© Michel Heitzmann - Let the bumble be

Fais-le pas sur mes couilles

Não pise no meu saco

The plane lands and makes it to the gate. Ping goes the speaker. In unison, passengers get up to deplane. They jam the aisle with carry-ons, kids, elbows, convinced that being first standers equals fast deplaning. My seat is always on an aisle. I wait seated. Inevitably, I get whacked by the coat, the bag, the butt.

It pisses me off. Not because of the coat.

I respect your space and expect the same back. That is not a complicated stance. It is the one I have held my entire life.

You can be a fucking lunatic if you want. I let you be.

That is, until you step on my testicle. Then I holler and let the fingers loose on the keyboard.

That defines me as a liberal. Yes! A liberal! A label which in America earns you a place in a hospice and which in Europe has been quietly removed from profiles, softened in meetings, replaced with “I tend to think” instead of “I believe.” I have watched people who hold exactly these values perform their own disappearing act unaware and often in slow motion.

Free from corporate handcuffs, I am now in overdrive.

A concrete example. My accountant told me I had a tax liability in Russia. Pre-Ukraine, but not pre-Putin. She admonished me with the grave consequences of not honoring it. I asked her to cook the books and gave the money to the Swiss government instead, as the alternative was funding something I consider indefensible.

Nobody noticed. That is often how convictions work. They show up in small, invisible acts that nobody applauds. They feel good.

© Michel Heitzmann - Am done

Others pay more for the same conviction. They emigrate. Or stay and go quiet. Many die.

Convictions are also useful in the collective. And on that front, we have our work cut out.

I am not making this up: some folks think that Switzerland needs a cap of ten million residents. Due process, enough signatures, it goes to a vote. A democracy deciding how many humans are allowed on our island. So far, I am arguing against this lunacy as polls indicate we are in a throw of dice moment.

I start with historical perspective: does anybody believe that a bunch of shepherds came down the mountain and figured out chocolate, watches and pharma? The answer is no — check Nestlé and Rolex.

Then the economics and genetic pool arguments. Foreigners pay taxes too. How do you think we got semi-decent at football? Have you checked the composition of the team lately, Frau Meier?

None of that registers with the people who signed the petition. I go for the absurd and wacky scenario. Imagine they win and the constitution is changed. By 204X, the country hits exactly ten million. And we will now, we count everything over here.

A baby is born. Shit — somebody quickly die, or we deport Shakheela or Granit. Perhaps even both to have some wiggle room.

Here we are, because of the constant noise, with fewer people who think.

Jemima Kelly wrote in the FT that liberals should be less shy about saying what they stand for. She is right. Shyness is not modesty. It is capitulation by installment. The salami slice-cutting applied to identity, one thin slice of self-censorship at a time, until one day one looks down and cannot find what one used to believe in. Compromises at work.

The world does not need more people who almost hold convictions. It needs normal people to make their point clear and resist a butt in their face.

The slicing is what the world does to you. The quiet is what you owe yourself.

Have you been sliced up lately to make others more comfortable?

The world is loud. Yours doesn’t have to be.

An app to help you take a step back is available on iOS and Android. The Quiet Frame gives you space to reconnect with the world and yourself. It is a window, perhaps an open door, to other cultures, nature and our planet. It is free for 7 days.

Check out the app

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© Michel Heitzmann - Le bourdon tient à ses choses

Note de style. Le français est une langue que trop aiment compliquer. Habitant à Paris, j’ai entendu, je n’écoutais pas, des tournures magnifiques, des phrases interminables, des discours ennuyeux. Franchement, c’est insupportable. Avec mes ados, nous parlons simple et à l’horreur de ma mère utilisons putain comme une ponctuation ou une pause pensante.

The Quiet Frame est ce que j’ai construit quand j’ai arrêté de lever la main. thequietframe.com

L’avion atterrit et rejoint le gate. Ding fait le haut-parleur. DU COUP (comme on dit en France), tous les passagers se hissent comme des cons pour débarquer. Ils bloquent l’allée avec leurs bagages à main, leur vestes et manteaux, leurs gosses effrénés, tous convaincus qu’en se levant, ils seront plus rapides au portillon. Mon siège est toujours couloir. J’attends assis en torturant l’impatiente assise au milieu qui morfle avec des soupirs. Je glande et inévitablement, me ramasse le manteau, le sac, un cul dans la gueule.

Putain, que ça m’fait chier. Pas à cause du cul.

Mais parce que moi, je respecte ton espace, ta place et j’attends la même chose en retour.

C’est pourtant pas compliqué, et j’y crois depuis toujours.

Tu peux être le dernier des cons si tu veux. L’emmerdeur chef. Le mec qui plante tout le monde. Le branleur. Je te laisse faire.

Jusqu’au moment où tu me piétines les couilles. Et là, je hurle.

Je suis un libéral, un humaniste. Des labels qui en Amérique te valent une place en hospice et qui en Europe ont été discrètement effacés des profils, disparus dans les séances, remplacés par « j’aurais tendance à penser » à la place de « je crois. » J’ai vu des mecs qui partagent mon avis s’effacer lentement sans s’en rendre compte, et au ralenti. Mais dis Hugues, je croyais, je fais. Ouais, mais tu vois, la-li-la-la-la.

Libre comme une mouche sur une merde, je me convertis en ayatollah du libéralisme. Je hurle au clavier dans l’espoir qu’on me lise. Et j’agis.

Anecdote. Ma comptable me signale que j’ai une dette fiscale en Russie. Je lui rétorque que je m’en fous et que je ne la solderai jamais. Elle, comptable et suissesse, pâlit. Elle me fait le topo Solzhénistine. Je la calme, et lui propose d’être créative pour que je paye le fisc suisse. Elle me trouve la combine, j’allonge et souris de ne pas avoir financé ces criminels odieux.

Personne n’a remarqué. Ce sont des valeurs, des convictions qui se manifestent dans des actes petits, invisibles, que personne n’applaudit mais qui font du bien.

© Michel Heitzmann - Fini. Je paye plus.

D’autres paient aussi en émigrant. Ou restent sur place et se taisent. Il y en a un paquet qui en meurent.

En Suisse, il y a des cons aussi et parfois ils se rassemblent et s’organisent.

Après l’interdiction de minarets, du voile porté par trois personnes dans tout le pays, voilà qu’à nouveau inspirés, ils brament NON à une Suisse de plus de dix millions d’habitants. Ok, je souriais jusqu’à ce qu’ils obtiennent les centaines de milliers de signatures pour que le peuple se prononce. Tu vois le topo ? Une phrase dans la constitution, noir sur blanc, dix millions et basta.

Le genre de connerie que tu vois dans un film quand le scénario bascule dans le macabre ou en Amérique. À l’instant, les sondages sont serrés.

Et j’explique. J’essaye l’argument historique, logique en posant la bonne question. Tu crois vraiment que les paysans sont descendus des pâturages pour inventer le chocolat, l’horlogerie ou créer des monstres pharmaceutiques ? Ça marche moyennement malgré les exemples de Nestlé et Rolex. J’insiste : les étrangers paient des impôts aussi. D’ailleurs ils sont souvent plus beaux que nous. Ça convainc à moitié.

Et finalement, comment tu crois que ça nous arrive de battre les Bleus de Mbappé ? T’as vérifié dernièrement la compo de l’équipe, Frau Meier ?

Aucun de ces arguments n’atteint les gens qui ont signé la pétition, donc je pousse pour que les gens votent.

Je leur fais ce topo : imagine qu’ils gagnent. D’ici 204X, la Suisse atteint exactement dix millions. Un bébé naît. Merde — quelqu’un doit se sacrifier, sinon on expulse Shakheela ou Granit. Voire les deux pour avoir une marge.

On en est là, parce que les gens sont de plus en plus noyés dans le bruit et réfléchissent pas assez.

Jemima Kelly a écrit dans le FT que les libéraux devraient être moins timides et dire ce qu’ils défendent. Elle a raison. Se taire, c’est pas être modeste. C’est une autocensure, une capitulation grave. Tu y crois, parle !

On n’a pas besoin de ceux qui ont presque des convictions. Il nous faut des braves, tout à fait normaux, qui refusent de se prendre un cul dans la gueule.

Et toi, tu fais quoi ?

The world is loud. Yours doesn’t have to be*.

*\Le monde est bruyant. Le tien ne doit pas forcément l’être.

\ Loi n° 94-665 du 4 août 1994 relative à l’emploi de la langue française, dite loi Toubon. Article 2 : l’emploi de la langue française est obligatoire dans toute publicité écrite, parlée ou audiovisuelle. On s’y plie car c’est un bon compromis.*

Une app pour t’aider à prendre du recul est disponible sur iOS et Android. The Quiet Frame te donne l’espace de te reconnecter au monde et à toi-même. C’est une fenêtre, peut-être une porte qui s’ouvre sur d’autres cultures, la nature et notre planète. Gratuit pendant 7 jours.

Mais oui, soyons curieux

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© Michel Heitzmann - O abelhão, sorte dele, não tem saco

O português é a fala da minha infância, adolescência, de alguns anos de trabalho e de grandes amizades de meio século.

Esses anos formativos são a antítese da minha vida profissional onde tive que me conformar para ter um mínimo de sucesso.

Minha brasileirada faz parte da minha personalidade. Aquela alegria. A cara de pau. As risadas. As injustiças. Os arrivistas. Os sem-vergonhas. O respeito. E o futebol decadente.

