The pent up elephant in the room
the revolution of sensual pleasure
Paris. March. 2003. Étampes to be precise. I had spent the previous day lost in Clingnancourt Flea Market in the 18th. There, I found everything I needed to pretend to be a golfer:
Knee-high funny looking socks
A golf club
An ugly hat
A green jacket as every golfer wants to win a green jacket
I was convinced that I was quite cleaver in my costume choices.
I was convinced that I would be able to go into class and FINALLY make Philippe laugh.
Sure, my classmates would laugh. But it was pity laughter, encouraging laughter. The laughter of those who ‘cared a lot’ and wanted to be ‘helpful’ and ‘supportive’.
That was shit laughter. I wanted the alarmed, anarchistic wild ‘piss your pants’ laughter that erupts when someone is killing their audience.
Changing their breath.
Making pee come.
Anyway. That was not my experience.
With all of my certainty, I participated in the first exercise. I still remember Philippe’s words:
This one? Is this one a beautiful idiot. …
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