Rain Bird

If one is in search of one's lost or abandoned heart, one must serve oneself exquisite Art and food prepared with largesse -- like two silent and invisible vowels which make the pure sounds of the numinous language of a merciful god which can only nestle in the cradle of a place rich of the forgiveness of Beauty's songs. 

It is because I wanted to hear the sirens' songs, hear them pronounce my real name -- a name that breaks the sacred seal of my own soul -- the same name that one recognizes only in the face of nameless Love which absconds through the crescents of Art's light which cut through Time's tortured, twisted and immutable hands -- for Art, just as water, absquatulates the spurious prehensile fist that desires to take hold completely that which holds it. 

It is because I was thirsty to hear my soul's name again, thirsty to answer it's compelling call, that I directed my steps toward the art gallery's bistro before kneeling my mind in front of the masterpieces that awaited my gaze, two ornate chalices who have waited all this time, from the moment when the artist's paintbrush maculated the canvas to the moment where I would stand motionless, at once humbled and filled before greatness.

The golden sphere of day was promised for other eyes than mine. It was softly raining on the patio where the lush greenery's undulating curves reminded a Bathesheba making love to the eye and the rain alike. The patrons had left the charming white metal tables and folding lattice chairs and brought their albescent porcelain plates in from the canescent sky.  An imposing glass wall parted the somber intimate dining area from the greyish chaos of nature which only allowed communion through very large glass French doors that no one seemed interested in closing behind them since it was warm. Inside, the air bathed in baroque gilded mirrors, flickering candlelights and pungent perfume of boisterous bouquets of casablancas, which gaping mouths reminded those of birds praying to be fed, and instead of tongues, the humid erotic mind's eye would be invited to caress the elegant lily's pistils, darting obscenely towards its patrons. 

I was attracted by a magnificent crystal vase of casablancas which was placed on a table adjacent to the glass wall. From here one could see and hear birds fluttering about and bathing in puddles of water. I could feel the cool breeze of the nearby opened French doors as well as the wet smell of freshly drenched rain evaporating on previously dusty hot concrete. My spirit was mesmerized by the dancing light through the cuts of the crystal; chards of dispersed coloured beams arcing through the myriad of expressive prisms which had been chiseled into flowers and arabesques. I was ready to capture the uncapturable with the photo camera I always bring with me on my travels, when the capturable came in: a small bird, in from the rain.

Among the cackles of laughter, the grotesque gestures, the monstrous mouths moistened with raspberry vinaigrette and white chardonnay, the small bird seemed much more like a brownish speck. lilliputian in dimension, nothing spectacular in colour, but godly in flight. A chosen messenger from the rain, reminding the pilpulists of the necropolis of reason and divertissement pascalien of our condition through many folds: that some share cages while others share lives and food; that no matter how small one is in the face of the great roar of life, greatness is carried in all vessels alike --The question then becomes, are we small enough to carry the greatness?

Lessons of life from the Velours Abattoir:

-One sometimes needs to be reminded of the imperceptible limits that one allows in one's life

-Wings are not always useful : one also needs to walk into some situations and take ownership of the ground upon which one walks. 

- A cage is not as much a cage if one chooses it.

-A cage ceases to be a cage if one has a soaring song in one's throat  

- There are great things that come in from the rain

Vicomte de Velours

Carte de visite from the Velours Abattoir