Hoje, não tou nem aí, e pergunto. Ouço, sem cinismo, sem pixar, para melhor compreensão.

Aprendi o português nos anos 70 quando estória era conto e história eram o conto dos colonizadores portugueses. Escrevo estórias por ser não conformista.

The Quiet Frame é o que construí quando parei de pedir licença. thequietframe.com

Não pise no meu saco.

O avião pousa e chega ao portão A52. Ouvimos o dingue. Impacientes, os passageiros se levantam para desembarcar. Sempre tem o idiota da janela que pede um bolso XXL para pô-lo nos joelhos. Enquanto isso, o corredor vira uma zona de bagagens de mão, casacos, piralhos gritantes, e cretinos de pé que acham que sairão mais rápido. Minha poltrona é sempre no corredor. Espero sentado olhando a mulher do meio ficar lívida por minha falta de ação. Inevitavelmente, levo o casaco, a bolsa, e uma bunda na cara.

Essas situações são previsíveis e se repetem a cada voo e porém elas me irritam. Não é a bunda ou o cutuque constante. É o ataque ao meu espaço físico. E também mental.

Eu respeito o seu espaço e sempre espero que você respeite o meu. Não é complicado e é a minha convicção de décadas.

Olha, cê pode ser um babaca se quiser, um corta-tesão, um evangelista e até um republicano da Flórida. Eu não tou nem aí, até cê me atingir na minha liberdade de ser e pisar no meu saco

Quando acontece, eu berro de viva voz ou com o teclado.

Sou um liberal com uma forte tendência verde. Liberal no sentido político-econômico de laissez-faire e do lado humano de estar pouco me importando daquilo que os outros pensam. Deixei de julgar aqueles que ainda acreditam ou são capazes de matar por causa de contos milenares.

O meu lado verde não é inspirado do dólar mas sim do sistema que nos dá vida, ou seja, a natureza. Salve a natureza sambou Beth Carvalho na minha infância (procure no Spotify, vale a pena, “não desmate o nosso chão porque ele é a nossa riqueza…vi comício, ouvi promessa, mas eu não vi firmeza”).

Agora, ser liberal é difícil. No mundo corporativo eu percebo que a muitos falta coragem e eles constroem frases de fazer avaliações, de proceder com cautela, de inação. Cadê o pessoal que acredita? Vi gente que pouco a pouco para preservar perde até a personalidade.

Lutar contra essa moleza é minha missão.

Anedota. Minha contadora me indicou que eu carregava uma dívida fiscal na Rússia. Pré-Ucrânia, mas não pré-Putin. Ela me explicou as graves consequências de não honrar a dívida. Mas nem que a vaca tussa, ache um jeito pra não financiar esses merdas. Ela achou e acabei pagando a dívida à nossa ilustre confederação helvética. Ninguém reparou e tudo bem.

© Michel Heitzmann - Perdão, mas deixei a minha carteira em casa

É assim que as convicções funcionam. Aparecem em atos pequenos, invisíveis, que ninguém aplaude. Mas fazem bem.

Outros pagam bem mais por convicções. Migram. Ou ficam e se calam. E tem um monte que morre por convicção.

Temos que lutar para preservar o nosso espaço e convicções.

Um exemplo da minha vizinhança. Tem idiota por aqui que acha que a Suíça precisa de um teto de dez milhões de habitantes. O argumento é que não temos os recursos para ter mais quando na realidade é racismo e chauvinismo para preservar o cartão postal. Fizeram o processo legal, conseguiram assinaturas suficientes, e a resolução vai ao voto. Se passar muda a constituição. As pesquisas indicam que a probabilidade de cataclisma é real.

E lá vou eu a explicar com perguntas incisivas. Você realmente acha que um bando de pastores desceu da montanha e inventou o chocolate, os relógios e a indústria farmacêutica? A resposta sendo não, vieram de fora — e há séculos. Continuam a vir para a nossa glória nacional como a Nestlé ou a Rolex.

Aí vai o argumento econômico: olha que o estrangeiro também paga imposto. E finalmente o genético: como cê acha que podemos ganhar da França enquanto o Brasil não consegue? Frau Meier, confere a escalação da nossa seleção com atenção detalhada no meio-campo e ataque. Peraí, na zaga tem o Akanji e o Rodriguez.

Nenhum desses argumentos convence os que assinaram a petição. Aí eu vou no absurdo.

Imagina que a resolução vire constituição. Em 204X, o país chegará exatamente a dez milhões de habitantes. É inevitável. Um bebê nasce. E aí, a gente faz o quê? Alguém vai ter que se sacrificar, ou teremos que deportar a Luiza ou o Granit. Quem sabe até os dois, pra ter uma margemzinha.

Chegamos a esses absurdos porque nesse caos constante, diarreia de informação, e avalanche de vídeos a gente não tem tempo para pensar.

Jemima Kelly escreveu no FT que os liberais deveriam ser menos tímidos e defender aquilo que acreditam. Ela tem razão. O que vivemos é uma capitulação frente àqueles que são organizados. E nós, com uma fatia de autocensura de cada vez, calamos as nossas convicções e perdemos a noção do que acreditamos.

Precisamos de gente normal que pense, se recuse a ser atropelada e que tenha a coragem de agir.

Concorda, ou você também se deixou levar pelo caos?

O mundo é barulhento. O seu não precisa ser. (The world is loud. Yours doesn’t have to be)

Um app pra te ajudar a dar um passo atrás está disponível no iOS e Android. The Quiet Frame te dá espaço pra se reconectar com o mundo e consigo mesmo. É uma janela, talvez uma porta aberta, para outras culturas, a natureza e o nosso planeta. Gratuito por 7 dias e em português do Brasil.

Vou dar uma olhada

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© Michel Heitzmann - A lunatic looks up

The moon runs things.

Entire ecosystems release eggs simultaneously on the same full moon, coordinated across hundreds of kilometers of ocean. Sea turtles find their beaches by it. Dung beetles walk in straight lines by it. Plankton migrate through the ocean every month in response to the light of a rock 380,000 kilometers away. Lions hunt differently around it. Moths evolved to fly by it. For humans, the moon is a god, a planet, a timekeeper, and a calendar. The Greeks had Selene, the Romans Luna, the Hindus Chandra, the Japanese Tsukuyomi.

The Aztecs saw fertility and rebirth, and the Chinese have a Moon Festival every autumn rooted in the belief that a woman lives there along with the Jade Rabbit. That one makes sense to me as I divorced twice.

Every civilization builds around the moon because it tracks human reproduction as much as it tracks seasons.

Easter weekend? The church used the moon because the pilgrims needed its light to travel at night on the first Sunday after the first full moon after the spring equinox. A 1,700-year-old algorithm, still running, albeit confusing us all when the Julian tribe (orthodox) went one way and the Gregorian (Rome) one the other.

Humans went indoors with candles and LED. The body kept the rhythm but we might not notice anymore. The language though kept the memory as in lunatics along menstruating loonies talk lunacy every Monday of every month. Same with lundi or lunes.

At time of publication four humans are flying towards the Moon in a capsule the size of a large shower. The engineering is extraordinary. I did not care much until the press office spoke. For all humanity.

Give me a break. Humanity was not consulted. The Artemis program is a $100 billion thing. Humanity is $350 million short of feeding children in the Congo. UNICEF just took a 20% budget cut. The World Food Programme needs $16.9 billion to feed 123 million people for a year.

The entire annual funding for conservation work is about $3 billion. One Artemis launch $4 billion: some lunatics need to hurry before the Chinese.

The moon has been for all of us, every insomniac, farmer, sailor, coral polyp, dung beetle, plant and my dogs for 4.5 billion years.

I went outside with one of my cameras. If that makes me a loonie, I am in good company.

The world is loud. Yours doesn’t have to be.

Full disclosure: I did not put a cent in the Artemis program and am human but neither Chinese nor American.

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© Michel Heitzmann - Thunder and Slick, characters in the story

En français

Em português

The first time was not dramatic.

Columbia University, 1984. I was broke. My girlfriend, later the mother of two of my children, got me a job at a Barnes & Noble downtown. A few dollars an hour. Simple task: take a cart of books, put them back on the shelves. Alphabetically.

My alphabet fell apart after N. My English was worse. The manager gave me less than an hour before she showed me the door. Never got paid.

I took the subway back up to the dorm. Relieved.

The ones that followed were better paid. Each exit came with a severance and a jump to a higher salary somewhere else. I treated it as a system. Get fired, land higher. It worked until 2008, when the whole thing collapsed and I ended up bankrupt.

At some point I needed money badly enough to take a job in Siberia. They asked if I wanted an exploratory trip first. I said no. I knew if I saw the place I would not go.

I landed.

Novosibirsk. Six hours behind Europe. Nine with flights from Geneva when they were flights. So far from anything that the American Minuteman missiles were theoretically unable to reach it. For them it was just where their parents and grandparents had been sent to work. Or had chosen to go. The distinction mattered to them.

For me it was another planet.

A man from Vladivostok asked me, sometime in the first weeks, what I liked best about the city.

Without hesitation: the airport.

That became the joke for four years.

Siberia turned out to be a blessing. Being broken in a place that foreign to everything meant there was nothing to perform for. No context that knew the previous version of me. Just a man doing a job in a faraway city.

In Siberia people like dogs. They walk them without collecting the shit. Then it snows. The snow never melts. Passageways get carved through it, and after a while you are walking on sidewalks a meter above where they should be. Spring comes, the snow melts, and it is like a mille-feuilles of shit being revealed over days with an olfactory ≈

© Michel Heitzmann - Seriously a lot of snow

It is hard to explain minus thirty, minus forty. Minus forty is the same number on both scales. That is the only time Europeans and Americans agree on how cold it is.

