start

1.
Joe, Billy, Thomas and I are on a beach as older men. We have found a sought after treasure. But Joe and I have a disagreement and from across the beach we begin to throw harpoons at each other. Billy approaches to help Joe, and I could not hurt him. I do end up stopping Joe, but the treasure is lost and we all go mad. The land that was ours loses it's value, and our reputation as explorers becomes tarnished and obsolete.

2.
One evening by the sea, a meeting is happening between world leaders. I'm looking at the waves with two of my relatives, a couple who are from Malta. Donald Trump, without acknowledging us, walks towards the sea. We start insulting and shaming him. Suddenly his size increases. He rushes towards us, pulls his trousers down and lets out the most enormous shit I have ever seen all over the Maltese woman. She is covered in horrible brown film and defecation. Her husband becomes enraged -- he pins Trump against a wall, pulls out a knife and slits his throat. Trump becomes very thin and dies. We then realise how significant this murder is.

3.
I'm in a classroom somewhere in the countryside with some friends. We're studying inside a barn. In the middle of a lesson someone tells us that our territory is being encircled by fascists. So I get up with my friend Ariste, pick up an empty pencil case, and start filling it with stones.
Our territory is delineated by a tall fence, and all around it fascists are throwing stones and taunting us. But far more people are on our side. My section is told to move behind the barn, where the fence cuts through a large pond. To my surprise, I notice that the fascists are all children. Their parents are sitting on benches opposite us. We start throwing stones at the children, and they throw some back at us. But quickly, we run out of stones, and we throw seafood at them instead. My pencil case is loaded with pieces of octopus. A rather fat child falls into the pond, and I shout something abusive at him. But I can't help feeling sorry for the child afterwards.

4.
I'm going on a walk in the forest one evening. I wanted to bring my bag and my tent, but I set off in a hurry and forget everything without realising it. I pick up a broomstick on the way which I use to walk.
When I realise that I have forgotten my equipment, I am very frustrated. I walk back in a hurry, knowing the I am to far away to set back afterwards.
As I hurry back, I notice the shadow of an enormous missile cast onto the floor. I hear the terrible sound of it flying through the air. I take refuge in an abandoned building to be in a safer place if it ever hits the earth. As I peak my head out from behind a wall, I see the missile: it is huge, white and bulky, and it flies in circles, almost scratching the surface of the earth.
All of a sudden, somebody with a strange futuristic gun begins to shoot at the missile. They notice me and threaten me, but I surrender and leave the premises.
When I return I am greeted with a crowd asking me questions about what I witnessed. I start to work as a journalist on the story.

5.
I'm on the côte d'Azur. It's cold and the ice is still melting. There are strong winds, so as I jump off a little hill in the sand dunes I take flight. On the first try I struggle to stay in the air. But eventually, I catch a convective movement and I am sent flying high up in the sky. The winds are blow fiercely and I fly far. I feel incredibly happy and free. I can see the whole coast ahead of me.
Then I try to find Billy, Thomas and Joe to explain what has just happened to me. I try teach them how to fly. They tell me it is impossible to fly. I know this, and I tell them: of course, it is impossible to fly, but I have just made the thought so real that I have experienced it. Then we take cover under some small bark structure, and rain falls heavily onto us.

MOURNING THE AGES*

I.
We sat at the edge of the day
Lingering in ourselves.
The heat was diffused by kind winds,
The lake, deep in its breath,
Assured us of sorrowless sleep.

My friends and I, we stood
In the dark, in the evening of youth,
Praising our idle childhoods,
And we greeted our fall
As a renewed effort at growth.

II.
This morning I was risen
And my face wore the signs of change.
What I have spoken before
I cannot say again:
There will be no more softness in my body,
My features shall gain cruelty
In the trampling of the years.

I will not speak any hating sentence,
I will not break the reflections
Of innocence in any form.

And the sun goes ringing
In the pierced sky,
The clouds whistle in constant winds,
The moon
Bows down to the children,
It sinks down under the earth.

I have seen these events unfold
And have witnessed the tears of men:
I cannot return to what I was before.

III.
Come forth the age and the death,
Sleepless as our constant stone
Yet itself leader of the sleep,
Come forth in your silk dress
And lead me by the hand
To the definitive bed.

Leave me to my pains alone
As I toss the sheets and turn
Towards the deepest sleep
Of age and death and peace.

There
I shall want nothing but to be alone,
I shall love all of my dreams alone
As I go hurtling into the flight
Of eternity’s midnight lights.

* Sharing poetry is a more intimate thing than being seen naked. I tried to convey the themes of ageing and death here, and since we're all in it together I thought that I would shove it in your faces anyway.

PICTURES OF THE ALPS

I left France for Spain on the 31st of August. Léa was with me that morning. She waved goodbye to me at the station’s platform. Lifting up my suitcase and stepping into the train felt awfully distressing in the moment. The rails screeched from the friction of steel and people flocked all around us. Our goodbye was disturbed by crowds and noises, bringing out all sorts of emotions that were stirring in me: I teared up rather pathetically, but all the same managed to put on a smile for her. The doors closed and I peered through the window to see Léa one last time in the next two months.
(I apologise for the melodrama – you can squint if you want. Especially true for Louise & Atika. But this was what happened and I really am fanatic about Léa.)

