Blanche Gardin: I Talk to Myself

He thrusts his fists against the post and still insists he sees the ghosts.

Peter picked a peck of pickled peppers. Pickled peppers.

She sells seashells by the seashore.

Pickled peppers.

Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Blanche Gardin.

I TALK TO MYSELF

Thank you.

It’s good to be here.

No, let’s be honest. No one wants to be stuck

in a dark theater on a lovely spring weekend.

I know exactly what happened. You bought tickets, what, three weeks ago?

Then this morning, you saw the weather.

“Oh, fuck. What a drag, we have to go to the theater tonight.”

I’m quite aware that that’s how it happened.

So, yes, I also know what I’m missing.

On top of that I’m wearing panty hose.

Let’s try to get through this together, okay?

I’m glad you’re here. I am.

Thanks for coming and in such large numbers.

But why should I thank you for that?

Individually, none of you can claim credit for the full house.

Each of you came for selfish reasons.

You thought, “This world makes me sick,

but I’ll go see a comedy show instead of hanging myself.”

That’s what you thought.

But your aim wasn’t to fill the theater,

so get over yourself.

If anyone should be thanked for this full house,

it’s the God of Full Houses.

He probably watches out for poker players too.

But…

your aim wasn’t for the house to be full.

Still, it’s packed. Packed.

And that’s great.

That’s the magic of collective action.

People’s individual, selfish actions

come together to form a new social phenomenon

of a character and effect totally different from the original aim.

Right?

It’s the only way to explain Cyril Hanouna’s fame.

In his case, it’s not really magic,

more like a curse.

I find the success of crappy TV shows fascinating.

It’s all due to people who say,

“I only watch it to see how crappy it is.”

Are a lot of you doing that? It’s problematic.

TV ratings don’t take into account that you’re watching it ironically.

Or maybe you’re interested in shit? You’re a shitologist?

At restaurants, do you ask what’s disgusting?

Do you lick your lips reading the menu,

saying, “Hmm, what do I want to shit tomorrow?”

Is that your thing?

It’s fascinating how we trick our brains into watching TV.

Watching crappy TV ironically doesn’t make you less stupid.

It makes you just as stupid.

But we don’t realize we’re getting stupid. It’s an existential tragedy.

Tons of my friends have become stupid without realizing it.

Seriously. I even tell them, “Michel, you’ve become stupid.”

“Really? I don’t think so.” “Yes, you’re stupid now.”

We don’t see ourselves becoming stupid.

We don’t see it because the brain is hidden away inside the skull.

We don’t see it change.

Unlike fat. If you eat junk every day, you see yourself getting fat in the mirror,

but not stupid.

You don’t get a shock looking in the bathroom mirror:

“Holy shit! I’m becoming totally stupid!

I must stop watching Hanouna.

Tonight, I swear I’ll watch Arte!

Even if I beg, we’re watching Arte!”

That’s not how it works.

Anyway, thanks for coming tonight,

as individuals in great numbers.

It fills me with joy.

Seriously, it does.

It won’t make up for my parents never saying they loved me, but it’s nice.

It’s nice to get recognition for one’s work.

It’s very important. It’s what keeps us going.

But it’d be dishonest to claim that your laughter and applause tonight

will keep me from eating two pints of ice cream and then puking it back up.

It won’t fill the void.

Ice cream is easy to barf because it’s already liquid.

It comes right back up.

Just a tip for any bulimics out there.

There are always a few

in Europe.

But I don’t make myself throw up anymore. I’ve stopped because I’m an adult

and I’ve realized it’s absurd to make yourself puke

when people are starving.

I’ve never found a practical way to send my vomit to Africa,

so I stopped making myself vomit.

I’m still depressive, but now I have a fat ass!

That’s not a bad thing.

It’s not bad to have a fat ass when you’re depressive

because it gives you an aim in life: to lose weight.

It’s why you get up in the morning.

When they have an aim, people commit suicide less.

I commit suicide much less than before.