I tried to reproduce the sensation at home. Stepped out of the shower, still wet, ran to the freezer and turned on a fan next to it. Close. But not the same. At minus thirty, you cry and the tears freeze.

To be fair, outside the Soviet cities, Siberia is National Geographic stuff.

I found a bottle of Evian on the supermarket shelf one afternoon. Stopped. Felt something close to home.

Then I thought about the carbon cost of shipping French spring water to western Siberia.

I kept buying it anyway. PET bottles in the trash. Every time.

The last firing was different. Retired early. No bounce. No next offer waiting. I was the one who could not understand the new stuff, apparently. Just the end of something, with no structure to absorb it. Out of Paris, back home.

That one I had to sit with.

And sitting with it I realized something uncomfortable: I had never actually processed any of the others. I had just moved. Each time I stored and jumped. Grief on a schedule. The pace protected me from noticing what I was carrying.

I was left watching the grass grow and mowing it down.

The evenings helped. Four drinks, maybe. I was never an alcoholic, I reckon. It doesn’t matter. I was looking forward to it. It made me come alive. Always the “good” stuff. Made me feel like myself.

That is worth pausing on.

If you need four drinks to feel like yourself in the evenings, there is something you are not feeling during the day.

I did not ask that question at the time.

The house was large and empty. It had been a family house. Then it was just mine.

I put a wooden bike in the living room. A rowing machine next to it. Both barely used. They look pretty. No compromises. I did what I wanted with the place. The space became what I actually wanted, not what was expected of it.

Slick came first. We are attached in the way that embarrasses people who have not had a dog. When I leave he gets angry. When I am out I rush back. He is a Belgian Malinois. This detail is relevant.

Thunder was almost not mine. Slick’s nephew, also a Malinois. My sister had reserved him from the same woman who sold me Slick — a cashier at a supermarket somewhere in Southern France who knew how to raise animals. My sister changed her mind.

I went with my daughter to collect him. We brought Slick. He met his mother again. He was surrounded by the whole litter and did not know what to do with himself. Overwhelmed. My daughter too. She wanted to take two of them home. She settled on Thunder.

The rest is history, the best part.

Both knees gave out after the dog walks. The surgeon suggested replacing both simultaneously. I said fine. Turns out nobody does that. He mentioned it in recovery, casually, that it had gone well. It was only the second time he had done both legs. The first had apparently also gone well.

Nobody under fifty understands why you would do this voluntarily. Everyone over fifty understands immediately.

I was immobile for weeks. In that stillness, I stopped drinking. No decision. No drama. I was afraid of falling. I needed my senses. So I stopped.

(I do not miss it at all.)

My teenage son moved in without announcing it. He just started being there more. A supermarket carton full of clothes at the time. Then he was just there. I did not ask why. I think I already knew.

I had become calmer. Probably more fun to be around.

That is the whole story, compressed. Not the firings. Not Siberia. Not the drinking. Not the knees. The thing underneath all of it: I got quieter, and the people I love moved closer.

There is a lot of advice about resilience. About bouncing back. About reframing.

None of it is wrong. None of it is the point either.

The only way through grief is with people who ask you the questions you are not asking yourself. During my coaching training there were tears, difficult sessions, and friendships that felt unavoidable. That is where the processing happened. The witches call it healing.

Decades late. But it happened.

Everything has its right time. Unless you are already dead. So hurry. Quietly.

What are you carrying that you have been too busy jumping to put down?

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© Michel Heitzmann - Thunder e Slick que aparecem na estória

O português é a fala da minha infância, adolescência, de alguns anos de trabalho e de grandes amizades de meio século.

Esses anos formativos são a antítese da minha vida profissional onde tive que me conformar para ter um mínimo de sucesso.

Minha brasileirada faz parte da minha personalidade. Aquela alegria. A cara de pau. As risadas. As injustiças. Os arrivistas. Os sem-vergonhas. O respeito. E o futebol decadente.

Hoje, não tou nem ai, e pergunto. Ouço, sem cinismo, sem pixar, para melhor compreensão.

Aprendi o português nos anos 70 quando estória era conto e história eram o conto dos colonizadores portugueses. Escrevo estórias por ser não conformista.

The Quiet Frame é o que construí quando parei de pedir licença. thequietframe.com

Levei cartão vermelho, cartões vermelhos seis vezes na minha vida profissional. Rua.

A primeira vez foi cômico.

Nova Iorque. Columbia University. Paquerando fiquei duro. Minha namorada, e agora a mãe de dois dos meus filhos, me mandou a uma livraria na Manhattan burguesa onde ela tinha me conseguido um emprego. Alguns dólares por hora.

Missão simples: pegar um carrinho cheio de livros e colocá-los na prateleira em ordem alfabética.

Meu alfabeto desmoronava depois do N. A gerente me observou meia hora, e ai colocou a mão no meu ombro e falou bye. Eu quis reclamar a grana dos quinze minutos trabalhados mas com péssimo inglês e sendo ilegal, me calei.

Peguei o metrô de volta para o dormitório.

As demissões que vieram depois foram mais rentáveis. Cada saída era acompanhada de uma indenização e um salto de salário e em responsabilidade. Um mecanismo que eu fingi estar dominando: ser demitido, aterrissar, mais alto e melhor. Funcionou até 2008, quando tudo desabou com a bolsa e eu fali. Mãe, me empresta uma grana.

Estando bem na merda, aceitei um emprego na Sibéria. Eles ofereceram uma viagem exploratória que rejeitei sabendo que se eu visse o lugar não aceitaria.

Aterrissei na puta que pariu, num mundo insólito e feio.

Novossibirsk, centro de pesquisa soviético longe de tudo para que os mísseis Minuteman americanos não a alcançassem, fica a seis fusos da Europa, nove horas de voo passando por Moscou de Genebra quando os voos existiam.

Hoje, graças a um filho da puta de presidente é bem mais complicado fazer o trajeto inclusive com escalas em países que cê nem sabe que existem. Não que eu me aventure após caracterizar o sujeito corretamente na frase anterior.

Voltando no tempo, pra mim foi tudo insólito, surrealista e uma piada. Pra eles era a realidade, já que se não eram filhos dos deportados eram de algum ilustre em física ou matemática.

Um cara de Vladivostok (fica ao norte da Coreia do Norte quando a puta que pariu chega ao Pacífico do lado do Japão) me perguntou nas primeiras semanas o que eu mais gostava na cidade. Sem hesitar: o aeroporto. Virou piada por quatro anos.

A Sibéria acabou sendo uma bênção, porque estar destruído num lugar tão longe de tudo significava que minha versão anterior simplesmente não existia, só um cara fazendo seu trabalho numa cidade distante. Não exatamente. Eu era um dos três estrangeiros numa cidade de um milhão, virei, sem querer, celebrity. Um outro era um peruano chefe de manutenção da linha aérea local que eu rapidamente deixei de usar. O terceiro, um financeiro inglês escondido dos britânicos após cometer fraude.

É difícil explicar menos 30, menos 40. Tentei reproduzir em casa saindo do chuveiro ainda molhado e pelado correndo pro congelador com um ventilador ligado do lado. Quase, mas não é igual, porque com menos trinta você chora e as lágrimas congelam. A cara doi.

Os siberianos passeiam cachorros como qualquer um, mas sem recolher a bosta.

E aí vem neve e nunca derrete naqueles seis meses de frio, abrem-se passagens por ela e depois de um tempo você anda em calçadas um metro acima de onde elas realmente estão.

© Michel Heitzmann - Como tem neve!

As temperaturas vão ao positivo quando cê já não acredita que seja possível. A neve derrete repentinamente mas com tanta neve compacta, o gotejamento demora semanas. E acontece o fenômeno fedido do mil-folhas de merda desaparecendo aos poucos com milhões de moscas. Chega a primavera.

Agora, fora das cidades soviéticas, a Sibéria é National Geographic. Assunto pra outro dia.

A última demissão foi na França, outro lugar que eu adoro pixar mas não agora. Aposentadoria precoce me disseram.

Tentei mas fiquei sem rebote, sem próxima oferta, o cara sentado no banco de reservas num jogo que tinha acabado. Saí de Paris, voltei à Suíça com a mente em caos.

Sem distração do cotidiano executivo, percebi que nunca tinha processado todos os efeitos de rejeições contínuas.

A casa é grande, tinha sido de família, agora é só minha. Coloquei uma bicicleta de madeira na sala com um remo do lado, os dois quase sem uso, mas são lindos.

Slick chegou primeiro. A gente é apegado de um jeito que constrange os que nunca tiveram cachorro. Quando saio ele fica bravo, quando estou fora, me apresso de voltar.

Thunder quase não foi meu. Sobrinho do Slick, também um Malinois. Minha irmã tinha reservado ele na mesma senhora que me vendeu o Slick. Uma caixeira de supermercado perdida no interior que sabia criar animais.

Minha irmã mudou de ideia e fui buscar a fera com minha filha e o Slick. Num encontro carinhoso com a mãe e a irmã, ele ficou sem jeito com tanto cachorrinho entre as patas. Apelei à razão quando minha filha quis levar dois e ela escolheu o Thunder que a tinha escolhido.

Me vi olhando a grama crescer e cortando ela. Tendo mil ideias uma mais cretina que a outra. Bebi e bem talvez pra não reconhecer a derrota emocional.

