They were talking, getting drunk, readjusting the politics, dancing the monster dances, playing the roots guitars and fighting or doing rude love.

Father loved them.

" They are so free from any civisme , from any illusions, from any shaping of their personalities... They just are there where they can find enough of the ikea scrap to burn poverty and to drink all the cheapest beers brewed out of human miserable desires." He said.

Father was living on the road.

He literally hated the hostels and the motels and was avoiding the sickness of the little towns, growing little cancers on the edges of the industries.

He was laughing on the shower cabins, on the shower gels and the tooth creams.

But he was a real king of the party and the party was constantly calling him wherever he was riding his powerful and indestructible motorbike.

Father has shown me his part of the world, which was very analogue to mothers one, but however also very different.

" You wouldn't become our kid if your mother wouldn't be so crazy and so strange as she is...but I love her and I always will..." He said these words to me in many, many places where we had a break to watch in absolute calm the world around which we were going to explore and to explore... That was one of his love mantras concerning Her, which he was telling to me and praying to the only woman, the mother of his son.

All what my father possessed was attached to his bike.

One thick poncho, one thick woolen mattress, one hammock, one deep China pan, one large piece of tarp, one espresso cooker and two leather bags.

One of them was containing the tools and other one was fulfilled with minimum of personal stuff,

Few t-shirts, one trousers, a few socks and underpants and a few books.

Most of this life equipment was attached behind the large seat. This very rudimentary conception of fathers materialism was serving to me as a comfortable seat during all these kilometers from one day when Paa took me for a ride.

Another fundamental aspect of his life was his job.

Father was famous.

Not at all in the newspapers, but between the people who considered art.

Yes, like Mother said, Father was a poet and he was carving his poetry in the marble of the riches palaces.

The only tools he was used to using, defined as it, were : one three hundred grams iron hummer, a few chromium chisels, the line markers and a few very old books preserved with extreme caution. The repair motor bike tools set and one cotton rag.

He had left one book to me when he left me too.

And evidently it was the poetry book. The poetries from one radical romantisme experience squeezed as a juice from the swollen fruity balls of one young french antihero. Revolted so that catharsis of the syntaxes and death to the immoral bourgeois stagnation over the life!

One morning I have confirmed by a discovery of Father's absence, one evident courageous decision concerning My! Finally, the way to Go!. It got done when I attached my stuff to the steering bar of the father's bike, when I jumped on the seat, when I turned the key in the starter and when I kicked that.

The engine has blown the Wharrrraaa! Of the eighty eight wild horses in power and enjoyed yelling and whistling of hundred of apaches and dakotas. I gripped with my hands the handlebars of the commands and I pushed the machine on to my road.

Finally alone.

The book from Father's offering as a memory, a souvenir of himself was only briefly touched by my hands when I found it in the bottom of my travel leather bag. I didn't want to open it.

It was lying on my right hand large opened and it was caressed with the fingers of the left hand. It was carved with the delicate letters giving me the first word to know and to learn.

With the virgin receptors of the fingers' skin, with the eyes watching in the fathers eyes, the word to learn...Rimbaud... I have read it with my fingers...

The letters pressed in the leather of the cover kept the entrance to one young poets grave.

I didn't open this book. I needed to get a taste of my own absolut freedom, from now on!

The book will be for later, for one day, when after loving a beauty I would feel bored of pleasure and felt on one post colonial coach and the sun will be heavy red like beware of the war explosion.

Was Father a rebel?

Mother was always laughing when she was talking about him. But it was a joyful laugh.

She was in love with him no matter how much she loved herself.

No, Father wasn't a rebel. All he was doing was to concern about himself.

His meditations, his spontaneous creations which were the products resulting from his permanent en going process of his imagination. His sweet craziness dancing on the clown face he was wearing to make me smile. All about him was distant and secretly bright.

My Father beloved the fire, it was his best friend. They were talking all nights. Father was opening one bottle of very good wine and the fire was making the size to stay all night. Father was seated on the mattress, drinking slowly from the bottle and hypnotizing the flames.

I was observing their conversations from my camp bed. The flames were softly rising while my fathers eyes were transforming their shapes.

Sometimes these eyes were becoming extremely shiny and the flames in the exciting trans were approaching them like if they needed to get consumed. Suddenly father had begun to touch the flames softly with his hands.

The flames seamed to be pleased playing with the fathers fingers caresses.

I've never try to understand what my father was saying to the fire. He was pronouncing words very different from those he used to exchange with me.

We have spent many, many nights sleeping somewhere in the desert or in the mountains or on the beaches. We were looking to stay far from the "civilisations". Father wasn't really teaching me any specific education, he was sharing with me all what he needed to share.

It meant that all his experience was to my disposition.

He was passing to me the books he finished reading. The books… father was finding them in every interesting city we were visiting - invading or in the rolling bookshops or in personal collections of his friends and the riches owners of the palaces of marble, which my father was carving with maestry and no mercy. These were ones of our fantastic missions, to find a good book and to get involved in a crazy party. He never asked about my impressions concerning the content of the books we were sharing in reading. We were only talking. Talking about everything and about everything he was showing to me.

He was launching the fire using two dry sticks. He was making the cactus and the trees leaking water to drink. And we were baking in the campfire ashes the simplest bread made out from the wild corn flour which father knew where to collect and how to grind them between two stones. He showed me how to fix the hidden mechanisms of his bike's engine. The fact is, this engine never needed to get fixed, but father was like a kid with the shiny tools in the hands saying to me with a doctor Jackyl smile " Let's check out how it works?!".

Everything this man was doing was vibrating the milliards of the thoughts creation.

Mother's life was much more calm, even if similarly to father's one it was a constant journey through the experiencing of consciousness. Mother wasn't drinking any wine. Her way to light the fire was much calmer and softer, when father exhaled a sadistic pleasure in breaking the thick dry branches. With mother I was laughing all about with joy, but father was a cruel joker. He was able to bark like a little funny dog in rage, to anyone who had a fatal idea to displease him. He was a genius in driving the cops into the exclusive performances of idiocracy.

I loved every one of the fire camps I have spent with him. I have never drunk from his wine. And I was watching him carving in the stone along the days. He didn't like to be observed while creating, so I had to hide myself in the proximity and lying behind any big rock ,in the bushes or on one huge branch, I was keeping one eye on him.

And I was listening to the sound of the hammer hitting the stone through the hardest point of the chisel. The song of his hummer was a song about our roots grown from the earth. This rhythm was tacting my thoughts which were gliding in to the extravagant abstractions. The only what my father took care to help me to develop, in reality, was my dreaming. " Never stop dreaming, never..." he used to say.

I was lying on one thick branch, the sun's favorite fragrance was a raisin of the pine apples and I was watching him using the line markers on the polished surface of the hard and shiny magma black stone. After that, he was going to design with one chromium chisel the letters, the words, the sentences, the concepts, the meanings, the metaphors and the truths... a poetry chiseled in the marble. And I was preparing my own to dreaming the next episodes of the creation of my universe, called by my Father " the grate I don't know..." And when the dry metallic sound of encounter with the hard stone had materialized in the regular rhythm of "tok, tok, tok"..."tok, tok, tok" my reverie seance had beginning to glow from the large screen of the blue sky.