated the last guy I was with, I didn’t really have too many men showing interest in me. Maybe I gave off different vibes or something. Now that I’m single, strange men are coming out of nowhere and flirting with me. I’m trying to explain that even though I’m single, I still have the ability to discern which men I can be attracted to and which ones I’m not. I’m just not attracted to any one of the men interested in me. Don’t get me wrong — there are some who look good and have great smiles, but that’s not chemistry.

I guess I’m wondering if the men lately are just hoping to marry an “American,” or maybe they’re just hoping to get laid. I know, it sounds like I don’t have a good opinion of myself, but that’s not it. It’s simply that all I’m getting are guys who could have ulterior motives. There’s one who hits on me so badly, but when we went on a date he didn’t act like he was interested in ME. Well, heck, if he doesn’t want to know about me, then what does he want from me? See where my suspicions come into play? I asked him about himself, and he asked me, “Why? Is something wrong?” I said no, but if he doesn’t want to get to know one another…what does he bloody well want?! Therein lies my skepticism.

I miss the way I connected with my last boyfriend. We bonded instantly. I don’t feel like I’m connecting with anyone. I find that guy I went out with just the once to be attractive, and if I only wanted sex he’d be just as good as anyone else, but I’m NOT interested in just sex. I loathe the non-connection pitfall of the dating scene. I’m not meeting anyone with whom I can talk for ages. I haven’t met someone whose conversation is captivating. I don’t know anyone now who makes me tingle all over. This situation bites. I like the feeling of finding something promising.

Prompt from Saturday Scribes. Words: barefoot – pale – suspicion – promised

“But you proooooooomissssssed!!!” Kayla stomped her foot impatiently, sending the fur on her fuzzy slippers flipping. It would have been hypnotic if it weren’t for the high pitched squeal invading Jenna’s airspace.

“Kayla, I’m not feeling good – trick or treat on your own this year!” Jenna’s headache decided at that moment to kick it up a notch, as though Kayla would be able to notice and would back off. As if. It didn’t matter how pale Jenna was when she examined herself in the mirror, Kayla would always have the suspicion that Jenna was trying to get out of her promise, like she had tried to do for years previous. It would have been poetic justice if Jenna were in the wolf costume at this moment instead of Kayla.

“You say that every year,” Kayla pouted. She didn’t feel like she asked for much from her big sister, but keeping the weirdos away at Halloween seemed like a mandatory task.

“Well, this year it is true.”

“You say that every year, too.”

“Yeah, well every other year I haven’t been clinging to a toilet bowl while we have this discussion.” She tapped the porcelain to emphasize her point.

“You are just trying to trick me.” Kayla’s voice started to waver, as though it were the only thing hold in the tears. “I brought you a treat.” She pulled her arms from behind her back, exposing Jenna’s beat up running shoes.

“Great treat, kiddo,” Jenna replied, taking the shoes so they wouldn’t be thrown.

“Well, you can’t come trick or treating barefoot.” A small smile curved Kayla’s lips, hoping her effort had won her sister over, as they did every year.

“If I hurl again, I’m coming home,” Jenna grumbled, shoving the shoes on her feet, no longer caring about socks. “Let’s go before I change my mind.”

The night air imediately attacked all of Jenna’s exposed skin, making her wish for the first and only time that she were the only in the fuzzy costume. She pulled her jacket tighter around her and slowly followed her bounding sister down the street. It was well populated with witches and kids with round glasses and fake scars on their foreheads, each carrying pillow cases and shopping bags heavy with chocolate and goodies. Everyone was moving at a pace that defined them as either trick or treat enthusiest, quick and bounding, or authority figure who had been pulled into watch duty – the latter should have dressed as zombies. Everyone fell into these categories, except for the strange on the side of the road. He was perfectly still, eyes glazed as he piered out at the street. A cardboard sign was clutched in one hand that read Anywhere but here while the other thumb was cocked and ready to get out of town should anyone stop.

Jenna had never seen a more lifelike scarecrow. As Kayla toddled by, she half expected the thing to reach out and capture her, but that was the Halloween instincts talking. Kayla passed without a problem and moments later Jenna gave the ‘crow one last look as she sauntered by.

Moments later she felt the tap on her shoulder.

When did we go from not valuing anything that is given away for free, to expecting, no wanting what is free and holding anything that we have to pay for as having “strings attached” or “having agendas”, the least of which is wanting to manipulate us into buying whatever it might be that they are selling?

Perhaps we have been disappointed too many times. Have we become jaded because the presents under the tree have, upon closer inspection, turned out to be illusions, the boxes more glittery paper and shiny bow, than substance? We open them up wishing for a brand new red wagon and find what is inside is merely a cardboard cut out of a red wagon. Merry Phreakin Xmas. Betrayed trust is trust never easily granted again.