Aí os dois joelhos cederam depois das caminhadas com os cachorros. O cirurgião sugeriu trocar os dois simultaneamente e eu concordei sem debater nem perguntar nada.

Após a operação, ele revelou na sala de recuperação que era a segunda vez que tinha ousado cortar duas pernas simultaneamente. Fui verificar no Google, e é verdade que ninguém em sã consciência faz isso.

Fiquei imóvel por semanas e naquele silêncio, com medo de cair, parei de beber. Sem drama algum, simplesmente eu precisava de todos os meus sentidos. Então parei pra nunca mais recomeçar.

Meu filho adolescente se mudou pra casa sem avisar. Começou só a estar mais por aqui. Uma caixa de papelão de supermercado cheia de roupa foi a primeira até que depois de várias micro mudanças, ele mora comigo. Não perguntei por quê. Acho que eu sei.

Eu sou um cara bem mais agradável que fui.

É essa a estória que eu quero contar. Não aquela das demissões, nem da cachaça, e tampouco dos joelhos.

Tem muito guru, muitas igrejas e pentelhação sobre resiliência, sobre como se reerguer e se ressignificar.

O único caminho pelo luto é com pessoas que te fazem as perguntas difíceis e ficam quando as lágrimas chegam. São as amizades que me ajudaram a despertar.

Tudo tem sua hora certa. A não ser que cê já esteja morto: se apresse com tranquilidade.

E agora eu te pergunto:

O que você anda carregando e fingindo que não existe?

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© Michel Heitzmann - Thunder et Slick, les fidèles

Note de style. Le français est une langue que trop aiment compliquer. Habitant à Paris, j’ai entendu, je n’écoutais pas, des tournures magnifiques, des phrases interminables, des discours ennuyeux. Franchement, c’est insupportable. Avec mes ados, nous parlons simple et à l’horreur de ma mère utilisons putain comme une ponctuation ou une pause pensante.

The Quiet Frame est ce que j’ai construit quand j’ai arrêté de lever la main. thequietframe.com

Viré six fois dans ma carrière.

La première fois, c’était drôle.

New York. Columbia University. Je claquais plus que j’avais. Ma nana, plus tard la mère de deux des miens, me décroche un job dans une librairie en bas de Manhattan. Quelques dollars de l’heure. Mission simple : prendre un chariot de bouquins et les remettre en rayon. Dans l’ordre alphabétique.

Mon alphabet s’effondrait après le N. Mon anglais était pire. La boss m’a observé moins d’une heure avant de prendre le balai. Je me souviens encore comme elle m’a pris les livres de la main et m’a remercié, d’ailleurs sans me payer le quart d’heure sué.

J’ai repris le métro jusqu’à la fac. Soulagé.

Les suivants épisodes étaient mieux payés. Chaque départ venait avec une indemnité et un saut de salaire ailleurs. J’avais fait un système. Se faire virer, atterrir plus haut. Ça marchait jusqu’en 2008, quand tout s’est effondré et que je me suis retrouvé sans thune.

J’ai accepté un job en Sibérie. Ils m’ont proposé un voyage exploratoire d’abord. J’ai dit non. Je savais que si je voyais le village je refuserais.

J’ai atterri.

Novossibirsk. Six heures derrière l’Europe. Neuf de Genève quand il y avait des vols. Quel enfoiré, leur président.

Si loin de tout que les missiles Minuteman américains ne pouvaient théoriquement pas l’atteindre. Pour moi c’était insolite. Pour eux c’était la réalité de leurs parents, souvent des mathématiciens, physiciens et tous les autres métiers qui font vivre ces derniers.

Un collègue de Vladivostok m’a demandé, les premières semaines, ce que j’aimais le mieux dans la ville.

Sans hésiter : l’aéroport.

Ça a été la blague pendant quatre ans.

La Sibérie s’est révélée une bénédiction. Être perdu dans un endroit aussi loin de tout, ça voulait dire qu’aucun contexte ne connaissait la version précédente de moi. Juste un mec qui faisait son boulot dans une ville lointaine. Un des cinq étrangers dans une ville d’un million. Tout le monde me disait bonjour sans que je sache de qui il s’agissait.

En Sibérie les gens aiment les chiens un peu comme tout le monde. Ils les promènent mais, détail, sans ramasser la merde. Puis il neige. La neige ne fond jamais car, tu l’as deviné, il fait froid. On creuse des passages dedans, et au bout d’un moment on marche sur des trottoirs un mètre au-dessus de là où ils furent.

Le printemps arrive, la neige fond, et c’est un mille-feuilles de merde qui se révèle sur plusieurs jours avec la bande olfactive.

© Michel Heitzmann - Encore de la neige

Pour le froid, c’est indescriptible. Comment expliquer un moins 30, voir 40. Faisons simple. Moins quarante, c’est le même chiffre sur les deux échelles. C’est le seul moment où les Européens et les Américains s’entendent. Quel enfoiré, l’autre président.

Plus bas, essaye de te foutre une fois sorti de la douche, toujours à poil dans ton congélateur, et oublie pas de brancher un ventilateur industriel à côté.

Faut dire qu’en dehors des villes soviétiques, la Sibérie c’est du National Geographic.

J’ai trouvé de l’Evian sur l’étagère du supermarché un après-midi. Je me suis arrêté. Quelque chose comme un sentiment d’être chez moi car c’est l’eau du lac.

Puis j’ai pensé au bilan carbone d’expédier de l’eau en Sibérie occidentale.

S’en fout. J’en ai acheté quand même. Bouteille PET à la poubelle. À chaque fois.

Le dernier licenciement était différent. Mis à la retraite anticipée. Pas de rebond. Pas d’offre suivante. J’étais apparemment un mec “incapable de comprendre” les nouvelles tendances. Juste la fin de quelque chose, sans structure pour amortir. Hors de Paris, retour en Suisse.

Vlan !

Et en le digérant j’ai réalisé quelque chose d’inconfortable : je n’avais jamais vraiment traité les autres échecs. J’avais juste bougé. À chaque fois je stockais et je sautais. Le deuil sur agenda. Le rythme me protégeait de remarquer ce que je portais.

La maison est grande et vide. Ça avait été une maison de famille. Maintenant c’est juste la mienne.

J’ai mis un vélo en bois dans le salon. Un rameur à côté. Les deux à peine utilisés mais ils sont beaux. Aucun compromis nécessaire. L’espace est devenu ce que je voulais vraiment, pas ce qu’on attendait de lui.

Slick est arrivé en premier. On est attachés d’une façon qui gêne les gens qui n’ont jamais eu de chien. Quand je pars il se fâche. Quand je suis dehors je rentre en vitesse.

Thunder était presque pas le mien. Le neveu de Slick, aussi un Malinois. Ma sœur l’avait réservé chez la même dame qui m’avait vendu Slick, une caissière chez un Intermarché paumé dans les Alpes Provençales, qui savait élever des animaux. Ma sœur a changé d’avis. Je suis allé le chercher avec ma fille et Slick. Lui, il a retrouvé sa mère. Il était entouré de toute la portée et débordé. Ma fille voulait en prendre deux. Elle a choisi finalement Thunder. Ou peut-être l’inverse.

Le reste. La meilleure partie.

Je me suis retrouvé à regarder l’herbe pousser et à la tondre.

Les soirées aidaient. Quatre verres, peut-être. J’ai jamais été alcoolique, je crois. Ça change rien. Je les attendais. Ça me faisait revivre. Toujours les “bons” produits. Je me sentais enfin moi-même.

Ça mérite un stop.

Si t’as besoin de quatre verres le soir pour te sentir toi-même, c’est qu’il y a quelque chose que tu ne ressens pas pendant la journée.

Je me posais pas la question.

Puis les deux genoux ont lâché après les promenades avec les chiens. Le chirurgien a proposé de remplacer les deux simultanément. J’ai dit d’accord. Personne fait ça. J’ai vérifié sur Google après qu’il m’ait glissé en salle de réveil que c’était la deuxième fois qu’il le faisait.

Je me traînais pendant des semaines. Dans ce silence, j’ai arrêté de boire. Pas de décision. Pas de drame. J’avais peur de tomber. J’avais besoin de tous mes moyens. Alors j’ai arrêté.

(Je ne regrette pas du tout.)

Mon fils ado a emménagé sans l’annoncer. Il commençait juste à être là plus souvent. Un carton de supermarché plein de slips et fringues assortis. Puis il était juste là. Je n’ai pas demandé pourquoi. Je crois que je savais déjà.

Je suis calme maintenant. Probablement moins désagréable à côtoyer.

C’est tout ce conte, en synthèse. Pas les licenciements, la bibine, les sibériens, les genoux. On s’en fout mais les gens que j’aime se sont rapprochés.

Il y a tellement de gourous qui pipeautent sur la résilience, rebondir, se recadrer les choses. On s’en fout aussi.

Mais.

Ça ne se traverse qu’avec des gens qui te posent les questions auxquelles tu veux pas répondre. J’y suis passé avec des larmes, des séances difficiles, et des amitiés chiantes et inévitables. Des décennies en retard, me voici.

Tout arrive au bon moment. Sauf si t’es déjà mort. Alors, dépêche-toi. Doucement.

Et toi, tu portes encore un fardeau et que tu fais semblant qu’il n’existe pas?

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Yesterday I grew exasperated by the quality of my LinkedIn feed.

