24 December 2020

Déjà vu


photo by Becca Tapert

| 2 minue read | 2 hours work | 

I imagine that women have their fingers stabbed and they carry a foxglove to the store, because since so much sewing they have almost grown to their fingers and they travel with them in public transport and maybe go home with it and cook dinner with it. Until one of the sons finds a silver foxglove in the vegetable soup instead of the piece of carrot.

Everything in life would be enough for me to experience only once. Or at least once. And remember it forever. I would stow the memories in a nice wrapping paper, tie it with a ribbon, write - mine. Put away. And at every trip and occasion, I would take them with me and talk about them to Mia or just think about them quietly or write a book and never let anyone to read it. 
 
I am modest. Only once would this life be enough for me. And only once I would like to experience and see some things and live someone's happiness. Is it bigger than mine? And realize it. To go through someone's pain and understand the meaning of the word empathy. But only once. I would like to fly up and also fall for five seconds from the seventh floor, I would like to know the feeling when someone does not know that he is and who he is. Once to meet on the street someone like me and never meet her again. To see the world in black and white. To not hear. To be not able to say hello. To talk. To sing. To be without hands. Legs. To paint a magnificent picture, then destroy it, smash a mirror, burn a book, listen to Mia´s talk and tell her... Whatever she wants to hear. I would just like to be born once. 
 
I've never, but really never sat on a pony in that fairy-tale carousel, where the music plays like the music from a music box that is stretched with a key. Colorful light bulbs are flashing on that carousel, children are laughing, some are even crying and adults are shouting at them - Hold on! I've never been dizzy from such a carousel. I've never been sick and vomited from too much ice cream. Never. And I would like to do it only once. 
 
I may never see with my own eyes anything from a secret workshop of any Parisian brand and I will not see golden needles sewing handmade buttons and cotton threads and crochet laces and I will not see those hands that still control sewing machines by hand and electricity is used only for lighting. I imagine that women have their fingers stabbed and they carry a foxglove to the store, because since so much sewing they have almost grown to their fingers and they travel with them in public transport and maybe go home with it and cook dinner with it. Until one of the sons finds a silver foxglove in the vegetable soup instead of the piece of carrot. I also imagine eyeglasses. With thick glass and small loving eyes. I imagine the meters. Kilometers of different meters and rulers. And super-sharp silver scissors, hanging on small wooden hangers and strong hands that cut the canvas with ease and precision to the millimeter. I imagine that the windows have blinds, that there is a bit of daylight. Maybe they have those modern windows, through which you can see out, but not inside. But I strongly doubt it. Let's stay by the frosted milky windows. So no one could see a knot from the new collection. I imagine large brown wooden tables with drawers that are difficult to pull out and are full of various compartments, marked with a glued paper, which have been there for years, and each paper is replaced and re-described - bleu, only when the old one at so much use destroys. There are beads in those compartments. Various. From glass, wood, pearl, divided by shades, arranged exactly as the rainbow told them once to do it. I imagine, that it scents there like a lavender. A top-secret weapon for every tailor. Against moths. Can you imagine that flood of tears when, after months of work, when such a moth enjoy a dinner on one sleeve? I imagine that everyone drinks a coffee and there are no names on the cups, but everyone knows that this one is only Elise´s. I imagine that there are parquet floors, which are folded into such V, and that no one there slams the doors. Never. Just a wind in the summer from a half-open window. I imagine pins with colored glass heads, the ones I used to collect when I was little. They are pierced in a sponge, you can find them on paper templates, on mannequins, you hear them falling from the table. They are everywhere. I imagine Coco is sitting there somewhere at night, turning on the radio and counting the stitches, and when they are even, she takes a glass of red Bordeaux and sing and maybe dance in one of these clothes, on which we look with an amazement, when the model walks just one everlasting minute on the catwalk. I imagine that the tailors come to the workshop early in the morning and leave late at night in the time before the fashion show. And that they are tired and nervous and afraid because they have no idea. Because no one, none of them at all knows, what Anna Wintour hides behind her eyeglasses. And because one look is more than a thousand words and a million dollars, Anna wears black eyeglasses. Ever since Anna invented black eyeglasses, people know nothing. Not even what they should. 
 
And I imagine there are chalks in that workshop. Colored chalks. And the children draw flowers, houses, cars and trees on the sidewalk in front of the house of workshop and something that only they understand and they scream - the ice cream truck! I'm afraid, I'll never experience any of these moments. To visit such a workshop is like a walk into a safe full of treasures that have the indescribable and incalculable value of beauty. But I don't mind at all, because I have a déjà vu and I've been through all this before. In my head. Perhaps. And maybe not. 
 
Only those lost foxgloves in vegetable soups worry me.
Všetko v živote by mi stačilo zažiť len raz. Alebo aspoň raz. A pamätať si to navždy. Zabaliť spomienky do pekného baliaceho papiera, previazať ho stuhou, napísať moje. Odložiť. A pri každej ceste a príležitosti ich brať so sebou a rozprávať o nich Mii alebo na ne len potichu myslieť alebo napísať knihu a nedať ju nikdy nikomu prečítať. 
 
