What I will forget

and what I will remember.

At each moment of our life, if we want it or not, we exchange.

            Though alone on his desolate island, Robinson Crusoe too exchanged his work for cereals produced by the soil, he cultivated his ruse in hunting game animals, his love of life in purpose of an happy outcome of his story.

            Robin Hood exchanged the purse for life. He also was surrounded with an associative shape team. In those times, they did not ask contributions to members, there were not grains of SEL bank statements and the offers and demands bulletin was represented by a bow and arrows. I like a lot this style of life, which consists in taking to rich people and distribute to poor people. It serves the rich right! They only have to be stronger than Robin Hood! There is big to bet that if my Robin Hood had known SEL, he would have set up a federation with Richard the Lionheart which would immediately have allowed the formation of the Commonwealth and would have banished Queen Victoria to the socks darner’s rank. 

            This last flight of oratory was destined to stigmatise the main mistake of SEL organizations: do not get off the LOCAL context. To have real exchanges and group dynamics, this swap must be organized locally. 

            Since a long time, all villagers understood that and organized a SEL between them without knowing it. They have nothing to do of our long tirades on the concept of exchange, of our officialized associations or associations in fact, of our utopian federations and our wind brewing. They do not consider us as primaries, nor as evolved. They exchange, that is all. 

            This is why a Robin Hood will be eternally likeable to us: because he takes part in a harmony of life without putting himself out. He gives where there is nothing. And with good mood, please. However, do not lose sight that: he also, had been put outlaw. This rogue guy seems so nice to me that I decided to usurp his identity to sign this book. I will fix with Robin the amount of the grains of SEL transaction when I will be in paradise. Meanwhile, I get ready to undergo the harassment of the Public Treasure’s sheriff who will not fail to send his partners to snoop around in my incomes files. 

            To close this book, which I keep on trying to finish, I am going to put higgledy-piggledy most of my memories splitting them in two blocks: “what I will forget” and “what I will remember”.  

- There were not only vileness in SEL; there were some good things. 

     - Among the constructive things, there were however some snags. 

            Which of these two assertions do you prefer? It is the story of the half full glass or half empty. Choose, I let you cook the grub, which suits you. 

What I will forget.

¤          I will forget the 48,50 francs of Miss Beauty that she “omitted” to repay me. I helped her with doing some little free tinkering works. I bought supplies and I advanced money. She could not repay me, as she had no change. The second time, when I saw her again, she talked again about the repairs but, again, had not the change. I failed to give her 51,50 francs in order to make a round account. (48,50+51,50=100,00). I refrained. When I saw her the third time again, she did not talk at all about her debt.

            I never saw her a fourth time. 

¤          I will forget the 300 francs I advanced to Mr. Messy so that he could pay Mr. Indigent who had just worked one week for him. I had to ask him if he remembered that he owed me this sum. He played the fool (that needed not him a lot of efforts) and gave as a pretext that “this thing had completely come out of his mind”. I was irritated but did not show it this time, especially since I had just worked more than one week for him for some grains of SEL. I did not show that I was irritated and did on the contrary an effort, putting on my air the most stupid (that needed me a real effort). I hope that I looked sincere. 

¤          I will forget the rose I offered to this poor corny and venomous granny. It is not a rose that I should have offer to her but a nettles’ bouquet. I will forget her venom, thrown to everyone. I regret a little the pie in the muzzle that I would have thrown to her face if she had been 40 years less.

¤          I will forget this so-called astrologer and the cascade of gossip that she provoked. It was like Goupil the fox in an aviary whereas this fox wore a muzzle. I was Goupil. Three or four mythomaniac, hysterical and imbecile women members were the poor startled fledglings. If I well followed so far this entire imbroglio, here are as faithfully as possible the retraced facts: 

            Mrs. Parakeet consults her astrologer in order to know if I am “a good stroke” (i.e. a good opportunity). The divine female “extra-stupid” explains to her that, (I quote): “he already tried with me” and she wisely advises her customer to sway her hips in front of the nose of another pretender. Mrs. Titmouse, who consults the astrologer for her pains of heart, learns the thing (thanks to the divine stars, surely), and tells to Mrs. Woodcock that I went to bed with Mrs. Parakeet. In some days, without realizing it, I had gone to bed with half of the SEL feminine staff. The sensations might have been fleeting because I do not remember only a single of them. It is what we call “virtual love”. 

            The thing comes to my knowledge: I decide to let the astrologer grind her fantasies. 

            She keeps on: I murder her. 

            And yeah! I can catch up the carousel pompom but at least, it is necessary to offer me a tour of merry-go-round. 

            Going to bed with girls by anticipation, mythomaniac females, chronic neurotics, flattering gossips or not: I do not want to know anymore. I make you a packet of all this mess, throw it far from my sphere of activity and go to live under other heavens. 

¤          I will forget this little philosophy professor, the head stuffed of scholarly quotes, who made me change five times his offers and demands announcement with exercises of style in addition. When I finished to modify according to his wishes the presentation of his possibilities and desiderata, he had exchanged nothing in the setting of the association and announced me in the same time that he could not remain among us because we were registered at the Prefecture. 

            Would have he mistaken me with the Gestapo? 

¤          I will forget those who, inversely, wanted to enrol if the association is officialized in the bulletin called with the same name (the Official Bulletin). For these maniacs of the order, it was necessary before all to have a Board of directors, an Office and a President. From what, only, it perhaps would be possible that they would participate. Yes, but..., it was also necessary that they would cogitate. 

            To the latest news, they are always wondering if they come or do not come... whereas I, left since a long time. 

