Jules Compactor

Ground floor

The office

File X

J.C. always follows a strict order. He has a habit of tracing the client's initials on the file. And here is a client whose initials are identical to his: J.C. for Jules Compactor. He has barely begun to write on this file but he hesitates on the first sentence, he stumbles on the first word. Can he really write? The file concerns a half-man, half-god entity, an item whose nature has never been clearly defined. It's a very complicated story, that of a character ready to to shoulder the guilt of all mankind alone! As Jules is determined to adopt simple approaches he sticks to the fact that the cross is the generally recognized symbol to evoke this individual, he gets to the point. Jules traces the letter X on the folder.

At the beginning

The verb is not addressed to God or to the Devil. When desire is silent for a moment, the words unite in sentences so that the word rises in a song that speaks the truth. The word resonates in the meditation of places far from the turmoil of commerce. The word expresses his gratitude to the world. It speaks of the infinite beauty of plants, animals and all things that allow this mouth to open and to thank for the grace bestowed upon it. This word has given up the ease of belief. It has no certainty, it questions the world, it says the will to understand. It expresses the hope of getting a little closer to an always hidden truth.

Au nom du GoodGold

They invoke the name of the GoodGold. They bow under the yoke of his absence and they bow their backs to earn their bread. They are agitated by a few jolts when evening comes. When the bellies round, they are amazed at the greatness of the mystery and they adorn themselves with the title of Creators. It is a commotion that produces a harmful brood, a swarm that proliferates and takes over space, a variety of mammals unable to control their droppings. It is organized into tribes which mark their land of putrid mud. It is a brood that invades the space of its grotesque creations, leaving behind a pile of useless objects. Its passage stifles life and it is dotted with monuments that glorify death. A few kilos plastic toys, a few boxes of blurry photos, a name on a few registers, this fury to show the originality of a presence will become indecent. A light wind will disperse a dust, it will erase the last vestige of the passage of those beings who proclaimed themselves unique.


Under the roofs

The first floor.

Squeaky shutters

Jules Compactor lives in a shack in the 12th district of Paris. There are creaking shutters and it smells a bit of cat piss on the stairs. Jules Compactor's house is organized simply. His office and his files are on the ground floor. He sleeps at first floor. When the rains are heavy it leaks a bit, but JC has made up his mind.
Jules' days are organized like a concert. They have different movements. He would like to be able to enjoy them like symphonies, but sometimes he is sure he has lived through a fiasco.
He begins each day with the determination to achieve great and beautiful works. He wants to smile from the moment he gets out of bed on a new day. Yet if he tries to rejoice in being still there, he feels the need to establish continuity, to give a sense to what is first of all a tomorrow. The end of a day does not offer that good time for debriefing, the one you do with your friends after a scuba dive. The evening is for him an uncertain time between the day before and sleep, a time when all the questions that arose from his various investigations become too numerous and make his thinking confused.
Each night offers an asylum, an escape from consciousness, a prelude to the writing of new stories. Where was I? The simple statement of this question of this heavy evidence that today is the day after yesterday, marks the beginning of each day of worry. What remains of yesterday in my memory? What did you want to print there? What manipulations did the temple merchants engage in to clutter my brain? Can I still quote the book or the film that I used an accessory to enhance my waking hours?

Jules enjoys the privilege of being delivered from the obligations necessary for the survival of his being. He doesn't have a wall to paint or a locomotive to drive to earn his living. Like an old sage he concentrates on drawing a few ideograms. With the reading of the symbols that make up the page written yesterday, he seeks a continuity, a beginning, the one that will allow him to become Jules again. He will then try to find the answer to all the questions with which he has filled the drawers of his drawer unit.

Big Bang

Jules Compactor is awakened by the cries of children. He questions the responsibility of a prolific humanity which depletes the planet's resources. Noise from the neighboring school invades the space as he worries about his part responsibility for a demographic expansion, the immediate consequences of which manifest themselves in tangible form. He said to himself that it was a bit early to develop a thesis and although he no longer had the imperative need to provide for the needs food from his offspring, he painfully emerges from his night.

JC especially likes this place for its restful character. This allows him to rebuild his health. On the financial level it is a rejuvenation. In its small room it has a very special which allows him to reset his accounts to zero. He follows the example of his predecessor who multiplied the breads: in his time JC is a hacker. Big Bang, Reset ... It's as you want ... here Reset for a reset.
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