When clothes meet the children

Dear diary, dear readers, dear friends,

I often went to the cinema on the back of my mistress to contemplate what heroes, real or fantasy ones, your world has producted and what kind of wardrobes they have been assigned.

Among them there was a kind of heroes who fascinated me until I rubbed my stitches against theirs in real life: the children people.

alice_wonderland_johntenniel

Alice in Wonderland by Sir John Tenniel

This small people, gifted with a monstruous nerve and an outstanding talent for stains, produce some heroes whose qualities seem disproportionate regarding to their little height. They experience ridiculous fears when adults know how to see reason through those but they can adapt to supernatural better than any grown-up.

When you imagine them in fabulous stories, you make them hear the Nature, talk to the trees, travel through mirrors and time, fight dragons, fly on giant dogs, play with ghosts, knock trolls off… when you do not simply let the future of the world in their hands. Never, even when life dresses them with pitiful childhoods, the quality of their soul and their bravery are altered.

From all the heroes humanity created, you have never made greatest ones than children.

Therefore, for all these reasons, I should not worry about the confidences exchanged between the bare foot young miss of the house and her blooming dress. Perhaps you would say I should be glad of this encounter between the Children People and the Clothes one but you know me, my friends… The only place I feel adventurous is on a rod.

Of which adventures would we be the accomplices if our young mistress goes to reveal this secret at school during playtime ? I can already imagine the kind of punishment we, clothes, would be inflicted upon.

Alice in Wonderland illustrated by sir John Tenniel

Unwashed souls…

Mia Wasikowska in Jane Eyre
Photo by Laurie Sparham – © 2011 Focus Features

Dear diary, dear readers, dear friends,

I am feeling rather lonely today. Alfred, my old beautiful friend as well as the oldest jacket of our closet (Can you believe he was actually born between two wars ?) went yesterday night to The Clinic of Leather for his annual check-up. Anna has fallen down the bookcase between a jointed dictionnary (I have always thought the family dictionnary looked like a bumptious chicken) and The Clan of the Cave Bear. I do not know if you can imagine the scene nor if you remember how delicatly the poor Aya discovered sexuality among the clan which raised her but my dear Karenina is totally upside down. I would not be surprised if she did not let me slip into her pages anymore.

I have not been able to get in touch with the new dress of the yougn miss yet. Not a single time since her arrival she has been near the laundry basket. I suspect she will soon be able to walk by herself. How strong she must smell since all this time !

Have I ever said to you that a garment worn a long time without being washed ran the risk to find itself dressed by the soul of its master ? It is not that I want to scare you of course. Something tells me the clothes are more often washed in your wardrobes than ours.

I do remember some earlir love story at a time my mistress used to feed her soul (and her body by the same occasion) with ephemeral passions. A gentleman all dresssed in Habit Rouge had let on her sofa the pullover of their first night together (or was it an afternoon ?). My mistress kept it and wore it a long time without washing it, too scared of losing for ever the fleeting perfume of their vanilla-scented sexual crossing on an amber and leather bed. The poor pullover, abandoned by a modern-day Jay Gatsby, only had his lambswool left to cry. Between its slightly iodized tears on its dense and wet wool, the perfume of the italian sun in winter, the mixed scents of soap and the skin of a man who carefully prepared himself to please before betraying his true intentions and excitement under a few drops of perspiration, the stale smell of the two skins rubing against each other, a remnant of tobacco above amber, leather and soon the own smells of my mistress who wore it without shame, the poor jumper became mad. We could see it roaming the flat without really knowing whom he belonged to nor even which language was its. One day, he felt as a man. The other as a woman. Its lambswool was totally upset by the lost of its identity.

As I have not made his acquaintance before this tragic incident, I cannot tell you what kind of pullover he was normally in its everyday life before being abandoned by its master and worn to my mistress’ obsession. Anyway, he has been inhabited for a long time by their two souls which, I presume, only though of letting themselves go between its stitches only for a short time.

Hopefully, the obsessions of my mistress never last more than the tattoos you can find in boxes of melted cheese. As soon as she fall in love with another man, she washed the Italian lambswool and replaced it on her skin by the grey British lambswool of our latest Lord. The Italian pullover felt like its old self again, but was still unsettled and ashamed of the lost of its identity.

You see, detergent does not remove stains as much as splinters of soul in our stitches. The splinters of your souls, I mean. We already wear ours at the surface of our wool. I let you imagine what we suffer when we carry yours too.

But I feel so good in your neighbourhood hat I am wandering from the point, my friends. I am longing to meet this little dress in the washing machine so we can discuss her indiscretion.

Meanwhile, since we are talking about souls and since Anna seems to lose hers at he gate of prehistoric ages, I am going to meet Jane. Jane Eyre, republished by Folio this spring in France as long as The Waves from Virginia Woolf. Dominique Barbéris explains in the preface the reason of the success of Jane Eyre is a soul talking to other souls. Willima Thackeray, at the death of Charlotte Brontë, wrote " Which of her readers has not been her friend ?"

I am going to check right now if our mutual friendship is still lasting since my first read of the book a few…  Oh, such a long time ago it does not need to be precised.

I wish you a lovely afternoon, my dear friends.

