Some say that the kaleidoscope will make children stupid…probably the same ones who pin technology as a culprit for decadence. It is sad to see that people often despise imagination or maybe dreams as a waste of time. The tools isn’t important, what really matter is the innocence and the how crucial to creativity escaping is.
One to ten I had to patiently count before opening the door.
On my grandfather desk so many strange exotic objects were fighting to get my attention. I knew he used them all in his novels after letting all his senses discover them.
I loved the statue of the angel at the entrance with its hand lifted towards the many waves caressing her in her previous life as a ship figurehead. She was majestic and always had a gift in her arms.
On the fireplace a blue sand hourglass encapsulated in a fragile glass bell under water, was the most elegant way to remind you of time passing by. Besides on the very same ledge were 2 delicate Egyptian statues which represented pure femininity.
The little secretaire was always closed, packed with secrets presiding by a young Buda, while next to him on the floor tall slander spears took my imagination to some foreign land between 2 warriors fighting for their honor in the most terrifying single combat.
It was also this tribal mask so scary and frozen in an aggressive gaze on the window seal and the brass astrolabe that I used to find so heavy.
But one object was for me the most magical …a kaleidoscope.
I loved its name, the spelling so exotic and simple at the same time. I was enchanted by the sounds it made like gems and pearls cascading on the lowest curves of a beautiful woman’s back, and then the visions of hypnotic delight when you let the sun light reach your eye on the other side of the little hole. Colors and patterns flowing in pure symmetry. It was richly dressed in a golden sheath like a princess.
I would hide in the room for hours sitting on the sofa. I ignored royally the sheep skin, and the Canadian army coat as well as the hundreds of novels (black collection) above my head covering all the walls. I barely notice at my feet the wonderful rug my grandmother made for her the love of her life and husband: a monochrome snake surrounded by stars.
I would let the kaleidoscope carry me away far far away.
It is only after few year I would venture next to his desk where all the pen looked like a game of Mikado in a vase next to an inkwell with the purest black ink you could find. He used a yellow paper like an ancient parchment which I thought was so elegant.
Sometime I go back in the room in my sleep. It has a soul, his and others, all the ones coming from the pages of his stories.