A reasonable reaction would have been to prune what I follow to get relevant content. I do not know how to do that in bulk and found it more fun to come up with a taxonomy of LinkedIn archetypes that I shared here: https://bit.ly/linkedin-bullshit

It turned out to be an introspective exercise. It showed I was as guilty as everyone else and felt the duty to change my pseudo-confident tagline to a humbler “Building quiet things. Perhaps, relevant.”

Low on expectations, dopamine overdose. My subscriber count exploded with other bored folks on a Sunday afternoon.

Behind the satire, though, there is a point. The world is loud. Yours doesn’t have to be.

To see clearly, you have to pause and observe. If I can avoid creating more noise, that is a first step. (I am aware that I am writing a newsletter article.)

Deprived of Premier League action, it occurred to me that building a tool that converts mundane facts into LinkedIn posts might prove how noisy the world really is.

So I did: thequietframe.com/linkedin-bullshit Here are the instructions:

1. Input a mundane fact.

2. Click generate.

3. See the nonsense generated by AI.

4. Do what you want with it. Nobody sees what you type. The data is deleted. Unless you share.

P.S.: To test the thing, I entered: I was constipated and finally took a shit this morning.

© Michel Heitzmann - These are cows, actually, statues of cows in Dallas, TX

LinkedIn is noise. Extraordinary, relentless, self-congratulatory noise. Everyone is broadcasting. Nobody is listening. The feed moves and moves and nothing actually happens. I have been trying to understand what any of it is for and the best I can come up with is this: it makes people feel like they exist. Which is fine. We all need that. But there are quieter ways.

I also suspect that a meaningful portion of the reactions are not reactions at all. They are transactions. Someone tapping a thumbs up out of pure pity, quietly hoping the poster will notice and return the favour. A vast informal economy of reciprocal validation running just below the surface of every post. You scratch my ego, I'll scratch yours.

Which brings me to the content itself.

Advertising. In the time it took me to write the previous paragraph, I scrolled past a bank, some people claiming expertise in energy management, another bank, yet another bank, a social media agency, a fourth bank, a wealth office, an office real estate company and a man who wants to optimise my finances. How can this possibly be effective? I could, purely in the spirit of charity, click on every single ad and help the poor soul at each of those companies dress up a PowerPoint slide about campaign performance. The reality is that none of it moves me in the slightest. It looks less like targeting and more like carpet bombing. Throw enough at the wall and call the one thing that sticks a strategy.

The Joy Reporters. This week I visited a supplier. The atmosphere was remarkable. There was a clear intention behind how the space was built and run. I felt things. Two hundred people reacted. The Joy Reporter does not need news. They need a feeling, something that happened, a moment of human connection that can be stretched into two hundred words and a lesson. The supplier visit. The coffee with a former colleague. The afternoon walk that changed everything. The point is never the supplier.

The Wisdom Dispensers. Being present does not mean being available to everyone all of the time. That is the whole post. Bold font, a line break for dramatic effect, two million impressions. The Wisdom Dispenser has understood something the rest of us have not: the shorter the insight, the less you can argue with it. Nobody can disagree with a sentence that means four different things depending on your mood.

The Concerned Citizens. An old proverb says: when a fool is given a throne, the throne does not gain dignity, the room loses it. Fifty comments. Twelve reposts. The Concerned Citizen does not need to propose a solution. They need a metaphor, a quote from someone dead, and enough ambiguity that the post works regardless of which side of the argument you are on. Half the feed is posting about how the world is ending. The other half is posting about how it is finally being fixed. Both are talking about the same person. Neither is changing a single vote. They are performing for an audience that already agrees with them. Someone is genuinely worried about the Strait of Hormuz closing. If the people directly involved cannot solve it, I am not sure what we are expecting the LinkedIn crowd to do about it.

The Planet Savers. Somewhere in Southeast Asia, a landscape that had been stripped bare for decades came back to life without any human intervention whatsoever. 🌱NATURE First. 🌱 Zero INTERFERENCE. 🌱 The Power of a CLICK. Change your default search engine. The Planet Saver has found a way to save the world that costs them nothing and takes about four minutes to write. The leaf emoji is doing the moral heavy lifting.

The AI Evangelists. AI is going to change everything. AI is going to take your job. AI is going to cure cancer. AI is going to end humanity. AI made me write this post in four minutes. The AI Evangelist discovered the technology sometime in the last two years and has been processing the experience publicly ever since. Every week brings a new list: the ten prompts that will transform your workflow, the five AI tools you are not using but should be, the one thing ChatGPT told them that their therapist never could. The posts are confident, urgent, and always slightly breathless. They read like someone who just got off a rollercoaster and needs you to know it was fast. Somewhere, an AI crawler is already ingesting all of it, learning the pattern, and preparing to generate ten more just like it by now.

The Achievement Announcers. New office in the city centre. From the kitchen table, to a borrowed desk, to this. The journey. The hustle. The emoji of a person lifting weights for reasons nobody has explained. A prestigious consulting firm in the bio, because what you used to be is at least as important as what you are now. Actually, on LinkedIn, it is more important. The ex-badge is the whole point. Former top-tier bank. Former big-four consultancy. Former household tech name, working backwards through a career like a greatest hits tour that peaked some years ago.

The Title Hoarders. Founder | Board Advisor | UN Expert | Global Forum Delegate | Committee Member | AI Strategist | Award Recipient 2023. Seven roles, three acronyms nobody can expand, one award from a body that also gave out four hundred other awards that year. Then there is the category of person who lists every prestigious institution they have ever been adjacent to in their headline, just in case you missed it the first time. And the subset who describe themselves as Highly Skilled, Visionary, Bang-on, Fantastic and Passionate, every adjective self-applied, not one awarded by another human being.

The Formula People. LinkedIn has quietly produced an entire genre of headline that follows the exact same structure: I help [group] [verb] their [noun] so they can [dream]. I help professionals break through their limiting beliefs so they can build the career they actually deserve. I help teams do more without hiring more. I help people look forward to the week ahead. Someone promised to fix the relationship people have with Monday mornings. On a professional network. And thousands connected with them.

The Cosmic Ones. Exploring the next frontier of human consciousness through technology, creativity and ancient wisdom. Regenerative thinking meets indigenous knowledge systems. Bridging quantum possibility with grounded organisational practice. At some point the headline stopped being a job description and became a spiritual manifesto. I have enormous respect for the ambition. I have no idea what any of these people actually do on a Tuesday.

After writing all of the above I looked at my own LinkedIn headline. It said: I connect leadership, AI and sustainability so we can stay clear and act on what's next. I had apparently been one of them the whole time. A Formula Person with delusions of clarity.

I considered changing it to Former Award-Winning Bullshitter. Then I thought better of it as there is an award mentioned.

It now says: Building quiet things. Perhaps, relevant.

I'm still thinking about whether that's any better. But at least it's honest.

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© Michel Heitzmann - Aldeia imaginária na neblina

O português é a fala da minha infância, adolescência, de alguns anos de trabalho e de grandes amizades de meio século.

Esses anos formativos são a antítese da minha vida profissional onde tive que me conformar para ter um mínimo de sucesso.

Minha brasileirada faz parte da minha personalidade. Aquela alegria. A cara de pau. As risadas. As injustiças. Os arrivistas. Os sem-vergonhas. O respeito. E o futebol decadente.

Hoje, não tou nem ai, e pergunto. Ouço, sem cinismo, sem pixar, para melhor compreensão.

Aprendi o português nos anos 70 quando estória era conto e história eram o conto dos colonizadores portugueses. Escrevo estórias por ser não conformista.

The Quiet Frame é o que construí quando parei de pedir licença. thequietframe.com

Qualquer semelhança com vilarejos reais, conselhos municipais ou pessoas com copos de vinho na mão falando merda é mera coincidência.

Imagine uma aldeia a 850 metros de altura, uma vista impressionante dos Alpes num canto da Suíça rodeado pela França. Mil e duzentos habitantes e uma porrada de vacas.

Conto duas estórias recentes.

Primeiro, o referendo.

Tentaram aumentar os impostos.

As pessoas por aqui não se mexem pelo coletivo, apesar de respeitá-lo. Na Suíça, as pessoas se movem quando quiserem e se o assunto é de interesse pessoal.

O referendo existe exatamente por isso. Tem referendos nacionais, cantonais e das comunas. Sobre tudo. A energia nuclear, a relação europeia, a piscina da esquina, o custo de jogar fora o lixo. Daqui a pouco votaremos para limitar o número de habitantes na Suíça a 10 milhões. Mal posso esperar chegar a ter 9.999.999 inquilinos, nascerem gêmeos e a gente jogar alguém fora de casa. Pessoal do ICE vai nos ensinar como operar.

Deixo fechar o parêntese e prosseguir com a estória.

É só necessário ter um número suficiente de assinaturas para o assunto aparecer numa próxima votação.

Rebelde como sou, resolvi organizar um referendo intitulado com um populista “chega, já é demais”.

Coletei assinaturas. Levei portada na cara. Expliquei a mesma coisa 179 vezes. Errei. Tive que recomeçar com os formulários certos, respeitando os procedimentos.

Foi uma goleada: 7 a 3. Gente, populismo é demais!

E fui eleito para o conselho da comuna.

O conselho é a legislatura do vilarejo. Não fui bem-vindo.

E aí vem a segunda estória.

Esse conselho municipal se reúne em noites de semana às 20h a cada alguns meses. Uma assembleia de cidadãos eleitos com a função de debater e aprovar recomendações do executivo.

