A wallet is an important thing. It isn’t just a convenient receptacle for those items we need to guarantee our place in this world: credit cards, driver’s licence, medical aid card. Money is energy, a proxy for value, a store for it, and an expression of what matters to us.
Until today, I’d been using the wallet my ex-husband gave to me, again. It was beautiful: wine red, leather, Carrol Boyes. A little damaged now, by time and memories and associations.
The newer wallet I’d been using was bright pink, like almost everything else I have, so I don’t lose it in my handbags. I bought it from the Christmas Market at the Bryanston Catholic Church in December, for R120, and it took six months for the zip to break.
So I went back to using the wallet my ex-husband gave to me, and that felt wrong. As though I was holding onto those memories, though all of this is just projection, and I hold onto another of my ex’s gifts, a large wooden chicken as a totem. (So much so that it will feature in my talk at TEDxJohannesburg.)
I’d been looking out for another wallet, and yesterday I found it, in a shop at Oriental City Rivonia, the shopping centre formerly known as Rivonia Square nee The Cloisters, and one which reminds me of Chatswood in Sydney. I have a weakness for Engrish, and this was just perfect:
It was R38. On the other side, it bears this strangely appropriate legend:
I know I don’t have the answers to everythink. Everythink is part of the problem. But it’s possible that I am getting there. I’m not standing in one place. The dream is sweet.