Hands everywhere

Work is progressing. What was initially intended to be a patch-up of a part has turned into a slightly more extensive project. I will have a useful cupboard, another for a possible freezer, the wall overlooking the neighbor will have been soundproofed, and the electrical circuit redid. Three years ago, the window was replaced. These are very material considerations for me as an intellectual.

Some people have been surprised for the past three years to see me handle all the trades in this way. Sometimes I wonder if I haven’t missed my vocation. Working with my hands pleases me as much as navigating the more capricious syntax of feelings. The two worlds coexist in my case, which has always had the effect of being considered an intellectual in textbooks and a squared off in the literate.

Camus, Buddha, and many others of whom I know absolutely nothing have said that we must walk on the narrow line that separates our profound certainties. It is a dizzying position, and I don’t think I can last in such an exercise.

I’m probably doing what everyone else is doing. I prune my existence as an excellent tourist of the living. I create, I rebuild a house that will survive me. I have also fine-tuned some of the writings that perhaps will gently continue on the shelves of future libraries. I don’t have any children, but it’s probably just like that.

But let us return to our position on the tightrope, because of these truths, nothing is less certain. Inch Allah.