Na prática, carimba tudo. Segue o roteiro sob a orquestração do chefe local — uma figura que não vou descrever em detalhes, porque apesar de ser uma história inspirada por semelhanças, o sujeito não os merece.

Cinco funcionários municipais na frente defendendo absurdos com a maior cara de pau. Paineis de “especialistas” quando necessário. Pauta. Slides projetados tortos na parede. Nem um retângulo direito conseguem.

Pomposo até o nojo. Monsieur X aqui, Madame Z ali — apesar de todo mundo se conhecer pelo primeiro nome na rua.

Perguntas permitidas só se o cidadão se levantar.

Debate? Não muito. Tudo parece resolvido antes de alguém chegar.

Um grupo fechado manda nesse vilarejo imaginário há anos, não porque são poderosos. Mas porque são disciplinados.

Quando só 40 a 45 por cento do eleitorado vota, 20 por cento dedicados e concentrados em poucas famílias é suficiente para ganhar tudo, sempre.

Participei durante meses desse tal conselho. De pé, fiz perguntas. Recebi respostas aplaudidas que não eram respostas. Trouxe problemas. Me disseram que não era o formato. Votei. Perdi por margens gigantescas. Formei o hábito de não escutar e votar sempre contra.

E aí, foi a gota d’água.

O orçamento anual total do povoado é de alguns milhões discretos. Numa assembleia interminável, o executivo pede para contrair uma dívida de 1 milhão para refazer a infraestrutura de uma rua que serve 5 casas, enquanto existem umas 365. O argumento: “vote a favor, senão precisamos refazer a avaliação e isso demora.” Dei uma gargalhada, votei contra, perdi.

O sistema não está quebrado. Está funcionando exatamente como foi projetado.

Minha carta de demissão deu um único motivo. A Champions League era um uso melhor do meu tempo.

Quando a dissidência não é permitida e as pessoas não querem ouvir, você não muda nada por dentro.

Você se desgasta, derrotado por design. Vira curiosidade, um pé no saco ou pior, piada.

Sua presença, mesmo em oposição, dá ao teatro a sua plateia. O sistema precisa que você exista para que ele seja legítimo. Isso num povoado suíço, onde o pior que pode acontecer é eu ficar puto por alguns minutos.

Mal posso imaginar o russo no fronte, o democrata americano surfando a onda fascista, o iraniano terrorizado por explosões ou o cubano com corte de luz, todos eles em condições pouco invejáveis.

No meu casinho suíço, o jeito foi chega, e vai pra pqp.

Que mediocridade ainda tem o privilégio da sua presença?

© Michel Heitzmann - The made up village in the fog

Non, en français !

Eu quero ler em português

Any resemblance to actual villages, councils, networks or people holding wine glasses is purely coincidental.

Imagine a village at 850 metres, an impressive view of the Alps in a corner of Switzerland surrounded by France. Twelve hundred inhabitants and a shitload of cows.

Two recent stories.

First, the referendum.

They tried to raise taxes.

People here do not move for the collective, despite respecting it. In Switzerland, people move when it is in their personal interest. The referendum exists for exactly this reason. National, cantonal, local. On everything. You just need enough signatures for the matter to appear on the next ballot.

So they tried to raise taxes, already very high. Rebel that I am, I organised a referendum titled with a populist “enough, this is too much.”

Collecting signatures meant getting insulted at doors. It meant explaining the same thing 179 times. It meant making mistakes and starting over with the right forms, following the right procedures.

We won by a huge margin. I got elected to the council.

The council is the legislature of the village. I was not welcome.

Second story.

The council meets on weekday evenings at 20:00, or 8 PM for those across the big, beautiful ocean, every few months. An assembly of elected citizens with the job of debating and approving executive recommendations.

In practice, it rubber stamps everything. Follows the script under the orchestration of the local chief — a figure I will not describe in detail, because despite this being a story inspired by resemblances, the person does not deserve it. Five municipal officers at the front defending absurdities with complete shamelessness. Expert panels when needed. Agenda. Slides projected crooked on the wall. They could not manage a straight rectangle.

Pompous to the point of nausea. Monsieur X here, Madame Z there — despite everyone knowing each other by first name in the street.

Questions permitted only if the citizen stands.

Debate? Not really. Everything seems decided before anyone arrives.

A closed group has run this imaginary village for years, not because they are powerful. Because they are disciplined.

When only 40 to 45 percent of the electorate votes, 20 percent concentrated in the right families is enough to win everything, every time.

I participated for months. Standing, I asked questions. Got applauded answers that were not answers. Brought issues. Was told that was not the format. Voted. Lost by enormous margins. Developed the habit of not listening and always voting against.

And then, the last straw.

The total annual budget is in the single digit millions. In an interminable assembly, the executive asks to raise a 1 million debt to redo the infrastructure of a road serving 5 houses, out of roughly 365. The plea: “please vote for it, otherwise we need to redo the assessment and that takes time.” I laughed, voted against, lost.

The system was not broken. It was working exactly as designed.

My resignation letter gave one reason. Champions League was a better use of my time.

When dissent is not allowed and people do not want to listen, you change nothing from inside.

You wear yourself down, defeated by design. You become a curiosity, a nuisance, or worse, a joke.

Your presence, even in opposition, gives the theater its audience. The system needs you there to be legitimate. This in a Swiss village, where the worst that can happen is that I get annoyed for a few minutes.

I can barely imagine the Russian at the front, the American democrat surfing the fascist wave, the Iranian terrorised by explosions, or the Cuban with no power — all of them in considerably less enviable conditions.

In my little Swiss life, the move was enough, and fuck it.

And now, with the invented stories behind us, my conclusion.

Withdrawal is not silence or defeat. When survival is assured, things change from outside. Through mechanisms and audiences the system cannot control. Aimed at the right people and with arguments they actually recognise.

Dissent is a lonely activity. That is not a problem. It is the condition for clarity.

The question is not whether the system deserves your presence. The question is whether you are willing to fight when it does not.

What mediocrity still has the privilege of your presence?

© Michel Heitzmann - Un village dans le brouillard

Note de style. Le français est une langue que trop aiment compliquer. Habitant à Paris, j’ai entendu, je n’écoutais pas, des tournures magnifiques, des phrases interminables, des discours ennuyeux. Franchement, c’est insupportable. Avec mes ados, nous parlons simple et à l’horreur de ma mère utilisons putain comme une ponctuation ou une pause pensante.

The Quiet Frame est ce que j’ai construit quand j’ai arrêté de lever la main. thequietframe.com

Toute ressemblance avec des villages, des conseils, des réseaux ou des irréductibles un verre de blanc à la main est purement fortuite.

Imagine un village à 850 mètres d’altitude, une vue impressionnante sur les Alpes dans un coin de Suisse entouré par la France. Mille deux cents habitants et une quantité indécente de vaches.

Deux histoires récentes.

D’abord, le référendum.

Ils voulaient augmenter les impôts.

Les gens ne bougent pas pour le collectif, même s’ils le respectent. Ici, les gens bougent quand c’est dans leur intérêt personnel ou par conviction individuelle. Le référendum existe pour ça. National, cantonal, communal. Sur tout. Il faut juste assez de signatures pour que le sujet passe à une prochaine votation. Le plis (une enveloppe en français) arrive chez toi avec toutes les informations nécessaires pour éviter la coche erronée. C’est assez insolite.

Alors ils ont voulu augmenter les impôts, déjà très élevés. Rebelle comme je suis, j’ai organisé un référendum intitulé avec un populiste “ça suffit, c’est trop.”

Pour les signatures ça veut dire se faire remercier, insulter, ou claquages de porte. Expliquer le même truc 179 fois (aux métropolitains qui me lisent, c’est bien cent-septante-neuf), c’est chiant mais utile. Se planter. Recommencer avec les bons formulaires en respectant les procédures.

On a gagné haut la main. Je me suis fait élire au conseil.

Le conseil c’est le législatif du village. Moi, pas forcément bienvenu.

Deuxième histoire.

Un conseil municipal qui se réunit en semaine à 20h, tous les quelques mois. Des citoyens élus censés débattre et approuver les recommandations de l’exécutif.

En pratique ça entérine tout. Ça suit le script sous l’orchestration du chef local, un personnage que je vais pas décrire en détail, parce que malgré cette histoire inspirée par des ressemblances, il le mérite pas.

Cinq exécutifs face à un grand u de tables défendant des absurdités avec un culot de première. Des panels d’”experts” donnant avis. Ordre du jour. Slides projetés de travers sur le mur.

Pompeux et écœurant. Monsieur X par-ci, Madame Y par-là, alors que tout le monde se tutoie dans la rue.

Questions permises seulement t’es debout.

Débat ? Mes fesses. Tout semble réglé avant que quiconque arrive.

Un groupe soudé tient l’endroit depuis des années, pas parce qu’ils sont puissants. Parce qu’ils sont disciplinés.

Quand seulement 40 à 45 pour cent de l’électorat vote, 20 pour cent dans les bonnes familles font le compte, constamment.

J’ai participé pendant des mois. Debout, j’ai posé des questions. Obtenu des réponses applaudies qui en étaient pas. Amené des sujets. On m’a rétorqué que c’est pas le format. Voté. Perdu par des marges gigantesques.

J’ai pris l’habitude de ne pas écouter et de voter contre.

Et là, la connerie de trop.

Enveloppe annuelle dans les millions à un petit chiffre. Dans une assemblée interminable, l’exécutif demande un million de dette en plus pour refaire l’infrastructure d’une route qui dessert 5 maisons, sur environ 365 du patelin.