The first train went from Montpellier to Zaragoza (9.40 am to 3 pm.). Leonard Cohen and my book on Armenio-Azarbaijani war kept me going. Zaragoza (Las Delicias) train station is as full as Derrida is meaningful (not at all): there is truly nothing there. I had no more water but there was nowhere to fill my bottle up. I was hungry but there was nowhere to buy food. The two-carriage train to Valladolid came half an hour early. Struck by utter boredom I boarded at once. By the time the train got going I realised how long this trip would be. For some reason the train went up North towards fucking Pamplona before heading South. Though I have to admit that the views as we went North were astonishing, the trip seemed endless. I had a wretched headache, I was thirsty, hungry and tired. About six hours later we reached Valladolid.

As soon as I left the station I called a pizzeria and ordered something to eat. It was right next to the hotel I had booked for the night. In the empty pizzeria some right-wing television channel was blurping some reactionary bullshit about Ceuta. The hotel was much nicer, and I was delighted by the view of the night lights in the streets. Two bottles of water stood gloriously upon the desk of my room. I swallowed the pizza and slept.

The next day I woke up early and made my way to the bus stop. I was completely clueless about this last stretch of my trip, because I did not know how much the fare was and I found absolutely no information about the time table online. Fortunately I only had half an hour to wait before a bus took me to Quintanilla de Onésimo.

Quintanilla is a barren place. It has under five hundred residents, its streets are always empty, and I have yet to identify a person of my age. There I met Paula De Santiago, a Pingus employee who showed me around the town and my new apartment. It has three bedrooms, two bathrooms, and various other spaces which I hardly need. It is very empty, and very old. But I do like it quite a bit. Ashame about the crap lighting. But lovely kitchen!

Ever since I have been working. Only six days later did I truly get some spare time. I usually start work at nine. It goes on until four (although we have our almorzar at eleven), we have our lunch, and then work until a bit later than seven. In the first week I worked for a bit more than fifty hours. Most of the work involves heavy tubes and pumps, gallons of water, a lot of cleaning, and taking measures for density of the wine and temperature. It can get quite repetitive, and it is tiring.

I have sometimes wondered whether this whole work idea is really worth two months of tiresome loneliness. Here I have no friends. And as I look ahead at the time I have to spend here, it all feels quite daunting. I miss talking to people in French and English. I miss laughing with my friends at cafés, beaches and rivers. I miss dinner times with my family. I violently miss my times with Léa, who I am so impatient to see again in November. It would also be easier if I had a bit more time to rest. But the purpose of the trip was to learn some Spanish and I am doing just that. It also helps me build resilience. Soon enough my time in Spain will pass and I’ll look back on the event fondly for what is is: a hard edge of life, something rough and necessary, a time to cast aside all preciousness and hesitations. I work hard, spend my spare time wisely, think adoringly of the people I love and preoccupy myself with larger issues. Giving up to despair never does any good. I just have to let the times go by.

Bionnay, 22nd of August, 2026
A donkey in the mist -- the mystery is all there.

Saint Nicolas de Véroce, 20th of August, 2026
Without a doubt the most virtuous & beautiful (καλὸς καὶ ἀγαθός) woman to have walked the Alps.

Mont d'Arbois, 21st of August
Andrew Jefford is walking and nothing will make him stop. Well... except... perhaps... a financial crisis that will crash his stocks and shares.

III. Working for the Yankee Dollar

This is an update of my time in Spain and a judgment of my work in the winery.

Since the last piece on Spain things have settled down somewhat. The wines are well into their fermentation and that the harvest is over, so there is less work. On some days I finish at around 3 p.m., which gives me the chance to write, read, study and go on walks. I’m getting my pay every week – it’s all cash – and everyone at work seems happy to have me around. I myself feel more at home here and less lonely than before. But I’m also getting to know my work a bit better. I’ve asked questions and nosed around. And I’m now compelled to admit that the work I carry out is of decadent virtue.

The wines that Dominio de Pingus makes are perfect. But that is not the question. A bottle of Pingus sells anywhere from 900 to over 1000 euros. Flor de Pingus comes in at 126 euros. And PSI, their cheapest wine, is still over 30 euros. Perhaps PSI is a suitable wine for a capricious middle-class. But the fact is that the people who drink most of these wines are greasy-fingered millionaires living in America, Switzerland, Britain, France and Spain.

Here I am at the bottom of a luxurious production chain, oozing delicately perfumed and balanced red wines into the mouths of the greediest, most exploitative people alive. They are among the one percentile who live above most and harbour about half of the world’s wealth to themselves. The wine I have contributed to make – which for centuries has been the daily drink of working men and the symbol of God’s blood spilled onto earth – is now the cruel caprice of a greedy horde. Christ and Castro look down upon me with condescending glares.

What makes matters worse is that both of my colleagues, Javi and… Javi, are reactionaries full of spite for the harmless. These two apparently kind and light-spirited men spit out mouthfuls of shit as soon as they start talking about the world at large. They are in truth racists who believe in the inherent violence of Moroccans, machists who show a clear preference for men in all things but sex, and nationalists who show no solidarity with those who struggle the most each day. If I were to be indulgent, I would say that they are merely of a fatal naivety.

Shall I leave my job? The Spanish project would crumble. Shall I stage a protest? I don’t master the language enough. Should I subvert and sabotage? My bourgeois upbringing shakes its head nervously. And besides, would any degree of contestation serve anything else than my conscience? No, I’ll just keep on shoveling grapes into the trailer, monitoring the wine press, wiping the floors of this immaculate winery – I’ll just keep on working for the yankee dollar, bitterly staining my hands red.