As I scouted the living area for Mademoiselle Mozhna’s favorite toy — Mademoiselle Mohzna is my toy pet and “fidèle compagne” who, despite her Lilliputian heart, has a great gift for teaching unconditional love. And, as most descendents of the grey wolf, the canis familiaris is touched with the gift of a certain clairvoyance when it comes to peering through their master’s soul. They are adept in following you everywhere you go, even in your deepest most arcane and inscrutable garden.
And so, it came to a great surprise to find that this meek creature of beauty devoured her toy monkey which we affectionately refer to as Monsieur Momo. As much as toys could encapsulate the gift of life, Monsieur Momo is the paragon of exemplary objects which incarnate both the calm patience of being tossed around and incessantly being used at will on the one hand, as well as the merciful forgiveness of limitless abandonments on the other. In any case, I — and no doubt Mademoiselle Mohzna — had grown very attached to Monsieur Momo.
As I lifted his spiritless body to eye level and carefully examined his torn remains, I stood in silent wonderment. Was the ever so dainty and darling Mademoiselle Mohzna avenging me in some way? How could she otherwise be the author of such a destructive act if not secretly motivated by a yet unnamed form of unconditional love? Maybe she saw him as a ill possessed form, a Golem, a Frankenstein, an idol of and effigy to man's ego; nothing but man's autocannibalistic egocentric creation of himself. I was astonished because she had ripped his arm off in such a frightful way as to show nothing but three threads still attaching it to Monsieur Momo’s torso. I say “it” when speaking of the soon to be vestigial arm since I presumed it now assumed a life of its own and had become anonymous given that it was now but partially attached to its trunk, which gave it its meaning and its life. Perhaps it was ill considered of me to believe that this unpleasantness could only come to the ineluctable amputation of the beloved Monsieur Momo’s arm. Was I being too arrogant and eager in believing that if only three little threads united two objects that these two objects no longer formed one, and that one was more important now than the other? Was my ego too obtuse to comprehend the fact that one could become two or even three (Monsieur Momo, uniting thread, arm) and that now Monsieur Momo had been transformed into Monsieur Momo the trunk, Monsier Momo the arm and Monsieur Momo the now…?
Poor Monsieur Momo! I felt such sympathy for him. Isn’t it strange how stitching a simple face unto a stuffed wool sock can make it at once so foreing from its initial nature and yet so endearing, and can bring out one’s own long forgotten compassion to the surface? But compassion for whom? One could posit that the torn toy monkey was evoking the wound in me, mirroring the lost innocence, the woolen embouchure through which fibrous leukous batting oozed out reminded me of the tear/tare in me.
I remember all the times we had shared playing together, Mademoiselle Mozhna and I, through him. And now, for some arcane reason I found myself compelled to tend to his wound, as if it were my very own or that of a forgotten orphan. Of course, I know our dear reader as most reasonable people would see Monsieur Momo as an object and nothing more than a used sock put to recycled use. However, Monsieur Momo transcended any banal object, especially now given that he distinguished himself by exuding more human qualities: imperfection, hurt, abandon and love. However, what made the experience so different was that despite his gaping wound, Monsieur Momo was still smiling, not caring at all about the soon to be amputation which was to follow. This composure differed immensely from that which one would normally see in the human fauna. I intuited that Mademoiselle Mohzna and myself, the Viconte de Velours, had yet so much to learn from life from such a humble little humanoid whose smile was as permanent as the thread with which it was stitched — one could not amputate a smile…
Lessons from the Velours Abattoir:
What a toy teaches us about life:
-One whose functions are to be used, thrown away and then abandoned will loose a part of oneself in the process.
-When one looses a part of oneself, others can see this part as being meaningless, but it is up to oneself to determine if this is a new extension of oneself or if this new death is the opportunity one has always wanted to become lighter, to change one’s identity and wear a name that is closer to the sound to which one’s soul beckons.
What useless threads teach us about life:
-Sometimes, one must cut the threads that enslave the dead and cumbersome parts of oneself in order to cut open a window in an otherwise blind wall. Only then can Spring spear through the shadows one holds onto and give love’s grace. Once cut, it doesn’t mean we are less than before; it means we are more human; and closer to home.
-Sometimes one keeps all the meaninglessness of one’s life together with nothing more than a fragile thread. It is maybe what is needed at the time, but eventually, one knows that will come the time to thank these parts of oneself that are now useless, enflame them on Truth’s floating pyre, and set them adrift on the waters of wisdom and acceptance.
-One can be one’s wound, and let it take one’s life, inch by inch until one’s whole being is a wound. It is difficult to let go and cut away at a very important part of oneself, but it is better than letting the wound fester and reside in our souls. One is better feeling the hurt than becoming and being the hurt in one’s life.
As we say here in the Velours Abattoir : “Follow the heart, not the hurt.”
Vicomte de Velours
Carte de visite from the Velours Abattoir
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