Time Vortex in a Sunny Bedroom

by Pascal Bollon · May 23, 2025

Bed Wall Desk

I lie. I stare. I read.

Nothing in Nature is unbeautiful – Tennyson

Desk Wall Bed

I lie, eyes open. I stare, eyes open. I read. Eyes open.

No price is too high to pay for the privilege of owning yourself. – Kipling

Bed Balcony Desk

I sit. I stare. I stack the photos.

I try to get their year right. I think. I fail, I know that, but I just can’t quite recall every single one of them. I kept the negative of the best ones, fortunately, and get them reprinted. But the latest ones? Can’t place them all. Maybe it is the medication killing my memories to kill the liver parasite that tries to kill me. Life.

Desk Balcony Bed

I read. I stare. I lie.

The dark pine hills across the valley are staring blankly right back at me. I love that. Untamed. Silence. That is my Africa, my memories. Silence, endless Nature, Freedom. Their Africa was birdies, flowers and lizards. Souvenirs. Never as big as my memories, but yet, my gift to them all. I left them small mementoes to remind them of my stories: the peace pipe, the spear, the baskets. I hope they will remember

Bed Balcony Desk

I lie. I stare. I think.

The daughters have all met young men. I like them. I think. Anyway it is their choice. Who’s best, more handsome, more athletic? They compare their catch, ever competitive. I can only wish this house will always sound like the stifled giggles rising from the kitchen. The stairs are groaning. Suzanne is coming up with the soup.

Desk Wall Bed

I stare. I lie.

The wind rustles in the dry palm leaves. The window is open. It is always open.

Silent.

~ François Dulière, my grandfather (1900-1965)

15 years later

The bed. The balcony. The desk.

I sit. I stare. I doodle.

Solve the following equation. All things being equal, you are in an inclusive universe U where all elements E are discreet, as they all should be – A Modern Mathematician XX.

Desk. Balcony. Desk.

I doodle. I stare. I sit.

Sweat slowly drips on to the paper. What is the point of any of this? It is simply like these pub puzzles with matchsticks or toothpicks. But it is good for your brain! And quantum. And getting another diploma. So, every summer, every day without fail, maths homework. The point? Getting bad marks every week, voluntarily, during your free time. Diplomas are really important for your mental health. Or life. Or happiness. Never quite got the subliminal message. None of them was happy. So, maybe in the afterlife? Or it all was just to remind me that life actually sucks.

Desk Wall Bed

I read. I stare. I think.

It is the master bedroom no-one uses anymore. The heat starts to pound everything into submission. The sun glowers behind the slats of the squeaking louvered shutters (persiennes). A thousand years old design, perfected for this climate. Dust twinkles in the sunrays. The desk is set in front of the window to catch the breeze in the summer furnace. I twiddle the pen. The argument rises from the kitchen, covering the radio blasting advertisements. 4 hours left to go. No hurry to come down.

Bed Wall Desk

I think. I stare. I doodle.

Africa is everywhere around me. But it is nowhere. It is the Africa they remember. It is their souvenirs of picnics, verandas and flowers. I am tired of their dissonant stories. I am bored of their movies. Iteration 1101, 1979, July: “when we were on the boat”. Despise replaces awe as the pictures focus, hatred refined and sublimated. They know it. Where are the roars, the danger, the adventure? Where is the mystery, the strangeness, the truly bizarre? Shoved at the back of a shelf, with the tribal pipe, the spear, the machete and the memories. Africa stashed at the bottom of the trunks. Betrayed. Just a dusty curio. Theirs were the only worthwhile childhood memories. When they were happy.

The wind rustles in the dry palm leaves. The window is open. It will always be open.

Soon.

~ Pascal Bollon (15 years old)

60 years later

Bed Wall Desk

I sit. I stare. I write.

My grandfather has been killed by a liver worm. The bed and the desk by woodworms. And neglect. The wall has been repainted, a first since time immemorial. The room feels bright, functional, welcoming. Not inhabited yet. It is waiting for the guest of honour. Someone with a passion for introspection. Who will love the woods staring blankly back at him. It is not me. It cannot be me.

Desk Balcony Bed

I write. I stare. I think.

Books had swallowed the house. That had been the first step. Then we dug up all the mementoes and dusted them. Then we tried to link them to memories. Not just artefacts and random items, but true memories: items were slowly given back the respect they deserved. Some oddly defective colour pencils were once again treasured specialised wax mapping pencils. But so much is lost. Photos and movies crawl to a halt after 1950. As if memories stop being memorable and become just a bedtime story.

Bed Wall Desk

I think. I stare. I write.

The Africa they truly loved looked, sounded, so mundane. True, whenever they talked about it, you could hear the love, the joy springing anew. Life. Dried up now in photo albums, movies and stories. In need of constant pruning and watering by memories to stay alive. Still, they talked, and looked, and watched less and less. Memories started to sleep longer, then hibernated, finally mummified. Maybe they knew. Probably they knew. I know they knew.

Desk

I stop and stare.

Were we supposed to do this? Or let it all go as they did? Or did we not do enough? Let the next generation decide. We just dust it down and hand it over. There is still so much do, restore, write, share, … Truth is, none of them really wanted to live once back in France. Not truly. He had died trying, ringmaster one last time.

She just got on with it, as she had always done. “Life is a tartine of sh…”, she would say. And they all just whittled away. Aggressively, selectively forgot. And died caught in a movie that could never be again.

It is a shared heritage, that Africa I once dreamt of, that phantasm I will always dream of. Forever Elsewhere. Definitely not the Africa of their Eternal Youth they wanted to remember.

The blood leaves my eyes, ever so slowly.

There is no more palm tree for the leaves to rustle. That magic is gone. The window is closed.

It is never open.

~ Me (Today)

I walk to the door of the room. The noise of repairs rises up from the kitchen. Movement, change, future. Life.

I go down to fetch a coffee. The stairs groan and squeak, a sound unchanged in a century.

I taught myself well.

Peace is a lie. There is only Passion.
Through Passion, I gain Strength.
Through Strength, I gain Power.
Through Power, I gain Victory.
Through Victory my chains are Broken.
The Force shall free me.^[2]

~ Star Wars, The Sith mantra ~

All is Dust.

~ W40k, The Thousand Sons motto ~