On the other hand, perhaps we suddenly remembered that the Oneverse, the OneMother, the Gaia, all give “it” away for free, the only catch being we have to keep on growing, moving, evolving. Infinite power and abundance goes to those who are least afraid to listen to the song coming out of the Void, where all things exist as One.

“Caught in a trap. I can’t walk out. Because I love you too much, baby.” — Elvis

He always wasn’t my stalker. It wasn’t always like this. A lot of it has to do with trust. Not that I am perfect. We’ve both been unfaithful, but the most recent problems have been his, so I don’t understand it. I think about that old quote about the guilty dog barking first.  (Click here for some history)

I realized when I was afraid to get on my own computer today, at home, even though he was gone, that something had to give. The constant searching for some suspicious activity on my part is too much of a microscope to live under. He obviously doesn’t trust me.

Nothing is sacred… my wallet, my email, my Facebook account,  or my phone. And it isn’t like I have secrets.

Several months ago, I sent an old friend, who is now a married man, a decline on a simple lunch invitation. But my husband didn’t read that and think  “look at my faithful wife” but yelled at me “what the fuck were you doing talking to him?”  — followed up by a phone call to the clueless guy, who I am sure will never want to talk to me again.

We have had a lot of problems in our marriage, from having a child with a chronic illness to job losses. At one point recently I threatened move out. It shouldn’t have been surprising then to find searches for apartments in the computer history. But it turned into a huge fight. As if I should not even think of leaving, much less take the necessary steps.

So I live on eggshells right now.  I delete my computer history if I even get up the nerve to write a blog post.. My son just stays in his room, avoiding it all. I am desperate to leave, to get my son out of here. And even though I work, I am broke and even more than that, I am terrified. I’ve been married to him for 24 years… longer than I lived in my parent’s house. But he isn’t the same now, not as much like the man I married. And I’m not the same either.

I just I don’t know to get where I want to be, with or without him.

La tombée de la nuit est un de ces moments particuliers où le décor urbain bascule de sa rigidité journalière vers ses instincts les plus débridés.

Imaginez ses ombres prenant le pas sur les bâtisses en devenir qui les ont engendrées, sous le regard d’un soleil agonisant, toujours et encore, plus ou moins à la même heure.

C’est à ce moment précis lorsque nos politesses géométriques disparaissent pour devenir des doutes déraisonnables dans la nuit, que l’ordre reprend ses droits, impose sa loi et se délecte du frisson premier qui envahira ses proies.

La nuit, la justice elle faite d’urgences qui n’en sont pas, mais sans le feu, l’Homme a peur du noir.

Le plus grand des hasards a voulu que ce soit au même horaire où je devais quitter les studios vintage de ma radio villeurbannaise pour la salle de concert du Transbordeur, équipé d’un micro arraché des mains d’un stagiaire, de quelques câbles soudés à la va-vite, et d’un enregistreur numérique de seconde main. Ce listing aura son importance.

Loin de moi l’idée de penser que mes interlocuteurs de maison de disque fraîchement sortis d’une quelconque école de com’, traumatisés par mon impudence toute provinciale, de radio non commerciale pour aggraver l’infamie, aient fomenté ces traquenards bi hebdomadaire conjointement avec les forces de police, elles mêmes exaspérées de venir répondre aux plaintes des voisins de la radio, stipulant que des individus suspects rodent dans le quartier.

Les individus suspects étant majoritairement les employés, des artistes ou des clones plus ou moins réussis de l’équipe de France de football de 1998.

Mais, peu après le 11 septembre, toutes les formes de racisme sont redevenues acceptables.

J’avoue, j’avais une barbe drue et dense, j’avais une profonde lassitude face au rasoir et très peu d’affinités avec le mode de vie ascétique du terroriste de base.

Mais les faits sont là, à chaque interview effectuée pour gagner mon dur labeur et pour mon plaisir personnel, s’ajoutait irrémédiablement un contrôle de police, souvent par les mêmes préposés à la gestion du troupeau.

Et si la fantaisie leur prenait de ramener un bleu, d’origine contrôlée, alors le représentant de la compagnie créole avec képi masquant son accent antillais ou une racaille reconvertie à la France d’en bas niant toute connaissance d’un certain livre appelé le Coran, ces assimilés se faisaient un plaisir de prêter allégeance en faisant preuve d’une plus grande bêtise que leurs maîtres.

Encore 500m, 500m, voilà ce qui me séparait… mon enregistreur numérique en bandoulière serrant ma veste noire, faite d’une colonie de pelures, de bouloches et flockée du sigle du Wu Tang Clan, mon micro se baladant à chaque pas dans ma poche arrière déchirée, maculée de tâches de stylo bic rouge, bleu, vert, noir, de mon jean trop large, mes câbles enfoncés tant bien que mal dans les poches avant où sommeillaient déjà les capsules de bières de la veille ainsi qu’un tas de papiers griffonnés, voilà ce qui me séparait d’un tête à tête avec des artistes ou des employés d’une maison de disque, tout dépend la valeur que l’on donne à un contrat de travail.