L’argument : votez pour, sinon il faut refaire l’étude et ça prend du temps. J’ai ri, voté contre, et ai perdu.

Le truc marche comme prévu.

Ma lettre de démission ? La Ligue des Champions est plus bandante.

Quand la dissidence est pas permise et les gens veulent pas entendre, on ne change rien de l’intérieur.

On s’use, battu par design. On devient un rigolo, un emmerdeur de service, ou pire, on fait pitié.

Ta présence, même en opposition, donne son public au théâtre. Le système n’a besoin que de ta présence pour être légitime. Ça dans un village suisse, où le pire qui peut arriver c’est que je m’énerve cinq minutes.

J’imagine mal le russe au front, le démocrate américain surfant la vague fasciste, l’iranien terrorisé par les explosions ou le cubain dans une merde noire.

Dans mon petit cas suisse, le geste c’était le balai, et merde.

Et maintenant, les histoires inventées derrière nous, ma conclusion.

Se retirer ce n’est pas se taire ni se résigner. Quand la survie est assurée, les choses changent par dehors. Par des mécanismes et des audiences que le système contrôle pas. En visant les bonnes personnes avec des arguments qu’elles reconnaissent.

La dissidence est une activité solitaire. Ce n’est pas un problème. C’est la condition pour avoir de la clarté.

La question n’est pas si le système mérite ta présence. C’est si t’es prêt à te battre quand c’est pas le cas.

Quelle médiocrité a encore le privilège de ta présence ?

None of that is as remarkable as the snake.

© Michel Heitzmann - Rio Negro crossing

Canon EOS R6m2 RF70-200mm F2.8 L IS USM

It was early morning on the Rio Negro, near Novo Airão. We were aboard a small skiff, heading to a village. The guide was explaining how every plant around has a purpose. The forest is the medicine cabinet.

He cut the engine and stopped talking.

I didn’t see why at first. The water was flat and grey, the light still thin. Then he pointed at the river. I looked for a long time before I found it. A snake, crossing the Rio Negro. Alone. Moving in a straight line toward a bank so distant that the trek seemed improbable.

We watched in silence.

I don’t know what species it was. I’d like to imagine it made it.

I went to the Amazon because I wanted to see what we are screwing up.

Conservation has been built around the things we find worth saving. Things with faces. Things that photograph well. Things that fill a frame. The panda. The polar bear. The toucan. The jacaré. But what about the things we do not see, or that cause revulsion?

The snake crossing the Rio Negro had none of that. No campaign. No charisma. Nothing to offer except the fact of its crossing. One small life moving across something enormous, in a straight line, shunning attention. Surviving.

If we only protect what we find beautiful, we are not protecting anything. We are curating.

What else are we not seeing?

© Michel Heitzmann - Deitado na floresta - Leica Q3 43

O português é a fala da minha infância, adolescência, de alguns anos de trabalho e de grandes amizades de meio século.

Esses anos formativos são a antítese da minha vida profissional onde tive que me conformar para ter um mínimo de sucesso.

Minha brasileirada faz parte da minha personalidade. Aquela alegria. A cara de pau. As risadas. As injustiças. Os arrivistas. Os sem-vergonhas. O respeito. E o futebol decadente.

Hoje, não tou nem ai, e pergunto. Ouço, sem cinismo, sem pixar, para melhor compreensão.

São Paulo. 1981. Primeiro semestre da faculdade.

Tínhamos uma aula de português na FAAP. A tarefa era escrever uma redação usando uma lista de palavras obrigatórias.

Não estava prestando atenção às instruções.

Anotei as palavras. Perguntei aos meus colegas o é agora? Obtive umas três versões. Livre de constrangimento, lá fui eu.

Quando um substantivo não cabia, virava adjetivo, verbo. Pouco importava. Fluido. Ficou bom.

Hora da entrega. O professor lê algumas em voz alta. As boas. Todas com 10. A sala ouve em silêncio. Aí ele termina.

Vem a mim. Me devolve a redação sem ler. Também 10. Me olha e pergunta: cê que escreveu?

Eu tinha 18 anos. Um adolescente magro, sem sucesso sexual, óculos na cara. Aquele CDF sem jeito.

Não foi um elogio. Foi um julgamento. Uma ferida. Um soco. Uma martelada.

Não respondi. Mandei para a puta que o pariu sem abrir a boca.

Em 81, eu contava com o meu cérebro para compensar o resto. E o sujeito destruiu em segundos a pouca confiança, bem magra, com uma única pergunta.

Naquela época, era papel e caneta. Guardei. Do jeito que a gente guarda o que não sabe ainda como resolver. Fiquei com aquela obra por um tempo até perdê-la numa das mudanças.

Carreguei por muito tempo sem saber. Tento lembrar a cara do cara. Não consigo. Enterrei fundo demais.

Agora que eu escrevo, o episódio ressurge. Sem angustia. Sem raiva. Com clareza.

Imagino que aquele professor não era uma má pessoa. Fazia parte de uma engrenagem, de um sistema que ensina normas e quer ter um eco normativo. A nota foi 10. Ele deve ter gostado mas não se permitiu ler em voz alta e duvidou a autoria.

O sistema não tinha espaço para minha criatividade.

Encontrei esse professor ao longo dos anos. Com outros nomes, funções e lugares. O colega que mudava de assunto quando eu falava. O VP que promoveu outra pessoa. A empresa que chamou o tchau de reestruturação. O idiota que mandava pensar bem. Mesma pergunta, palavras diferentes. Foi você mesmo que fez isso. Tem certeza que você pertence aqui.

Cada vez enterrei. Cada vez com um custo.

Agora, eu sei.

Os sistemas e redes em que vivemos e com os quais interagimos não são neutros. São construídos para reconhecer um certo tipo de resultado e recompensá-lo. Tudo que não cabe no padrão é questionado. Freado. Obrigado a se justificar. Cagado. Sem falar que todos têm os seus próprios interesses.

A maioria das pessoas aprende a se regimentar. É mais fácil. É mais seguro. As recompensas são reais.

Mas alguma coisa se perde. Você. Eu. Nós.

Deve ter milhões por aí que deixaram de acreditar porque alguém plantou uma dúvida ou aquele sinal de se comporte.

The Quiet Frame existe por causa daquele cara quando eu tinha 18 anos. Não como vingança. Como resposta.

A resposta é: sim. Fui eu que escrevi. Sempre fui eu.

O que eles fizeram você parar de acreditar e que você tinha que fazer?

© Michel Heitzmann - Par terre à Bassins, Leica Q3 43

Note de style. Le français est une langue que trop aiment compliquer. Habitant à Paris, j'ai entendu, je n'écoutais pas, des tournures magnifiques, des phrases interminables, des discours ennuyeux. Franchement, c'est insupportable. Avec mes ados, nous parlons simple et à l'horreur de ma mère utilisons putain comme une ponctuation ou une pause pensante.

São Paulo. 1981. Première année de fac.

On avait un cours de portugais. La consigne : pondre un truc avec une liste de mots imposés. J’écoutais que dalle. J’ai chopé les mots. Je les ai utilisés à ma sauce. Quand un substantif faisait la gueule, j’en faisais un adjectif — “bandeira, bandeirolando” (drapeau, drapeautant). Paraît que c’était pas permis. Le portugais du Brésil il est souple, moi aussi.

Le prof rend les copies. Il en lit quelques-unes à voix haute. Les bonnes. Toutes à 10. La salle la ferme. Il a fini. Il rapplique à mon bureau. Me file ma copie sans la lire. 10 aussi. Il me regarde et lâche : c’est vraiment toi qui as écrit ça ?

J’avais 18 piges. Un gamin maigrichon, grosses lunettes au pif, avec pas beaucoup de succès avec les nanas, si tant est qu’il y en ait eu. Bourré de doutes.

J’ai pas répondu. Je l’ai envoyé chier sans ouvrir la bouche.

Je savais pas quoi dire. C’était pas un compliment ce truc-là. C’était un doute balancé en public par un mec qui était censé être plus malin que ça. Un verdict.

En 81, je misais sur mon cerveau pour compenser le reste. Et ce con m’a foutu par terre avec une seule question.

Je l’ai planqué. Comme on planque les trucs qu’on sait pas encore comment démonter. On bossait encore au stylo à l’époque. J’ai gardé cette feuille un moment, fier mais en douce. Elle s’est barrée dans un des déménagements.

Je l’ai trimballé longtemps sans le savoir. J’essaie de me rappeler la gueule de ce type. Je peux pas. Je l’ai enterré trop profond.

Ça a ressurgi quand j’ai recommencé à écrire. Pas avec rage. Avec lucidité.

Ce prof c’était pas un salaud. C’était un rouage. Un système lui avait appris ce que les étudiants étaient capables de sortir. Ma rédac ressemblait pas à ça. Donc ça pouvait pas être de moi. Le système avait pas de case pour ce que je faisais sans savoir que je le faisais.

Je l’ai recroisé ce prof. Avec d’autres noms. Dans d’autres endroits. Le collègue qui changeait de sujet quand je causais. Le chef qui a filé la promo à un autre. La boîte qui appelait ça une restructuration. Même question, mots différents. C’est vraiment toi qui as fait ça. T’es sûr d’avoir ta place ici.

A chaque fois j’ai planqué. A chaque fois avec l’addition à régler.

Voilà ce que je sais maintenant.

