Camila was the lady in my life, years and years ago, when I would live in Chile. She was my Rachel and I was her Deckard: we didn’t know how long we had together — my homesickness was just a preliminary disorder before I was, for the first time, labeled as bipolar —, though our love was, as we used to say, a gift from the sky. We used to travel South and North, where desert is made of rocks and rain never comes as well as where dense and enchanting evergreen forests of Eurocaria and Nothofagus scale the Andes until glaciers. I lost her because of the explosive occurrence of my sickness and the occasional, deleterious consumption of cocaine we used to make to counterattack the slow dismantling of our love. Once, at the end of 2018, after having come back to France, drapped in a mixture of melancholia and overexcitement, I spent days scanning all the digital pictures I had kept of our relationship: my flat was just a bath of tears. Will I one day go there and meet her again? Probably her wonderful eyes and smile will be the last things I will have in mind before I die.
There is no need lo hide or to lie: falling in love with such a gorgeous and young girl (she was 20 and I was 35 when we met) was just like heroin. We were a bit lost at the beginning and we didn’t know precisely how to act together but we would feel like two siamese cats. “We met in a previous life, didn’t we?”, she once asked me. Sex was wonderful and endlessly growing in intensity, frequency, quantity, and connivance. Most of all, we soon discovered we had the same tastes in music and cinema domains. Our love started just when Tame Impala was making his breakthrough with Lonerism and — oh this fate! — just before the Suede’s reemergence with (the Love Album) Bloodsports’ release. At night, I used to dress myself in classy clothes and imitate Suede’s frontman and singer Brett Anderson, playing at high volume “Filmstar” and “Beautiful Ones” — and she was laughing and laughing, fascinated by my clownish shows. The French friends I had in these times, today reduced to ashes, would criticize me for paedophilia and teenager traffic but, when Camila and I travelled to France in August ’13, they were all jealous, ignoring their boring partners and trying to attract Camila’s attention.
Scanning the discotheque on my computer and Suede’s videoclips on YouTube, Camila soon developped a fascination and attraction for Brett Anderson. We had a funny agreement: he was the only man in the world with whom she was authorised to be unfaithful. If I had stayed in Chile, I would have, without the shadow of a doubt, sooner or later discovered Fishbach (from her real name Flora Fischbach)’s music and “fallen in love” with her and the agreement would have become bilateral. But the story became dramatic: we separated, I quited Chile, drowned in deception and regrets and subsequently depression until I discovered, the 11th of February ’17, the music and person of Flora Fischbach and came up again. The whole planet knows I fell (have been) in love with her, especially after having met and chat with her a few times before she became really famous. But this is the kind of vain love that makes you crazier than you are and my bipolar disorder passed a threshold after I saw her and her band playing live four times in less than one month and a half. Camila and I were still in close contact in those times and Camila was showing a kind of nerviness for my new passion: “she looks older than she is”, she used to tell me. Had I found in Flora Fischbach a fanciful substitute or was the love deeply sincere? What followed is described everywhere in this blog: delusions, social network invasion with massive volumes of incoherent literature, harassment, and diffamatory interpretation of Fishbach’s music and media appearances. Am I still in love with Flora Fischbach? Of course I am; all my hypomanic–manic phases (but even parts of my depressive stages) since 2017 are characterized by dimensionless fascination and attraction for this person. She is part of my disease (though, part of my life and family too), for better or for worse. Furthermore, in one month her new album will be released; so many concerts are yet programmed. Because of the very slow internet connection in the clinic, I couldn’t book tickets for the concert in the showroom Le 106 in Rouen on 27th of April ’22 (coincidence? Exactly the same room and day in the calendar than in 2017…). On the phone, I asked my father to do it but he categorically refused, arguing that he was extremely afraid of a new manic, dement bend correlated with the Fishbach’s concert. Despite he just wants to protect me, it is very hard to feel like a constantly surveyed child and renounce to dreams of your life. Will I be perfectly stable exiting the clinic (and will I be able to exit the clinic in time) and, thus, in a suited state to be present at the concert? Or will I lose control one more time? Will History repeat herself? Should I forget Fishbach forever?
At the end, Camila and I have one meeting point in fantasies: Brett Anderson. I have been in love with Suede for well more than 25 years and this band truly saved my life at the end of the 1990’s when I was an ano–/orthorexic, pathologically obsessive, dangerously isolated marathonian stumbling on an edge over a deep pit of depression: guided by the glittering energy of Coming Up, I found the resources to start a new life. I am fundamentally heterosexual but I have to admit I have been in love with my hero and model in theatrical acting and culture since these strange times. He is probably the only man in the world with whom I could… Well, everybody understand.
True loves wait and last forever, sure?
Bipolaroid 