Will you, won't you, will you won't you,won't you join the dance?- the lobster quadrille![]()
Blue painted sleds from Lapland stand upright in the corner, ready to slide heavenward to the planets. Inside of the sled he has placed a small oil-lamp which sheds a blue Arctic light. In his hand he holds a Chinese opium pipe without opium. He does not need opium. He has the gift of reverie. A collection of pipes from all over the world lies scattered. An enormous Chinese gong rings the hours. It once awakened the Tibetan monks, but it came from the flea market. An African pirogue carved out of wood sails on the mantelpiece, with four Africans rowing. Two marge ivory-handled knives are nailed to the wall above Jean's bed. Reindeer horns, hung on the walls, support an open book on magic, and a book of erotic tales. Delicate dried coral blooms unexpectedly from the top of the pile of books. The bookshelves are placed high near the ceiling. A sunburst hat from Madagascar hands from the last shelf. He pulls out a box from under his bed which contains a skeleton found in the Canary Islands. A tree root gathered in Tahiti rivals Brancusi's petrified snakes. Jean is a great wanderer, but he likes to bring back proofs of what he has seen, sand from Mount Athos, liquers from Hungary, water from the Black sea in a bottle, volcanic stones, beaded curtains from Algeria.-Anais Nin, portrait of Jean Cateret's apartment'And when are you leaving?' they always say. Some as soon as the door is opened. When, how much and what have you seen? Quick! Look at the clockhands moving so fast! Can't you see how they spin? Talk, talk, hurry up!So often it has been asked of me, of us this past spring and summer. It will never end until we have a place of our own, once more. Of treehouses and rope ladders, a room full of dusty books and a fireplace outside to sit beside in winter. Us, beside each other - when will this be?My mother, when I follow the migrations back once or twice a year, asks immediately, 'and how long will you be staying?' At night she cuts my wings while sleeping so as to not be able to leave. 'Why don't you live on this island?', she asks, again and again. 'Why not get a job here, so that you don't have to worry about all of this movement, this struggle? Why don't you settle, find something comfortable for once? You could do so much...'. No words of mediocracy or my deep need for movement to keep things vital. Nor do I tell her about this need for returning, for having a place to grow, without question or rule. A short time later, she will always begin to desire the space for herself again. To be alone to face whatever it is to be faced. Or to run away, fleetingly, without needing to give excuses. Even the bluntest of knives will eventually cut off the head of Buddha.The cities and their colours, their warmth, their creativity. More I am lost within them, drowned. More they feed my excuses for my lack of invention. The search for work while buffaloes trample me in their haste for these very jobs. I cannot compete. I cannot fight for this. More I'm drawn to the forests, to the sea. To feeling, to insight, to contemplation. To quieten these thunderous hooves.To remember that there is always life elsewhere when times are bad.I once dreamed of living in a mushroom, to appear as if from nowhere one day and disappear the next. Sometimes I would pick mushrooms and give them windows, a door, a dusty attic overlooking the forest, full of miniature books.and I would tell them with their clockhands wailing and whirling:there are no clockhands. What is seen is not the real world. And for note - we will leave when we return.And I would take a bow while pigeons dance on the rooftops.But a place to come back to, through all of these wanderings, to always have a point to return and belong to.Cuando, pero cuando?
