I’ve never had a diary in my youth because I was too cautious in keeping
myself away from such a burden.
I always thought diaries contained important, vulnerable and – after all
– harmful information about the people writing them. In my mind these diaries
always got “lost” and reappeared at an absolutely inappropriate moment for the
holders, when they could provoke catastrophes and, as such, serve somebody
else’s interests... Oh, and by the way: I was never ever thinking on the
liberating process of writing down my dreams for them to come true, for example…
The harm, only the harm this stuff can do – that was the only thing on my mind
considering the “diary issue”.
Now I’m 42 and I’m not romanticizing anymore the idea of having a diary,
neither its contents.
So, now I can have an amazing claret booklet for that purpose with yellowish
pages and a fairytale-like drawing on its cover representing a scholar or a
magician with very pretty eyeglasses, an immensely tall hat and a huge book on
which he rests his almost unreal hands with long, long fingers. He is sitting
in an ascending or descending hot-air balloon.
This object, so dear to me contains at this very moment my most valuable
secret dreams I’m praying for to come true. I’ve got it from a good friend whom
had told me while handing it over that
he doesn’t write anymore with his very hands, “no more handwriting, that’s the
truth, it’s too old fashioned” he said.
I immediately knew the booklet was made to become my diary. It was simply
meant to be, just like all those nasty relationships in most of the novels
we’ve read as young girls, with the purpose of assimilating properly the
knowledge of how to fully engage in and embrace future catastrophes…
So, that’s how it was meant to be… But now, after many decades I know
how to keep secrets! And the secret of keeping a great deal of secrets even if
somebody might find the object, the corpus
delicti is to have an unimaginably, almost scientifically awful handwriting.
As doctors do, I could say if I would want to romanticize disgrace.
But that’s not my intent here. I’m only trying to imagine my Guardian Angel’s
face – whom theoretically has no other choice but reading it – while having a hard time sorting out what the
hell on earth I wanted from him, and saying something like “Réka, Réka, this is
a mess, my girl! You are not even pretending to try to make yourself understood
and readable as so many other people do who want important things from us,
Guardian Angels! Are you serious?! What could I possibly do for you in such a
disgraceful situation you’ve created? I’m sorry, but this makes impossible putting
your case on the roll…”
Inspite all that, the truth is that I simply like the idea of a diary
with an ethereal cover having a totally surprising and somewhat desolating content
– idealistic beauty and realistic ugliness, side by side.
That’s exactly how life is, dear Guardian Angel! With flying K-s, tired
M-s, always changing E-s, unfinished R-s, appearing and disappearing I-s, shy
L-s and, of course, visibly pregnant O-s.
And I only wanted to enumerate just a few valuable symbols of my
uniquely lavishing handwriting…
So, Guardian Angel, see how things stand: in an amazing claret diary
with yellowish pages and a fairytale-like drawing on its cover representing a
scholar or a magician with very pretty eyeglasses, an immensely tall hat and a
huge book on which he rests his almost unreal hands with long, long fingers… is
nothing else but life itself formed into respectable and realistic dreams.
So, please, Guardian Angel, make a fuckin’ effort and do something about
them! At the age of 42 I even started a diary – My Dearest Diary – for making
these things happen…
Oh, and do me a favor! Please, don’t mind my language… it evolved
gradually since the time I would have only written nice and girlish shit on
those yellowish pages from my youth…
This text is
the extended version of the one I’ve written for a nice project on https://othernessproject.org/
Here is the “family”it belongs to:
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