Som skromná. Len raz by mi stačil tento život. A len raz by som chcela prežiť a vidieť niektoré veci a prežiť niečie šťastie. Či je to moje väčšie. A uvedomiť sa. Prežiť niečiu bolesť a pochopiť význam slova empatia. Ale len raz. Chcela by som letieť hore a taktiež padať päť sekúnd zo siedmeho poschodia, chcela by som poznať ten pocit, keď niekto nevie, že je a kým je. Len raz stretnúť na ulici tú istú ako ja a už nikdy ju nestretnúť znovu. Vidieť svet čiernobielo. Nepočuť. Nedokázať zo seba vydať pozdrav. Nerozprávať. Nespievať. Nemať ruky. Nohy. Namaľovať veľkolepý obraz, vzápätí ho zničiť, rozbiť zrkadlo, zapáliť knihu, vypočuť Miu, čo si o tom všetkom myslí a povedať jej... Len raz by som sa chcela narodiť. 
 
Nikdy, ale naozaj nikdy som nesedela na poníkovi v tom rozprávkovom kolotoči, kde hraje taká tá hudba ako z hracej skrinky, ktorá sa naťahuje na kľúč. Na tom kolotoči blikajú farebné žiarovky, deti sa smejú, niektoré dokonca plačú a dospelí na ne hulákajú Držte sa! Nikdy sa mi z takého kolotoča netočilo v hlave. Nikdy mi nebolo zle a nepozvracala som sa zo zmrzliny. Nikdy. A stačilo by mi to len raz. 
 
Možno nikdy neuvidím na vlastné oči nič z tajnej dielne žiadnej parížskej značky a neuvidím zlaté ihly, ktorými prišívajú ručne vyrábané gombíky a neuvidím bavlnené nite a háčkováne krajky a neuvidím tie ruky, ktoré ešte stále ovládajú šijacie stroje ručne a elektrika sa tam používa len na svietenie. Predstavujem si, že ženy majú dopichané prsty od ihiel a nosia náprstníky aj do obchodu, lebo im od toľkého šitia takmer prirástli k prstom a cestujú s nimi v mhd a chodia s nimi možno až domov a varia tam s nimi večeru. Až kým si jeden zo synov nenájde v zeleninovej polievke namiesto mrkvy strieborný náprstník. Tiež si predstavujem okuliare. S hrubými sklami a malé láskavé oči. Predstavujem si metre. Kilometre rôznych metrov a pravítiek. A superostré strieborné nožnice, visiace na drevených vešiačikoch a pevné ruky, ktoré strihajú plátno s ľahkosťou a presnosťou na milimeter. Predstavujem si, že okná majú rolety, že tam prechádza trochu denného svetla. Možno majú také tie moderné sklá, cez ktoré sa vidí von, ale dnu už nie. Ale silno o tom pochybujem. Ostaňme pri mliečnych sklách. To aby nikto nevidel ani uzlík z novej kolekcie. Predstavujem si veľké hnedé drevené stoly a v nich šuflíky, ktoré sa ťažko otvárajú a sú plné rôznych priehradiek, označených nalepenými popísanými papierikmi, ktoré tam sú už takto roky a každý ten papierik niekto vymení a znovu popíše bleu len vtedy, keď sa ten starý pri toľkom používaní zničí. V tých priehradkách sú gorálky. Rôzne. Sklenené, drevené, perlové, rozdelené podľa odtieňov, zoradené presne tak, ako im to povedala dúha. Predstavujem si, že to tam vonia po levanduliach. Supertajná zbraň každého krajčíra. Proti moliam. Viete si predstaviť tú potopu sĺz, keď po mesiacoch práce si na jednom rukáve pochutná taká moľa? Predstavujem si, že má každý svoju obľúbenú šálku a na šálkach nie sú žiadne mená, ale každý vie, že tá je len Elisina. Predstavujem si, že tam vŕzgajú pri chodení parkety, ktoré sú poskladané do takých tých véčiek a že nikto tam netrieska dverami. Nikdy. Len prievan v lete z pootvoreného okna. Predstavujem si špendlíky s farebnými sklenenými hlavičkami, také, ktoré som zbierala, keď som bola malá. Sú pozapichované v špongii, nájdete ich na papierových predlohách, na figurínach, počujete, ako padajú zo stola. Sú všade. Predstavujem si, že tam niekde v noci posedáva Coco a zapne si rádio a počíta stehy a keď tie sadnú na vlas, dá si pohár červeného Bordeaux a popritom si spieva a ktovie, možno aj tancuje v jedných z tých šiat, na ktoré sa pozerá s úžasom, keď sa modelka prejde len jednu jedinú minútu po móle. Predstavujem si, že krajčírky prichádzajú do dielne skoro ráno a v čase pred módnou prehliadou odchádzajú neskoro v noci. A že sú unavené a nervózne a majú strach, lebo netušia. Lebo nikto, vôbec nikto z nich nevie, ako sa zatvári Anna Wintour. A pretože je jeden pohľad viac, než tisíc slov a milión dolárov, nosí Anna čierne okuliare. Od tej doby, čo vynašla Anna čierne okuliare, ľudia nič nevedia. Ani to, čo by mali. 
 
A predstavujem si, že v tej dielni sú aj kriedy. Farebné kriedy. A deti kreslia pred domom na chodník kvety, domy, autá a stromy a niečo, čomu rozumejú len oni a hraju škôlku a kričia ide zmrzlinár! Obávam sa, že nikdy nič z toho neprežijem ani raz. Nahliadnuť do takej dielne, je totiž ako nazrieť do trezoru plného pokladov, ktoré majú tú neopísateľnú a nevyčísliteľnú hodnotu krásy. Ale vôbec mi to nevadí, lebo mám déjá vu a toto všetko som už raz prežila. Vo svojej hlave. Možno. A možno nie. 
 
Len tie postrácané náprstníky v zeleninových polievkach mi robia starosť.
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