It's not even a good story, a funny one. I think it might just be a literary manifestation of my fear of forgetting my childhood and my past. This story is more of a chapter from my autobiography than an elaborate discussion of something relevant. And like most biographical shit, it is unabashedly selfish and revolves around your Royal Highness.
In Georgia (the suburb of Europe, not the peachy south of America) we celebrate New Year before Christmas because for some funny religious reasons "Orthodox Christmas" falls on January the 7th. So, New Year's Eve is the night of joy and presents while Christmas is mostly associated with boring mass in a church or even better, a day off! And most importantly, Santa brings us presents on New Year's eve. That's probably why I didn't really care for Christmas that much.
As a child I never really asked for much. The first Christmas present I remember was a magician's cloak. I was probably 4 and it might have been my birthday cause I remember twirling in it uncontrollably in the yard, in my white shorts (I was "blessed" with a summer birthday). My mom had made it and it was white, with a blue collar and blue stars on it. I remember its weight and smell. And mind you, all that was before Harry Potter or Sabrina the teenage glitch had happened. Thinking of it now, yeah, it probably was my birthday. And no, I have no idea why I asked for a magician's cloak. Fashion statement? premature drag? perhaps. But, I never really liked magic tricks. However, I was fascinated by Meleficent. But that's neither here, nor there.
My mother came up with a family tradition: every year, an hour before the New Year we'd put few things underneath the Christmas tree that would symbolize the wishes we couldn't possible get as presents from each-other. I'd put my passport first (because I was an adventurer through and through), followed by a dollar bill my great grandmother had given me (cause I wasn't gonna be a "stay in a hostel, eat canned soup" kind of an adventurer), favorite books (mostly about Paris), keys (hoping one day I'd find my home), my mother's small, blue glass statue of a filly (because I broke one of its legs when I was a child and had been tortured by my conscience ever since), postcards from places I wanted to live in (mostly Paris and London), and my drawing papers (so I would never stop drawing).
As the time went by the symbols underneath the Christmas tree disappeared into non-being. but few remained: a passport (for adventures to break me free from the "Now"), books (for the mind to travel) and papers (for heart to pour out over). It is curious but since I was 15 I decided the B6 was the perfect pencil. I've never used another. And since I was 15 I've feared my poems and my drawings. I sometimes wake up at night, imagining that all the faces I've described, all the eyes I've painted have come to life. They stand there, in front of me and ask me why I made them so ugly. And I tell them they're not, that they ARE the best creatures on Earth. They are beautiful in more than one way. But the truth is, I could never draw well. I could never learn proportions. I don't think I've ever tried to learn them. Because oversized eyes were more peculiar. And I'd always take "odd" over "pretty".
Did you realize
how different you were
from everyone else?
Did you grieve your peculiarities?
Were you scared?
Were you brave?
I wrote this letter to my children. I write to them always.
But the life takes me to places beyond my imagination. I meet people and get carried away with them. I live their ideas of life. I fall in love with objects and places. And I forget.
And one day, I started this funny little "note" on my phone, of the "things I want". And to prove my point that I'm not who you thought I were, here is the list:
1. Bed covers, duvet. (to remind me that rattling, creaking sound of the white linen my grandmother would put on my bed. I loved going to sleep in white, wearing white.)
2. Bleu de Chanel. (to bring that frowning feeling into my mind, understanding that nothing is nice, or wonderful. That everything comes with a price. And I'm paying with time. I hid away from its midnight blue in my greying sheets.)
3. Liforme yoga mat. (to know that even the purest of practices are sometimes about money. And sometimes everything is about money. I've always wanted to be a soldier, my favorite fairy tale character was the Steadfast Tin Soldier and I carried his name as mine on Instagram for years (pale.tin.soldier). And practicing brings that steady, grounded feeling to my unpredictable life. And I'd rather practice on an expensive grounds, than on cheap.)
4. Mac. (because my last one stopped working and I'd like a pretty new one.)
5. Silver earring. (something only I can wear.)
6. White dress shirts. (because I used to wear them every day when I was a child.)
My list is simple and achievable. But it's missing things, things I decided not to share. Things I still haven't fully identified.
I sound like Philip Seymour Hoffman today. Read this letter with his voice.
the painting by Amadeo de Souza Cardoso
