I decided that my writing could be useful too, just a bit at least. My honour is usually loath to offer something concrete to my readers, as a stick of glue or a greasy paper are. The world is full of ways and means, of deep meanings, of solid and vivid questions that Life is answering munificently with the grandiose ballet of stars at night. So why asking again? I must say I am tight-fisted with my knowledge, which I seal in a safe, preventing people from grasping the stark madness it encases, among many other gifts God granted me. Not the famous jeweller everyone knows in the higher realms and spheres (also named the benevolent clockmaker sometimes), but Nad the human Dog...
I was born from his nose during a raining day when frogs and toads showered the lower sky and landed eventually on the chimney of a huge hut. Nad sneezed because of the cold air, and instead of buiding something on it, or on sand maybe, he cast me away from his left nostril. If it was a fairy tale, and not just a myth, I wouldn't dare fooling my impatient readers.
Did they all leave already? Nope. Not yet, for Nad's sake: I'm seeing one traipsing in and out onto the daisies I growed in my yard. As always, my door is wide open to guests, wherever they may come from.
I grow flowers to raise my soul, if it's of any interest to you. Being a falling angel, I have to re-make a reputation. Santa Claus did it before me; and by the way he fell himself from Nad's right nosrin. Yet he found on his way down a pair of reindeers. He took over the reins and escaped the black hole and mystic revelations just on time, whereas I plunged down to the terrestrial mouth Nad designed me with. My rose suit did not exactly suit the soot from the flue. Nevertheless, I got a home and that counts a lot to a homeless angel, pursued like I was by the other God, who dislikes the nasty greedy Cupids.
Names circulate in the cosmic corridors but don't tell anyone Dan is the real boss up there. Nad would be angered and jealous and I would have a taste of the trident Neptune presented him on my not less sensitive cheeks than yours.
As I said above, it's time I work towards a constructive contribution, such as a sixth tiptoe on the human sole, or more preferable to a tip – might it be a gimmick of great standard – a tool, noone heard of in this Twelth Quadrant of the Multiverse. And believe me or not, I found how to disconcert my nailed opponents with a not fusty coinage (trouvaille). I can even help you out with a few lights dotted in my burly mind.
Have you ever wondered why the french say: «to build castles in Spain» instead of «to build on sand» like you, pragmatic people, prefer to say? Is it only because children enjoy building castles on the beaches out of sand? Don't protest your ignorance on the topic. Ignorance is not as forgivable as innocence. Everyone should know what French had in mind when they used to wage wars onto the coasts of the villains and smeared blood on the crusts of foreign rocks (was that the Vikings?). It was a matter of life and death!
I'm proud to herald a decisive prey I for long prayed to be successful in concealing from the beatniks and barbarians parasites, who always loot what they're helpless to admire... I feel it's time I draw some treasures of mine to the public attention! Opening a safe, is not a little deal. It may explode anytime. It may burst out in a firework of untenable intelligence!
But let's make it plain and safe. Secure learning is maybe better than the asteroids of sudden enlightment, the killing satori! The bite of Nad's snake! Yet, for Nad's sake, and the stake itself, we will not overpower the coming out of spanish acting on the world theater...
This said, why don't we, french people, build castles in the air? Why our illusions should sneer and snigger about yours? Why are we so contemptuous of spanish castles?
Let's jump back in time. The 11th century saw Henry of Burgundy and a few others. As a younger son, Henry had little chance of acquiring fortune and titles by inheritance, thus he joined the Reconquista against the Moors in the Iberian Peninsula. He had a white horse and his horse four clogs. But it was not the most spectacular about him. Where the extravagance really starts, is at the very doorstep of the blacksmith's workshop he visited to repair his mount; the fellow was living in Cordoba and became the first cobbler. He used the famous leather called «cordouan», stamped and patina-given, from which we dressed the word «cordonnier» in french. Before him, there were only shoemakers, craftsmen dealing with poulaine or buskin. Some mocassin overseas where smelling under the teepees; but globally, one did not know what to put under the knee-breeches. Henry asked him if he could make blinkers for his horse. The blacksmith laughed at the joke but with the horse shod, he suddenly experienced a disturbing vision. This would go down as a red-letter day, for he began demising velvet sheaths along his thoughts. How did it all finish in a modern shoe? My nose knows!
Thus we had Henry and his horse. He was about to kick the Moors away but did not do so with his foot alone; numerous templars fought on his side, whose help towards victory was awarded with new-built castles, a true privilege at the time! Hence a challenge for the warriors to come who remembered in all likelihood those feats of the Reconquista, plus the routed Moors having no fortified town to escape to...
I enjoy this story more than the one who suggests that «Espagne» could be a misheard «espace». That's too practical a theory for me and I won't give a penny, nor a pen, to the debunkers and whistleblowers (masking the worst unadventurous academics) who are never as pleased as when they nail linguistic romantism to the ground... Besides, we definitely can't afford building castles into space!