In Avignon. Part 3

I need to ask you to use your imagination. You see, these scripts are incomplete at the moment. They belong in a comic, or whispered in the darkness late at night.

I want to tell you about a dream that I had about ten years ago. I knew she was my anima, when I woke up. She had black hair, a shy smile and was always a few feet ahead of me.

I don't really believe in an anima. It's the Jungian version of the soul. Men have one, it's always female and God alone knows how this works in an age of intersectionality. 

But I woke up filled with love and loss. I'm starting to imagine that the next third of my life might be reconciliation to that loss. Most people believe in the one, until it goes wrong. Then they stop believing, and get on with it.

Is it possible to believe and believe it is impossible?

Avignon festival feels like Edinburgh Fringe, only the love has not yet disappeared. The fierce competition is absent, as is the comedy. I'm not saying these things are related.

There is a street here named after Artaud. And a bar decorated in zebra stripes on its corner. For obvious reasons, it is the place where I want to drink.

In Avignon. Part 2

Excusez-moi, parlez-vous Anglais?

Wow, is that really you?

Well, I guess that depends on who I am.

Criticulous, it is an honour to have you here. You finally made it.

If it's an honour, yes, it's me. So... I wanted...

Accreditation? That is not a problem for the finest critic in the anglophone world. Some call you a genius. We can't wait until you learn French and can give us some bande-dessine critiques.

Hey, I don't want to forget the great cohort of British critics who keep me on my toes.

L'autres sont chiant!

I guess if you say it, that's true. What do you think of Matt Trueman? 

Your friend, Cyril le Fou. I fear to ask, but is here with us?

He's waiting in the courtyard, checking the dustbins. But I don't think we'll be needing him today.

We'd be delighted if he'd go on a rampage. Right down the Rue de la Republique. Anyway, here's your pass. Off you go, fuck the arse out of that. 

And that's how I became accredited at the Avignon Festival.

In Avignon. Part One.

I am standing on the top floor balcony of a high-rise flat wearing another man's aftershave. I can see the palace that housed the Popes during the Avignon succession. Between me and the abandoned Papal throne, next to houses with swimming pools and a man who is topless asleep in his garden, a festival is happening.

The ghost of a clown whispers in my ear: sometimes a turd is just a turd.

Never so sure of anything, I turn around but the only the memory lingers. Maybe you could monetarise Mad Cyril. That kind of aggressive, ironic bigotry is hot right now.

I am always torn. Having spent my life enjoying unrequited love for human, I have lately been in an unrequited affair with an ideal. It's equally frustrating, and there are no interludes of dispassionate sex. 

Back in the bedroom, a book and a webpage are open. The webpage discusses Laura Penny's thoughts on Milo. The book contains an essay that considers the contradictions in Alan Moore's portrayal of Rorschach, a right-wing vigilante.  

Both of them share a frustration at what they perceive as a contradiction in (American) right-wing thinking. A certain... embrace of the ultimate void is juxtaposed with a belief in a particular set of conservative values. The argument is that Milo - or the fictional Rorschach - have an awareness that all moral statements are insincere. However, they continue to act as if right-wing opinions have worth.

For example, when asked about the sexual assault performed by The Comedian, another vigilante, Rorschach mumbles that he is not interested in commenting on 'the moral lapses' of a man who protected his country.

I could imagine those lines coming from Milo, defending a cop who shot a black man. Maybe Donald Trump, too.

Over in the USA, Milo is having a party to celebrate his banning on twitter.