esprit collectif

It was time.

Time to visit the French Antiquariess again.

As I navigated my way through the

chaos of the city streets,

my thoughts were constantly interrupted by the

empty sounds of daily life.

Flashing lights, blaring horns, revving engines

and bypassers conversations

of last nights, prime time shows. All like notes on

a sheet of music that had no melody, no meaning.

My soul needed a sanctuary.

I found my stride gaining pace.

Was it spontaneous order OR my wanting to escape it?

Breathing out of sync, I finally arrive at

her doorstep puffing.

A welcome site. The hand that always calls

for me to reach out and grasp it.

The hand that appears so delicate and fragile,

yet endures time.

A fitting introduction to Madame Antiquariess,

I think to myself.

I don't know that I have ever been so aware

of the "moment of relief".

There was no need for immediate conversation.

Madame Antiquariess was quite familiar

with the routine.

Glancing at the clock, I noticed my time of arrival, 10:55.

As I browsed the shop, my wine in hand, the only

sound was that of the clock, softly ticking.

So quiet, why so quiet?

Random moments, when I was aware of

Madame, she would acknowledge me with an approving smile.

As my eyes marveled at Madame's communication

skills, I heard her whisper in my mind,

"the eyes see only what the mind is prepared

to comprehend".

Still, it was so very quiet.

Eyes shut, by the light of a candle,

I succomb to the stories

my fingertips reveal to me.

As my fingers follow the lines of the Louis XVI table,

I loose my sense of self. 

The French Spirit starts to envelop me.

Like the antique pieces

before me,

my soul becomes a part of the vignette.

Each one enhancing the beauty of the collective.

Picking up each intaglio, and then the next,

I notice I make no sound.

Like the artist's hand that chisled the intaglio's,

I want to consciously create that which is me,

and like the signatured boxes that hold them,

 I need a safe haven at times, from the journey.

Madame, is it coincidence that the Eiffel Tower

points to the heavens?

Are there such things as coincidence?

Madame, is it frivolous of me to think that

such things would have meaning?

Are they merely the result of mortals attempting

to achieve immortality?

Madame Antiquariess was silent.

Her silence only magnified the stillness.

A wonderful place to capture the French Spirit.

Rocaille Gallerie in Tokyo

Spinning around in a frantic, I realized

that time had escaped me. I was sure at least

an hour had passed.

Bises for Madame while hurriedly fetching my coat,

I turned to check the time.

The hands of the clock had not moved, 10:55.

As I left my santuary and closed the door

behind me, I was greeted by the sounds and

distractions of everyday life.

It was so quiet there, I recalled, but

I do remember reading somewhere,

there is no sound in space.

Melanie of Le Petit Cabinet de Curiosites, asked how I would

define the French Spirit.

I have attempted to do that with this post.

For me, when I am in France or around

French antiques, I always feel as if I am a

part of something larger than myself.

Merci beaucoup to James XVI of Garvinweasel

for passing the Kreative Blogger award my way.

That post will come later, perhaps.

Bisou for now

photos via Rocaille Gallerie