It’s also due to the events of these past few years:

jihadism, “Pray for Paris,”

“Pray for” all the capitals that have been attacked.

Spiritually, I’m a bit lost,

so I think suicide might be a risky proposition.

In itself, suicide is a marvelous invention.

When you can’t handle it

and you think, “It seems that existence is something that wasn’t made for me,”

you think, “At least if it gets really bad, suicide is an option.”

It’s a very comforting idea.

But if you have doubts spiritually, then it’s no longer comforting

because you think…

Just imagine, you kill yourself,

and boom, there’s life after death?

“This shit, again?”

That wasn’t the point.

You’d better enjoy life if you commit suicide

because you might be stuck with it forever.

That’s why I’m terrified of eternal life.

Everyone’s working on it. It’s the latest project.

They want to eradicate death.

Really. I’m not kidding.

Google invests billions in research to prevent death.

Mark Zuckerberg, Hallowed be His Name,

invests a large part of his fortune on eternal life research.

It’s fascinating.

Three-quarters of the planet have the life expectancy of a leukemic Labrador,

but in Silicon Valley they’re saying, “It sucks to die of cancer at 85.”

It’s fascinating.

We might be on the brink of wiping out death.

It freaks me out. Totally.

I’m terrified my mother will find out.

Maybe not everyone should know, just a chosen group.

No, it’d be awful.

We can’t wipe out death. We mustn’t.

Death is important, for life. No, it’s important.

It’s only because we know it will eventually end

that we’re able to stand our lives.

If we had to get up every morning knowing all this shit would never end,

we’d want to off ourselves and we wouldn’t be able to.

We need to keep death. It’s important.

Call me conservative, but there are some things we should keep.

More generally, I think we should be careful with progress.

Seriously. Yes, that’s what I said, and I stand by it.

It’s getting absurd.

Rich people die of cancer and have their bodies frozen. It’s normal.

With a Post-it on the freezer:

“Microwave me when we’re less stupid.” People do this now.

Franck Ribéry bought a cryogenic chamber.

Everybody know what that is?

Ribéry, the soccer player?

This guy thinks he’ll be on the “team of the future.”

We need to calm down and not lose our heads.

I understand the desire to live in a time other than this one,

which isn’t very pleasant.

Myself, I wish I’d been born in another time.

In another person too.

I’m not referring to my mother this time,

but myself.

Poor woman.

I ruined her pussy and then her life.

I’m talking about me.

I’d like to have been born in someone else.

Given the choice, I’d be born in Leonardo DiCaprio.

I’d have loved that.

Being a great actor with ecological convictions,

fucking whores on yachts, I’d have loved that.

It’d have been logical because Leonardo DiCaprio

is the anagram of Blanche Gardin.

Actually, it’s not.

Some letters are missing.

Anagrams are tough.

They take me forever.

However, “carpe diem” is an anagram for “Crap die me.”

Trust me, I worked it out myself.

Carpe diem.

It’s all the rage. Carpe diem.

“You must profit from the moment.”

Not always easy.

I’ve tried to profit from the moment,

seize the days, smell the roses, all that,

but it’s not easy when nothing ever happens.

Nothing happens in my life anymore.

My private life is an activity wasteland. Nothing happens.

I’m 40. I’ve been single for four years.

Nothing happens anymore.

The years go by, and nothing new happens.

Well, I wear opera-length necklaces now.

That’s new in 2017. I wear long necklaces.

I figure, if I can’t get fucked, why not look like an intellectual?

At least it’s a look.

Not a great look, but it’s something people can recognize.

They think, “Look, an intellectual.”

That’s good. I exist.

I think the next step is glasses on a chain.

I feel it coming.

But I don’t mind. I find them quite touching, as an object.

Glasses on a chain. It’s touching.

It’s a public sign of extreme solitude.

Glasses on a chain…

It’s more a sign of the management of that solitude.

It’s the sign of a woman who’s totally alone and half blind

who one day misplaced her glasses in her apartment