Call Out (re)cueillir

Since one has to be born, again and more to what comes. Since one has to face the world, again, to forget what the past lifes had shown me of its tragedies without making me undergo them. Resuming the habit of candid and innocent to give meaning to the chaos of fractals endlessly redistributed according to a game for which no one has the rules and for which God himself cannot decide the winner. Because perishing has no future, I resolved to hatch, carrying within me and those who share my blood, the obligation to wave the world.
This is where I do it, surrounded by walls, still holding the cord of what I believed. To try to step beyond me.

I cannot define what your experience will be in this story. I can only tell you about mine and give you the framework. It’s up to you to tell me if we met and to what or to whom you were born.

I cross a small airlock, a remembrance of the narrow passages of previous births. Scattered sounds, tender music, nostalgic voices, hissing and chirping of birds emanate from small music boxes. Inside those a dancer tries to free herself from her cocoon, like us who move forward without reference. Someone is stuck to the wall, and jumps. When it retires the wall is bare with a small hole in its center. Through the eyecup, the imprint of l’Empreinte du Dieu (God falls) on what remained of a bird, has he flown away?

I walk into a large room facing the release of the Call in cocoon video. A movement of the heart is balanced and projected onto three white hanging frames. The supports for this recollection are also those to be sought. A construction lamp reveals thousands of holes that outline the months and years of a life by letting light through, like the cycle of day and night. The supports are the subjects

A tree is felled to the ground, it is the (h)Être, a nest of nests. If the crash of his fall in other places has not been heard, here, in silence, it reverberates. Each section of the tree bears fruit from its past encounters, with all those who have nested in it. These traces are reinterpreted in psalms, gold and cast shadows.
The (h)Être asks if one has not taken advantage of his strength. On its Stump is engraved the dream of Nebuchadnezzar, to climb too high towards the sky it had to be cut down, to allow it one day to be reborn. But what are dreams?

In the sky, a tiny hair and feathers nest takes shelter in a flight of burnt straws, an inverted tree, how can one climb there to respond to the command of Deuteronomy 22 6 and 7: release the bird and take the eggs and the little ones so that our days may be prolonged?

At the foot of the walls, nests of ink, blood and water spirals keep on paper the burns of the trees that have borne them. The place is now defined. It’s time to hatch.

At the moment of being born, ontological solitude, the harsh light on potential and its floods of possibilities are the program of what is to be experienced. The different ways of being in the world, will we be the impact of what is thrown into the water or its waves, will we create something real or a copy, will we do it ourselves or have it done? With what illusions we will dress us who are naked. But it’s a story I’ve told before.