¤          I will forget the intrusion of this regional counsellor in one of our meetings, come to spy on. I will forget the extreme platitude of the single reflection that I let him do that evening: “It is necessary to go and see what people of SEL is doing in Vence”. As if I was not sufficiently aware about SEL associations... Moreover, I went to a lot of trouble to document the people of Vence when they started their association. They choose to do a big uproar in the local press with a prestige picture showing the previously mentioned responsible persons holding gloriously a saltcellar in hand, symbol of a new propagator of constructive ideas era. Two months later they quarrelled and their group exploded. 

            My zealous little counsellor wanted to be registered in SEL: I refused. 

¤          For a long time, I also will remember this first exchange in “SEL Niçois” and it too, I will succeed in forgetting it. H... was a 65 years old gentleman, very calm, in love of Zen mind and seemed very receptive to the SEL’s orientations. As soon as he subscribes to our team, he contacts one of our women members so that she types some poems that he wrote. She is very embarrassed because she meets some difficulties with the word processor software. With authority, she sends me by snail mail the aforementioned poems so that I get out of it. Strange way to start but let us go this way! They were extremely miserable these poor poems. In a composition fully packed of orthography and grammar mistakes, without respect about rhymes and number of feet, his author lugubriously dragged you towards a morbid sadness where it was only question of deceased, dead leaves, the last salute and the welcoming beyond putting an end to the terrestrial sufferings. I correct a minimum of mistakes for decorum, take care of the masterpieces presentation’ and give proudly the all to H... at the time of our next meeting. I was not even entitled to a “thank you” and in any case, he did not speak to me about the amount of the transaction in grains of SEL to debt him (and to credit me by the same). 

            I never understood why. Zen, let us remain Zen. 

¤          I will definitely forget this old moonstruck, quibbling in the soul, ugly like a fiscal correction file abandoned in the water-closets and liar like an Italian flogging the last fake Chanel perfume to you. She made me believe heaps of things at the beginning. You know me: naive and ingenuous like a child, I swallowed everything. I even went further more: I took pity on her. Generous and magnanimous as I am, I said to me that her vituperations were only the expression of a big distress. Then, I rejected her. Definitely. 

            When I make the Santa Claus, I am careful not to sink in the Puppet's role. 

¤          I will forget that I have even been an employee to trashcans. Yes, there are not silly jobs. But all the same, I have nevertheless done the hireling. Here is, my dear masters, the narration of the short story about this fact:

A pest woman member, as messy as well, one could wish, jealously kept in her cellar a bathroom bidet and a washbasin about which she absolutely did not want to get rid off. These precious relics were cautiously put next to the local trashcan and bore a label with the mention: “Do not touch! Owner: Mrs. G...”. Contemplating this candy-pink bidet, I thought that, to deserve such value to its owner's eyes, it might have sheltered the concerned person's sacrosanct ablutions consecutive to the first loves. 

G... often bickered with her neighbours about these old-fashioned sanitary items which bothered all her neighbours. Nought availed: she fiercely valued to her bidet and warned to anyone who would dare to touch it! 

            I intervene in this stormy atmosphere. One day, she asks me to carefully carry away these cult objects. I courteously answer to her: “these objects being heavy and cumbersome, it would be better to wait for a while as we will have a local to store them”. One week after, she harasses me on this topic. A second time, I ask her to wait. Two days after, she asks me to come for “something else”. That day, of course, she benefits from this, to show me with a sorry air her dear bidet and her dear sink that seem to get bored there, all alone, near this dark local trash can. The third time, therefore, I load the all. 

            I personally live in a building and have no room to store these useless dirty tricks. In consideration to my nostalgic member, I have nevertheless succeeded to judiciously fit a room in my garage to keep them in order to exchange them lately.

What sadistic pity I have felt for this candy-pink bidet and sink! How many times have they constrained me when I took my motorcycle out of the local. Because of them, I could not put my car in the garage for two months. How many times I tried to palm off them to a needy user. No one wanted them.

We do not need bidet in SEL: when we wash our buttocks, we also wash our face, economy oblige. 

We do not need candy-pink sink in SEL: when we wash our hands, we do not do it in an old-fashioned element. 

I still have them, these famous sanitary art’s works of last century’s goldsmith’s trade.

Who wants it? 

¤          I will forget this bookseller from Nice stuck between his mom and his esotericism universe. Smiling and full of good will but it is not sufficient anymore today to win: it is necessary to go to coal. 

¤          I will forget this spoilsport who kept on us warning to a possible control of the IRS, to the inspection of work that..., to moonlighting that..., to risks of accidents that..., to earthquake that..., and Thingamajig comet that... A specialist of the “yes, but...” That boy never did something within SEL. Disgruntled people like that undermine the good wills and make you sniffle on your fate even before that you seize difficulties round the waist. 

            I precisely seized him round the waist to kick him out without cares.

¤          I will forget this 45 years old man who permanently lived in a rudimentary van fit as a motor home and located on a municipal parking place. Here also, I did too much. Among others, I also advanced him money. I still wait he can repay me. 

¤          I will forget this 60 years old pest who wished to pass hours and hours with me to do style exercises with our SEL texts presentation. The inside of her apartment was in a miserable state, the bathroom in particular. I proposed her to change a faucet she cannot use anymore (I didn't dare to ask her if she used the water of the loo to have a bath). She explains to me that the material cost must be the weakest possible (the opposite would have surprised me). I went to see the supplier and gave her the faucet’s price. She gives me her agreement to the purchase. The following day I get ready to return to the supplier and to buy the faucet with my own money. Early on the following morning day, she calls me and asks me to wait. Three days later, she tells me that I can buy it and install it. As I get ready to intervene, she tells to me that she changed her mind. She phoned me from ten to twenty times in fifteen days for such insignificant matters.

            Is senility like that?