All the best,

The new dress of the young miss

The young mistress of the house has been offered a new dress. When I heard “she” came from Monoprix, I emotionnally remembered a certain apron which used to come and chat with us every morning between 5 and 6 o’clock in the clothes department of the old Monoprix of Monsouvenir. It has always told me the worse department to vacuum was the children clothes department. They were as facetious as those of our young masters here.

This particular dress is so formal "she" makes me yawn my stitch off. “She” has the length of princesses. Since she arrived she applies herself to satisfy the young miss like a dress worthy of the name. However much she bored me, I have to admit she perfectly plays the role.

“The other girls were around 8 years old, she said when arriving in our home. They tried me on as if I was just a common summer dress but this little mistress is different. From the height of her 5 years old, she is so small I come down to her feet. For her, I am a princess dress. As so I have to honor her and help her growing up until she wears me as a short summer dress too.”

Since this day, the young miss of the house has not taken her off. She, so used to cover herself in pencil, jam, tears and scratches, has not stained her a single time. She even sleep in this dress at night.

This morning, the young mistress got up and to the lady of the house she said “I have slept very well with my dress. We shared some secrets.”

The lady answered tenderly “This dress must be your friend then. What does it tell you when I am not listening ?”

“It talks about blooming landscapes. Blossoming perfumes and horses wearing red bows in their manes.”

In my humble opinion, my friends, this little dress from Monoprix will not get to the laundry that soon.

Some clothes should grow as the same pace as the children who wear them. Do not think I am telling you this because her little blooming print appealed to my stitch. I simply consider that a cloth is sometimes the best friend of a child.

Il n’est pas sans risque de vieillir

La petite princesse au nez crotté vient de sauter par-dessus mes mailles. J’étais en train de me prélasser sur le corps ensommeillé de madame quand elle a sauté sur le lit. Il faut que je refreine mon envie de la fouetter. C’est son anniversaire. Le petit prince arrive en hurlant dans un cône de papier. « Elle a réussi », qu’il crie. La princesse aux pieds nus jure que sa cadette a grandi durant la nuit. Ils sont en train de la féliciter comme si c’était un miracle d’avoir survécu 3 ans dans cette famille de sauvages. Je confirme. C’en est un. D’ailleurs, pour la peine, je vais aller m’éloigner un peu. J’entends l’appel du panier à linge. Comment cela, vous ne me croyez pas ? Je vous certifie que de vieux amis dans le panier me supplient de les rejoindre. Je ne peux résister à aucune forme de supplication, surtout quand elle me rappelle que je suis désiré. Madame n’y verra que du feu en sortant de sa douche. Elle s’est offerte un autre pull prune il y a deux ans. Tout acrylique. Elle ne cesse de nous confondre. (Pourtant, je vous assure qu’il n’y a pas de quoi.) Ce matin, cela m’arrange. J’ai déjà survécu à douze fêtes d’anniversaire pour enfants – sans compter celles auxquelles les deux autres étaient invités – je vais me planquer.

L’ado rétrécie

Ce matin, je me suis encore retrouvé sur le dos de la petite dernière pour cause de courants d’air. Elle n’est pas méchante, la petite dernière, mais elle a tendance à croire que je suis extensible à l’infini. Ce matin, elle s’est enroulée dans ma laine comme un petit escargot, faisant semblant de dormir sur le canapé mais je savais bien que cette petite baveuse écoutait de toutes ses oreilles le reste de la famille planifier sa fête d’anniversaire. C’est que la petite princesse au nez crotté, mercredi, fêtera ses 3 ans. Elle était aussi excitée qu’une petite mite entre mes mailles. Comme son frère et sa soeur se battaient pour savoir lequel des deux planterait la troisième bougie sur le gâteau, la petite princesse a fini par sauter sur le canapé. Usant d’une de mes manches comme d’un porte-voix, elle s’est écriée le plus naturellement du monde: "Si j’ai trois ans, ça veut dire que je suis bientôt une ado ?"

Conversation manquée #1

Une fois les défilés passés, je me plais à retrouver sur Net-a-porter ces pièces des catwalks avec lesquelles j’avais entamées des discussions imaginaires quelques mois plus tôt – et d’autres, comme cette robe Marni à l’imprimé qui m’enchante.

robe_marni

Je lui aurais dit "vous avez de beaux arbres".

Elle aurait chuchoté "oui mais sombres, très sombres…"

Et je lui aurais répondu "j’aime les amours sombres !"

Elle aurait rougi. Je me serais alors empressé de lui dire que je l’aime ainsi en noir et gris mais elle se serait détournée pour me cacher son trouble. J’aurais vu son feuillage frissonner malgré lui. Impuissant à la rassurer, je l’aurais entendue me dire "Vous ne croyez pas que les femmes préfèrent les tableaux printaniers ?"

"Pas celles qui vivent de l’encre" lui aurais-je répondu avec véhémence. "Celles-là aiment que leurs courbes épousent des paysages sauvages, des illustrations puisées dans les pages de livres anciens."

"Et vous voyez tout cela en moi ?" se serait-elle étonnée.

"Et plus encore mais, pour l’heure, c’est une femme que je vais bientôt voir en vous."

Et mademoiselle se serait avancée pour l’enfiler. La surface de l’eau aurait ondulé contre ses hanches, les branches se seraient animées. Le corps en mouvement l’aurait à lui seul colorée.

 

# Fin de la conversation que je n’aurais jamais.#

 

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