Old New Beginnings
Waking up in a new brand year gives me the same pleasure as starting writing on an immaculate page. It used to scare me when I was a teenager and I thought life offered a myriad possibilities and they would be all mine had I just reached for them. Then, as time passed and I started thinking jazz and its desperate notes would match my life much better than rock’n'roll or heavy metal, I gradually lost my faith in the possibility of change and felt very disillusioned about brand new years: I knew that they would be very much like the previous ones, that I would be very much like my previous year self.After my meeting with Gwendolyn, though, I started perceiving the unpredictability of life again. Changes may not happen on January the first, but no matter how comfortable in our daily life we are, they do happen and we have to deal with them. And more often than not, we will not know how to do it, but we’ll find out we possess qualities we never suspected. That’s the beauty of life, I guess. We are only half explored universes; hopefully something happens that makes us realise our full potential.That luckily happened to me. Gwendolyn Sourcil happened to me.
When Devi and I entered the diner, a fair-haired waitress wearing too much make up welcomed us and brought us coffee. We asked to meet uncle Ben. The man arrived bringing a smell of fried meat with him. I immediately liked him, he was very friendly and seemed keen to answer our questions about Jett and Gwendolyn. Granted, their works could probably attract customers, but the man probably genuinely enjoyed meeting new people like us. Besides, Devi was using all her charm which meant no man on earth would be unfriendly to her.
When we had finished our first cup of coffee (not the best one I had tasted in my life but coffee was not what had brought us there) uncle Ben took us to the small corner of the diner where Gwendolyn and Jett’s paintings were displayed. Jett’s works were quite varied, they ranged from fantasy landscapes to portraits of powerful warriors. The subject of his paintings were not that original, but the style was nonetheless remarkable. He was only fifteen after all. Gwendolyn’s works seemed to belong to two completely different phases. The older ones were very much like Jett’s, even though she recurred to much harsher brush strokes. Then something must have happened and she had dedicated her art to angels only. To one angel only I should say. As a matter of fact all the works represented a beautiful, sad angel whose vermilion lips were parted in disdain. I had the impression I had seen that angel face before but I couldn’t remember when.
Meanwhile, a skinny teenager had come to our side, Jett. He politely asked us how we were after introducing himself. I said I really liked his works, especially those representing medieval warriors. Devi told Ben the boy was adorably shy, then, with the apparently careless expression I had recently seen so many times, she asked if it was possible to meet Gwendolyn too.
Ben took us to the back-garden and there was Gwendolyn, practising free throw shooting. I was surprised not to be impressed by her appearance. While everything about Kinvarra was extraordinary, Gwendolyn seemed a perfectly normal twelve-year-old blondie wearing a baseball cap, a worn-out sweater and a pair of jeans. As she drew nearer she pulled her cap so down over her eyes one could barely catch a glimpse of them. Her forehead and eyebrows could not be seen. In spite of this, I noticed that she was very beautiful but she was doing whatever she could to look ordinary and unpleasant. It looked as if she had tried and only partially succeeded in rubbing off that special glow that distinguished indigo children and that Kinvarra so much emphasized.
Devi’s charm had no effect on Gwendolyn whatsoever and she barely took notice of my presence. I was very disappointed and I could feel my Indian friend’s frustration as well. As we were driving back, she would say Gwendolyn was the least cooperative child ever.
I thought that was the end of it and that I would never meet Gwendolyn again. But I was wrong, I was about to meet her very soon, in my sleep.
Christmas Is Over
And Boxing Day is, too. I don’t complain.
I spent both days thinking about my past Christmases, just like Mr. Scrooge from A Christmas Carol by Dickens. There is nothing that makes you think of the days when you were little like Christmas, isn’t there? You’re reminded of all your childhood hopes and dreams you thought you had long forgotten but are still there, intact, aching.
Still, I do consider myself a lucky man; I’ve been through so much and yet I don’t have many regrets. Given the extraordinary circumstances I’ve often found myself into, I’m not unhappy with the decisions I made: did I always do the right thing? I don’t know. Only time will tell.
This Christmas I thought a lot about Gwendolyn, too. Of course, how could I not? My thoughts flew back to the afternoon I drove Devi to her uncle’s diner. The rain was washing the wheat fields, everything looked kind of misty. Devi and I were alone in the car, so I decided I’d take my chance to finally have some answers.
-What’s indigo art?- Devi looked as if she had been expecting such a question. but took her time to answer. Carelessly flattening her blue sari, she told me indigo children were children who were geniuses. They could paint, write poetry or music at an incredible early age and with excellent results.
-Haven’t you ever heard of them?
-No , I don’t think so.
-They are quite a controversial group. There are some religious fanatics in it, people who think the kids’ abilites are someting God gave them to distinguish them from anyone else; according to this people indigo children are the chosen few who can save the world. And, as you can imagine, there are adults who try to exploit the children’s extraordinary talent financially.
- I see. Why are you so interested in the group, Devi?
As if it had known that Devi didn’t want to answer, her cell started ringing. Trying to conceal my disappointment, I concentrated on the road map in order to check our position. You can think I’m insane, but I had the impression Devi had known the cell would phone so that she could avoid answering me. And when she finally ended her conversation (in Indian, I couldn’t understand a word) I was parking right outside Uncle Ben’s diner.
Should I not have time to go on with my story before 2007 ends, let me just wish happy new year to you all.
