What is it like to live inside an egg?
First there are the countless problems of the brittle porcelain calcium floor, ceilings walls all molding into one foolish dome. This could however be an egg of Faberge; wrought in fiddled, labored lines and the grand form of a tinker, polishing emeralds from rocks and wrapping them with window frames. But not everything lovely is gilded. This is decay, or decomposition in the vibrancy and hue of flea puce is flea in English, it is a lite mauve/brown color that was all the rage in pre revolution France. (Puce as it was in Versailles, the grey pink brown violet taffeta that all the sliding towers topped in ostrich ribbon coveted to the misfortune of sixteen. Like tiny bloody stains on bed sheets that even Borax cannot remove.) Close, ladies with big hair walked down a hallway, Louis XVI hated the color puce and also got his head chopped off.. I am sorry if this is spoiling things for you.
A cavity of the Mongers’ arch procures a stench not even circulating gills alleviate. Our sweet egg, forgotten after a pastel Easter celebration, is threading stink under the floorboard. First a charcoal dark—no, no I bet they see red domes with ivy membranes letting in lights—and it falls sacked by cocardes bearing a purple and green disease. There must, of course, be blood before a denaturing of protein. The changed mortar—elastic, thick and floating down halls of mirrors and doors with handles so large only powdered wig valets can touch them; always with a crack crack crack on the metal mixing bowl.
Viscerals, eggs, Versailles were delicate sulfur faint places. Sprites of the staircase tumbling velvet, melting on gold; in tandem with pearls of ants marching in a death sea anemic bowel. Buttermilk soldiers spawn up river for ovum. They hunt for the warm and dense at the center. This is a chateau, no a cathedral. No mistress or monarch will wander down Eph Hall, the loveliest loftiest tunnel suspended with mirrors, ants, wigs and velvet guts. The abbess in her anchorage, no, no, the favorite of the court repeats a dressing cycle in her own room. More fabric, another garment, inches of powder until she is too cumbersome, too heavy in jewels, too much hair, too many hands from ladies maids and princesses of the blood. She over ripens and threads stink. She stays there, under doors in that tiny space given to open and fade to theatrical bronze statues. (Of course, of the picturesque, but—this is a process and it hurts.)
When gutting a fish always steer clear of the and second floor. It is haunted. When drawing Versailles do not forget to arch your back.
When smashing eggs wear lace gloves and bricks.