Motorpsycho
Blissard

Dear friends,

I write to you from very far away, or very close, depending on the point of view.

Perhaps not everyone knows this, but I spent the last month in Space.

In orbit around a planet unknown to me, but which many, on Earth, had talked to me about.

Around that planet, searching for a mountain, a valley to land on, a sea, or a lake, to splash down on.

Many times I approached it, but the area never seemed adequate enough, not to mention that I found it either too challenging and inaccessible or completely lacking in particular interest.

I remember the first time I decided to descend, in an area that would remind me a bit of my usual (very) small-bourgeois normal life (normal, in the end, has become less typical for me as I age, if only for the continuous desire, in some aspects of my life, to not conform to the dominant collective thought and standardization of tastes and knowledge).

A few meters above the planet's surface, I heard the sound of trees, birds, there was also a beach with a bonfire, a boat, a ticket for the cinema, a school, a choir, really too mundane to be worthy of a journey far from my Earth.

I also observed desolate areas, vast, small bright areas made of brief "melodic" flashes, or made of changing colors, too overwhelming, noisy for a forty-three-year-old like me.

I caressed with the belly of my spaceship infinite seas, with sharp winds blowing over them, hissing and liquid, without structure, yearning for their end.

One day I was about to dive onto a soft and sunny plateau.

But seen up close, it appeared just monotonous, flat, and boringly sad like a cloudy early summer afternoon like this.

I was exhausted and a bit disappointed too.

But today...

Dear friends,

I write to you from this new planet, it’s been about ten Earth days that I've been traversing it within my exploratory module.

With patience, as perhaps you have understood, I found a landing, an entrance, or rather the entrance door, a portal to an Aleph.

I call this portal Blissard, perhaps everyone who knows it calls it Blissard.

The planet it is on is called Motorpsycho (a strange name for a planet, among the lesser-known ones only another planet I know has as curious a name as this, it's called Flaming Lips, I recommend everyone to visit it).

From Blissard, as if by magic, the planet opened its arms to remind me of when I was, as Dylan Thomas narrates, "greener," "wild and guilty without being responsible," it made me understand itself, savor its monotony, its noises, its "nervous moods tattooed on the skin," its disturbed sounds, its "too crazy, esoteric, and cryptic side, its monotony and its too normal side," like "Fool’s gold."

The planet now reminds me of a renewed home, helps me not to forget where I came from.

I would like for it too, now that I return home to this "Earth invaded by Normality," with patience to find a new landing in me and return to love my "greener," "wild and guilty without being responsible" side, to understand my "nervous moods tattooed on the skin," my "too crazy, esoteric, and cryptic side, my monotony and my too normal side," as I have understood and "interpreted" this planet.

And we will return to live together happily and contentedly, normally, in accordance with the relentless laws of time and space.

Amen.

The boy has red hair and blue eyes
Short pants and a tear right there
No friends in the neighborhood
And when he goes to play where does he go?

The boy often climbs a tree he knows
He chooses a branch and finds the exact point where the city dies
It's almost dinner time when he comes down
His father no longer understands him

And with his eyes inside the plate
He eats a lot but never speaks
He has a strange light in his eyes
And someone called it malice

But then
Who knows what people know
Who knows what people know
Of his thoughts on the pillow, what do they know
Of his moon at the bottom of the well, what do they know
Of his secrets and his world

The boy grows alone and never feels lonely
He has a strange desire at the bottom of his heart that even he doesn't know
Whether it is fear or freedom
Whether it is fear or freedom

The boy often climbs a tree he knows
All alone on a branch looks at the sky maybe further
It's almost dinner time when he comes down
His father no longer understands him

And with his eyes inside the plate
He eats a lot but never speaks
He has a strange light in his eyes
And someone called it malice

But then
Who knows what people know
Who knows what people know
Of his thoughts on the pillow, what do they know
Of his moon at the bottom of the well, what do they know
Of his secrets and his world, what do they know
Of his moon at the bottom of the well
Of his moon at the bottom of the well, what do they know
Of his secrets and his world
Of his thoughts on the pillow, what do they know
Of his moon at the bottom of the well, what do they know

1973 - The Boy - F. De Gregori (or maybe Nick Drake a few years earlier? Aren't we perhaps manifestations, different and always similar waves, of a single Human Being, of a single sea?)