Mona Lisa Flies...

Dear Ms Nixie,

Buiongiorno, Come stai? I heard of your letters from the time-travelling tourists around my parts and wondered if you might offer me a good spot of advice? I was never anybody special. I was a common girl who happened to find myself in the studio of a great artist one fine November afternoon sitting on a Rock selling flowers in the middle of the piazza. He asked me for a bunch or two and looking sideways with the sun in one eye I suppose it must have captured the man’s attention and god only knows why. He asked me to sit for him. My name is Mona Lisa. I came back to see what all the fuss was about, crossed over from the past to here and now and what about it? What the dickens is going on? All of them lining up in the great gallery to see my picture. Nobody cared a scrap when I was a peasant. Now all of them have a price tag attached to my lips. There’s blooming cups and pencil cases. There’s tea towels and all manner of printed tees. I was a lonely girl. I was the sort who would agree to some time with another for the company you know. I didn’t accept any money. I didn’t expect that anyone would ever know me or remember me. He made a piece of art in my honour on that day and we danced, as though it were all night. I gave him some flowers. He gave me the best night of my life and quite frankly that was well and truly enough. Everything else would surely have been icing on the cake. Now, I feel terribly strange and wondered why they only could see me later because of a man, because of the price-tag on my lips, because I was anonymous. I wanted only to be loved and to be loved in return. I was wondering on your thoughts?

Yours,

Ms Mona Lisa.

Ps. I don’t suppose you had any correspondence from Rock Hudson or James Dean? I have a nice little pair of shorty shorts I wouldn’t mind them modelling for me. Don’t put yourself out or anything. Oh and another thing, on that night I showed the fine artist some of my ideas. He was rather shocked, me, having a secret file of work. It was all about flying machines and helicopters and parachutes. Hmmm, well, I always wanted to fly you see.

Dear Ms Lisa,

How truly wonderful to make your acquaintance. I was rather busy on this a Saturday evening with a very important date, wild, free and experimental, out on the road living it rough and ready with my friends from the Antique Road Show. It’s okay have recorded the program so all good to go. Now, my dear, I’m sorry you feel materialised and that you never got a chance to tell the world your story in full and sometimes, yes, money makes the world go round and I see that you were wronged. All the same wasn’t it wonderful what a story teller you really were after- all. How many went to see you smile? How often can a smile tell a thousand words for everything about you made them want to know and discover and wonder and understand. In looking into those eyes of mischief and mishap people started to talk to each other. They spun their yarn and asked….. Who is that girl? Your mystery was hope in it’s own beautiful way. The undiscovered can bring us that next day and the next, that light we might never want to switch off. You helped them to make stories from a bud of mystery to a blooming garden. Imagination is flight and you my dear girl are a pilot. Not everyone was a greedy passenger. Not everyone will be that. Remember the lights. Remember the ones who loved you.

Yours Ms Nixie Nicla.

Ps I was in touch with the boys Rock, James Dean and Mr Swayze and if you meet them between porthole 7 and 8, there’s a bloody good set of legs for your high appraisal darling.