En fait, ce qui faisait principalement obstacle, c’était deux silhouettes plantées là en train de prendre racine, la loi en deux exemplaires éructant à l’impératif quelque chose de vaguement sans majuscule ni point et encore moins de M. ni de s’il vous plaît.

Je stoppe ma course effrénée contre la montre voire le cholestérol, d’un dérapage aussi sec qu’élégant avec mes Air Force 1 aussi trouées sous la semelle que peinturlurées d’impacts de bombes aérosol.

Après un temps de stupéfaction, je leur demandais avec toute la diplomatie nécessaire pour ne pas finir dans une vulgaire rubrique nécrologique, de réitérer les doléances. Peine perdue.

« Hé, tu vas où comme ça toi, donne-moi tes papiers, tu comprends pas le français, papiers, papiers, et plus vite que ça !!! »

J’hésitais un bref instant entre lui donner mon amas de feuilles calligraphiées encastrées dans ma poche gauche ou ma carte d’identité qui n’a de française que le prénom. Prendre un coup de matraque pour un trait d’humour, sans public cela n’a aucun intérêt.

Et puis la carte d’identité, je n’ai jamais vraiment compris à quoi elle servait, ça moisit le plus souvent dans un coin sombre et on l’a ressort uniquement pour se justifier de quelque chose, de son appartenance à un hypothétique territoire national ou même de son existence, on devrait nous badger, cela serait plus honnête et moins humiliant.

Manifestement les représentants de la justice sans collant ni cape avaient un besoin impérieux de savoir où je me dirigeais à vive allure pédestre, sachant qu’à proximité, il n’y avait que l’autoroute et la salle de concert en question.

À ce stade de la conversation ou de l’interrogatoire à ciel ouvert, j’hésite à les classer dans la catégorie des plus brillants rhétoriciens ou celle des décérébrés avec un port d’arme légal et le droit à la sommation.

Les préliminaires s’achèvent, ils finissent par obtenir mon pédigrée, et il s’en suit un cours de profiling hors du commun :

« Toi, t’es africain, hein, ha, non plutôt, antillais, hein, moi, j’ai le flaire pour ça, en tout cas t’es pas suédois, ha ha ha !!! »

En bon sociologues, ils poursuivirent par un laconique et topographique :

« T’es une raclure de Vaux-en-Velin ou un taré de Venissieux, haaaaaaa, putain d’adorateur de Ben Laden, si tu parlais comme nous au moins !!! »

Puis ils me questionnèrent savamment sur le but existentialiste de ma venue ici-bas :

« Et, tu fais quoi ici ? Hein ? Voler ? Dealer ? Tu bosses dans la sécurité ? Journaliste ! On n’arrête pas le progrès, les cartes de presse ça pousse sur les bananiers maintenant ? »

J’ai grandi non loin d’une préfecture de police et je sais d’expérience qu’avec ce type d’énergumène, il n’y a qu’une seule possibilité de réponse, brève, ne pas baisser les yeux, regarder un point fixe, sans aucune hésitation.

Sinon c’est direction la cellule de dégrisement 4 étoiles la plus proche.

Dans mon quartier, il y avait toujours ceux qui revenaient avec une histoire extraordinaire, insurrectionnelle, pleine de bravoure où dans un premier temps ils ont vaillamment résisté par leur simple présence à un fourgon entier de CRS et que dans un second temps uniquement à la force du mental et avec une main dans le dos, ils auraient renvoyé les assermentés dans leur poulailler.

La plupart du temps ces personnes ont fini par rentrer dans la police ou pire dans l’armée, le syndrome de Stockholm n’a pas de limites.

Moi, j’avais une interview à faire et une vie à poursuivre, j’ai donc abrégé les réjouissances en ravalant tout le fiel que j’avais dans la trachée comme je le fais tous les jours dans ce pays.

À bien y penser, c’est comme cela que l’on construit de l’insécurité latente et des bombes à retardement.

Tic, Tac, Tic, Tac, Tic, Tac, Boom. Tout est une question de temps ou d’avoir des enfants. Enfin ouvrez les yeux.

Aujourd’hui avec mon uniforme de nègre intégré avec une cravate en option, j’ai droit à un M. avant la séance de Charles Martel appliquée.

I in no way mean to poke fun at the people who died at self help guru James Arthur Ray’s shoddy-looking sweat lodge but really people it looks like a zombie hovel.

 If I had paid $9,000 to $10,000  (as it was reported the participants had paid) to attend a retreat that would teach me to create financial, mental, physical and spiritual wealth in my life I’d be mighty suspicious of the guru who couldn’t provide better facilities than this for the amount paid and his ability to instruct anyone about wealth.

I would have immediately walked away and requested a refund.