decadent_david: (Skeptical)
[personal profile] decadent_david
David completed his move from the hotel to Craig's apartment. He found room for his clothing and personal possessions in a wardrobe half-filled with forgotten clothing and costumes. The more valuable items, including Bernard's property, he stashed in the secret alcove Craig had shown him. As he closed that space, the door becoming merely a wall once again, he nodded in approval. It was indeed an asset to have storage of this sort, and if need be it could hold much more. David considered his finances, temporarily strengthened thanks to his visit to Elizabeth's flat. He counted out enough bills to pay half the rent for a month, and looked about the room for a place to set the money where Craig would see it upon his return home. David was grateful for this arrangement and felt it would suit his purposes well. He wished to start off on good terms with Craig, and prompt payment of his rent would be a good beginning.

His gaze fell on a plant, or what formerly might have been a plant. A withered vine now lay stiffly over the edge of an ornate Chinese pot. Craig was apparently not joking about his black thumb. Ah. Something came to his mind, what was that poem? With nothing better to do with his afternoon, David set out on a mission. His first stop was the library, and he thought briefly of his friend Elijah who used to live underneath it. He needed to pay a visit to the theatre soon and speak to the young artist about that painting.

But today's mission came first. It was a new book of poetry he sought, one he had glanced at a few months before in a book shop but did not buy that day. Yes, here it is. Taking out his journal, he carefully copied down a poem from the book, replaced it on the shelf, and left the library. He then browsed the shops and open markets for hours, seeking just the right item. It was nearly dark when he returned to the apartment, moved the dead plant out of the way, and placed his purchase in it's spot. Next to the base of the brass bowl filled with an ornate arrangement of porcelain flowers and ivy, he set an envelope containing the rent money. Upon the envelope he placed the page torn from his journal.

Artificial Flowers
I don't want real narcissi - neither lilies
nor real roses please me,
decorating trite and common gardens. I am grieved,
fatigued, afflicted by their flesh
their perishable beauty bores me.

Give me artificial flowers - porcelain and metal glories - neither
fading nor decaying, forms unaging.
Flowers of the splendid gardens of another place,
where Forms and Styles and Knowledge dwell.

I love flowers made of glass or gold,
true Art's true gifts,
their painted hues more beautiful than nature's,
worked in nacre and enamel,
with perfect leaves and branches.

Their charm derives from wise and pure Good Taste;
they didn't vilely sprout in dust or mud.
If they lack scent, we'll pour out perfume,
burn romantic myrrh before them.

K.P. Kavafis - 1903

His mission accomplished, David decided that dinner was most definitely in order. He roamed the streets of Paris, taking up his old quest to try every bistro in the city. There were still so many to explore...


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August 2003

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