One birthday more, one birthday less, nothing is seen, nothing is guessed, nothing is imagined, nothing moves. She is there, Liliane, with her X spring. X is normal, because her son Alain went to X, Francis went to X, and she is obviously happy like Felix, Felix the cat of course.

Smile. Don't kiss me, keep your viruses, your bacteria and your miasmas. I love you through me, my life, my life's trepidations, my life's jumps and jolts. Across the world, freeze frame in Brittany, Israel, Patagonia, Italy, Japan, Poland, who knows what else.

In all regions where the lyric art is heard, seen, declaimed, discussed and this until exhaustion. Opera-Bastille, you are here beside me, I am off to Verona, to so many places that smell of opera as well as to Seville, Caesarea or Buenos Aires. 

There is the world of the opera, the world of the Tel Aviv museum, the world of California, the world of Brittany, the world of here, the world of elsewhere, the world of friends, the world of family, the world of sisters, the world of cats, the world above, the world below. The world of letters, without any ridiculous precariousness, the world of arts, without any painter dabbler, the world of music without any false note, three flats to the key would have said Wolfgang Amadeus here in his three-beat sonatas, the world also of cinema of all kinds. 

What have you seen recently?

There is also the world of magic, the world of cards, of tarot, the unknown world, the sub-real world and the world of true divination. Show me your hand and I will tell you who you are and where you are going.

Next to that, there is the world of lentils, organic and detox vegetables, various soups, the world of those who infuse and deny aging to those who ingest it. The micro, the macro, the macrobiotic, those who make you run towards the Pyrenees on a revisited Toyota Celica, the priceless value of a coupe that sticks to its skin.

And you know her too, Liliane, from the baths, the showers, the thermal spas and the water of Lourdes. You also know her, Lilibar, her faces, her mouths, her lips. Do not kiss me! You know, viruses, bacteria, parasites frighten me. 

You know her passion for lyrical art, her passion for macrobiotics, her passion for goat and sheep cheese, for chocolate cakes and "linzertorte", her passion for Nicole, for her friends and for her spectres, her ghosts, those who are there behind the curtain always present. You know them of course: Benjo, Nathalie, Francis, Bagheera, not the panther, the other one. They appeared for a moment during this birthday, and left immediately, invited to taste the unchanging buffet, tabbouleh in the Lebanese-Lilanesque style, smoked salmon, the very famous meatballs, the lilianesque keftas with pronounced scents of the Orient, the chicory and currant salads, the extra tarama. I have fond memories of Pinto's, which has closed its store, but we know where to make up for it.

Everyone is then invited to the basement, to dance, to Charleston, disco, Claude François, paso-doble music, on eternal and perpetual CDs, all behind Sauveur and under the discreet baton of the ballet master Salieri. Organ point, cross point, point of honor.

In the coming year, if there aren't more of us, let there not be fewer of us.

Period.

Michel Blum. 14/1/2017″ Lili's 81st birthday.