“My life is boring,” you shout. “Boooooring!” “Sure it is,” I say. “Judging by the way your arms stretch over your empty desk, head banging against it, your boredom measures exactly 220 cm. That's bad. What do you want?” “I want her, the woman on wire,” you say, sobbing. “Everyday she balances on the rope that's rigged between her two balconies through her goddamn living room that it drives me crazy to know just how she does it. She always acts on her gut feeling, but only with view to making monstrously rational analyses of everything. Goddamn everything.” “Are you saying balconies? Like in that Romeo&Juliet thing of a tragi-comic-romantic play, written by that queer guy? Well, go ask him, then. He'll tell you: these days, it ain't about climbing ropes up the balconies or hair strands. It's all about descending. From a balloon. A red balloon. It's in the swing. Vroom, in through the glass door, landing straight onto her goddamn wire, leaving the silk behind, gliding straight between her legs, leaving her astonished. It's all about physics, man, and numbers! The whole of 220. Two plus two is four, and if you add the zero on top, now there is a number, glissando, and gaussian, the whole four-point formula for functions, the law of magnetism kissed on its legs.” “Oh, you're here,” she'll say. “Good, let's fill this desk with a lot of clutter, and chatter, and chiming glasses of wine. We'll have Gauss wrap the balloon and tie the rope.” Today boredom vanishes as we smell the gunpowder on our hands.
(Note: in 1968, when Philippe Petit got the idea to walk the tightrope between the, then as yet unbuilt, Twin Towers, this is what he said: “it's not about conquering the universe, but, as a poet, about conquering beautiful stages.”)