The Magnetized Ark
I found a zoo, down the Croisette. One level under the main street there’s tents and terraces from where music, colors and screams pop out. In front of the show, you suddenly feel like a poor fisherman in the shadow of a palm tree. No matter how your tuxedo shines, you’re outside and they’re in. The dream starts knocking again: I need to crash into this party! But the zoo keeper is a six foot high gorilla that won’t let outsiders in, maybe because I haven’t the right fur. The negotiations are shorts: the guy is unhappy, obviously. Zero problemo, I manage to climb down on the beach, on an adjacent empty terrace. I walk on water, tuxedo diving, no time for sandcastle. Suddenly there’s the party’s bar, ten meters away from me. I kick a glass of champagne and move into the crowd. Nobody noticed my entry. It’s all about pizzazz, my friends.
I’m in and what then? Waves roll against the tent where people are dancing. The water is seeping inside. But the music won’t stop, neither the dancers’ swell. An ocean of booze is filling the veins of this party, like if everyone’s conscience was sinking. At one point, a digger machine is called to build a sand dam outside the tent. We’re on the Raft of the Medusa, everything is falling apart and the party goes on. Two guys, wasted as hell, are peeing over the pier and nobody cares.
I heard the city was a jungle. Wrong. Here it’s a field of golden cages, where expensive watches cipher the night. Isolated bumping cells drowning of pleasure. My head spins but my heart petrifies.