Les systèmes et réseaux, dans lesquels on vit et avec lesquels on agit, ils sont pas neutres. Ils sont foutus pour reconnaître un certain type de produit et le récompenser. Tout ce qui rentre pas dans le moule se fait questionner. Ralentir. Obliger à se justifier. Sans compter qu’ils ont tous leurs intérêts à défendre.

La plupart des gens apprennent à rentrer dans le moule. C’est plus simple. C’est plus sûr. Les récompenses sont bien réelles.

Mais ça tasse.

La pensée de traviole. La compression. La rédac qui utilisait les mots autrement. Ça disparaît pas : ça s’enterre.

Je suis sûr qu’il y a des millions dans notre humanité qui se baladent avec quelque chose qu’ils ont arrêté de croire vraiment parce qu’on les a fait taire en posant la question à la con.

The Quiet Frame existe à cause de ce mec quand j’avais 18 ans. Pas comme une vengeance. Comme une réponse.

La réponse c’est : ouais. C’est bien moi qui l’ai écrit. Ça a toujours été moi.

Qu’est-ce qu’ils t’ont fait arrêter de croire que t’étais capable de faire ?

© Michel Heitzmann - On the ground, taken in Bassins, Switzerland - Leica Q3 43

São Paulo. 1981. First semester of university.

We had a Portuguese class. The assignment was to write an essay using a specific set of words. I was not paying attention to the instructions. I got the words. I used them my way. Whenever a substantive would not work, I made it an adjective as in “bandeira, bandeirolando” (flag, flagging). Apparently it was not allowed. Português do Brasil is flexible, and I flexed.

The professor starts giving back the graded essays. He reads some aloud. The outstanding ones. All marked 10. The room listens. Then he is done. He walks to my desk. Hands back my essay without reading it. Also a 10. He looks at me and asks: did you really write this?

I was 18. A slender teenager with not much sex success, if any. Full of doubts.

I did not answer. Insulted him without a word.

I did not know what to say. The question was not a compliment. It was a doubt planted in public by someone who was supposed to know better. A judgment.

In 81, I counted on my brain to make up for my appearance.

And that guy shattered my, also slender, confidence with one question.

I put it away. The way you store stuff when you don’t have the tools to deal with them. We had paper and pen at the time. I kept the one page essay for some time, proud but hidden. It got lost in the many moves.

I also carried it for a long time without knowing. I try to remember what that person looked like. I can’t. I buried it deeply.

It resurfaced when I started writing. Not with anger. With clarity.

That professor was not a bad person. He was a cog in a system that had taught him what students could deliver. My essay did not look like that. So it could not be mine. The system had no room for the thing I was doing without knowing I was doing it.

I have met that teacher again. Different names. Different places. The colleague who changed the topic after I spoke. The manager who promoted someone else. The organisation that called it a restructuring. Same question, different words. Did you really do this. Are you sure you belong here.

Each time I stored. Each time with a toll.

This is what I now know.

The systems and networks we live in and with which we act are not neutral. They are built to recognise a certain kind of output and reward it. Anything that doesn’t fit the pattern gets questioned. Gets slowed down. Gets asked to explain itself. Let alone they all have different interests.

Most people learn to fit the pattern. It is easier. It is safer. The rewards are real.

But something gets lost.

The side thinking. The compression. The essay that used the words differently. It does not disappear — it goes underground.

I am sure that there are millions walking around with something they stopped believing was real because someone handed it back in silence and asked the wrong question.

The Quiet Frame exists because of that man when I was 18. Not as revenge. As an answer.

The answer is: yes. I really wrote it. I always did.

What did they make you stop believing you could do?

I was here in 2012. With two small children and a washed out beatification poster still on every wall.

We took the train up, walked onto the platform, ate bananas. Nobody was in a hurry.

The statue was the same. The view was the same. Lagoa, Ipanema, the ocean, Pão de Açúcar to the left. One of the best views on earth.

He is 18 now. She is 16.

What changed: the platform was a place then. Now it is a production. Disneyland with winding queues. We were there early. Some dudes back at the hotel on Copacabana told us they went later and queued for five hours.

Five hours to put your phone on the floor, portrait mode. To post it.

A hundred people performing the pose the statue already owns. Backs to Guanabara Bay. Guided by men making a living from it.

The statue behind them, arms open, looking at something nobody else was looking at.

I took the photograph of the crowd. Then I took the photograph of the view. And rushed out in disbelief.

Photos with Canon PowerShot SX40 HS in 2012, Canon R6M2 RF24-105mm F4 L IS USM in 2025

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Rocinha, favela of Rio de Janeiro. Perched in a valley linking Leblon and Gávea beaches, a town on itself with tens of thousands, policed by the narcos.

You can’t walk in on your own. You are scanned at the entrance, in the middle and at the end. Your guide advises cameras away. On one occasion: dealer with loud rap, gun on the table, two dozen plastic bags with a white substance that was not flour. On another: two men seated above road level, huge mirrors, watching that no threat from the city comes up. Tropa de Elite, real.

And yet a large community living in peace. Less crime than Rio itself.

With tight alleys and internet.

On Estrada da Gávea — the main artery zig-zagging the favela — the last supper of the Paróquia Nossa Senhora da Boa Viagem.

Blue-eyed Black Jesus at the center. Twelve disciples of different ethnicities. Football under the table. Skateboard. Takeaway pizza. Crumbling plaster around them.

Perhaps those who come here as tourists and think themselves lucky aren’t so fortunate after all.

Some days before the armed intervention in Alemão and Penha that made worldwide news.

Photos on 17 October 25 with a Canon R6M2, RF24-105mm F4 L IS USM and an iPhone 16 Pro Max.

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© Michel Heitzmann - Le fardeau

This started as a Reddit post in r/changemyview. The thread got 3,500 views in the first hour and 13 comments. Several of them changed how I wrote this.

Women’s Day is bullshit. It should not exist.

That was my opening on Reddit. I meant it as a provocation. The responses taught me something.

But let me start where I actually started.

I grew up in Brazil. Lived in the US. Then Western Europe. March 8th passed unnoticed. A mention somewhere, perhaps. Nothing I can remember.

Then I worked in Central and Eastern Europe.

Moscow. Skopje. Bucharest. Sibiu. Sofia. Novosibirsk. You could not ignore it. I tried. I knew its origins — socialist, Soviet, instrumentalised. But flowers appeared on desks. Small gestures. Genuine warmth. To ignore it was not progressive. It was rude.

These societies had lived through things the comfortable West had not. They understood something we had sanitised out of existence.

I found that interesting. And humbling.

We are in 2026. A day set aside to acknowledge half of humanity should feel unnecessary. Patronising even. Most of us hold that hope. That one day the gesture becomes redundant.

Then I remember Switzerland.

My country of birth. The country that projects the peak of civilised governance. Precision. Neutrality. Order.

Swiss women got the federal vote on national matters in 1971.

Not 1871. Not 1921. 1971. Two years after Woodstock. Three years after 1968 shook the world — Paris, Prague, Chicago, MLK, RFK. All of that. And Swiss women still couldn’t vote federally.

And that was only the federal vote. Women in Appenzell Innerrhoden could not vote on local matters until 1990. Not 1890. 1990. The year the web was invented. The year Mandela walked free.

The Federal Supreme Court had to force it.

On Reddit, someone told me Women’s Day was invented by the UN in 1975 and was always just politics. Another pointed out it predates that — socialist movements, 1910, Clara Zetkin. A third said the date itself is arbitrary and the whole thing is performative.

They were not wrong about any of it.

And yet.

Switzerland. 1971. The Supreme Court. 1990.

The question is not whether Women’s Day is ideologically pure. Nothing is. The question is what we do with it.

Flowers. Acknowledgement. Presence. Not a lecture. Not a campaign. Not a brand turning its logo pink for 24 hours.

One day to remember what the other 364 forget.

The world is loud. That’s why silence and awareness matter.

I write about silence, attention, and what we choose to carry. If that interests you, you’re in the right place.

© Michel Heitzmann

I lived in Romania for a few years in my thirties. Every March 1st, people give each other these little tokens called mărțișoare. Tiny flowers tied to a twisted red and white cord. Street vendors selling them, women wearing them pinned to their coats, kids handing them out at school. It marks the first day of spring.

I hadn’t thought about it in years. Maybe 25.

Then one morning my phone told me it was Mărțișor. I opened an app. It has this cultural calendar thing that tells you what’s happening in the world beyond the usual news cycle. And there it was. March 1st. And it hit me — not as information. As memory.

I wrote about it. Posted it on Reddit. Went to bed.

By morning it had 50,000 views.

By the time it was removed it had 125,000.

810 people had upvoted it. 58 had commented. 163 had shared it. The moderators decided it was self-promotion. A post about a Romanian spring tradition I’d forgotten for 25 years. Self-promotion.

Here’s the thing I keep thinking about.

The post wasn’t about an app. It was about what disappears without you noticing. A tradition. A memory. The specific feeling of seeing something small and beautiful pinned to a stranger’s coat on a cold March morning in Bucharest. The algorithm had decided that wasn’t worth showing me for 25 years. I only found out it still existed by accident.

And then a different algorithm decided my rediscovery of it was suspicious.

Ephemeral successful author. Who cares. Nemo in the Matrix.

But my ephemeral spike shows something. The world is at the mercy of algorithms. 125,000 people recognized something in a memory about a tradition they’d never heard of, and a machine decided that was dangerous. We are not even aware of what is being quietly taken from us.

That is the urgency.

The post is gone. The memory isn’t. Neither is the learning.