Messages from the Universe | www.splicetoday.com

Objects can often seem auspicious. On many occasions during my Parisian tours, I found playing cards on my way. I have some apprehension about these encounters. Once, against all odds, I found three different maps from three different decks on one outing. I photographed them and, hoping for the best, returned home to look for their meaning on a site dedicated to fortune telling. It was a bit superstitious but if we accept the idea that the universe is an active partner in our lives, this method of “ready-made divination” seems preferable to begging fate by consciously seeking tarot readings or horoscope.

And there are numbers. Many people have told me over the years that when they look at a clock, the time they are reading sometimes gives a pause. It could be their birthday (mine is 2:12) or a number like 1:13, 12:34, or 9:11. What is discussed here is a basic form of numerology, a subject of great religious and cultural significance.

But even if we cannot admit that the Gods or that the Universe speak to us through various agents, it seems undeniable that the events sometimes align themselves to make us think; to make us consider things which are often latent aspects of existence and thus affect our behavior. And since it is always useful to get help, why turn your back on possible forms of reflection?

Today, when I opened the door to my apartment, there were three pigeons trapped in the stairwell. They saw me and started to fly away but instead of going out the window they continued to fly directly into the closed window next to it (his other half) or into the small lower window which is just below and which is painted closed.

The sense of panic that trapped birds can produce is remarkable; it is both tragic and chaotic. There was something about them banging against the disturbing glass. Perhaps it was a little too close to being a mirror of what is sometimes called “the human condition”. Why were they flying against the closed window when the other open half was next to it? It was as if they were deliberately choosing to complicate their lives. Besides, it seemed to go against all logic; one would have thought that the rules of chance would ultimately lead them to the open window, but no. Every time I moved down the hall, they soared, flapping their wings flapping wildly against the glass.

I have not yet mentioned that there was a male white pigeon, a female black pigeon and a female beige pigeon. So not only did I have to deal with making them fly out the right window and contemplate the human condition but, due to today’s hyper-politicized times, I have been drawn to contemplate the racial and gender symbolism of the event. And they were all there, trapped together in the hallway, kind of like an aviary version of No Exit by Jean-Paul Sartre.

I freed them by limiting their choices. I stapled a large towel to the lower window (the one that was painted closed), then managed to open the second half of the upper window. Then, mysteriously, as soon as I opened the window, the pigeons all settled on the landing. Perhaps they were resigned to their fate? Maybe they enjoyed watching me twist on their behalf? Maybe I interrupted an orgy and they were waiting for me to leave? Who knows? In any case. to make them take off, I made great movements of the arms; it did the trick, it got them excited and they managed to fly out the window.

Well, two of them did. The third had flown to a lower landing. I realized that I must have scared him up to my floor (the top floor) because the other windows in the building are also painted closed; so i went down the stairs and again using wild arm gestures i finally managed to get him up into the air and out the window.

Was it a message from the Universe, a commentary on my existence? He certainly had a demonstrative quality. Were the color and sex of this last trapped pigeon significant? I couldn’t say, but the event took on a symbolic aspect in my mind.

Finally, the most amazing example of this process is something I witnessed in a friend’s house years ago. My friend’s grandson was playing the violin and I was enjoying his effort when his mother turned and said in a voice just loud enough to be heard over the music, “You know, he’ll never be a musician.” , he has no sense of rhythm. “How could she have known? But she was right, he never became a musician.