Tapestry 01: The Becoming: Djordje, not George.
You’ll come to know me intimately in these entries. You’re invited. These aren’t your journals—they’re mine. Written by me, in the way I need them written. The way that resonates with me first, before it ever gets the opportunity to resonate with the world’s frequency. If an opinion or criticism creeps up in you as you indulge, that’s a sign for you to go back to your house.
One of the central truths of this “heritage”—this house you’re about to step into—is that although it feels new, it was built long before any of us could name it Maison Djordje.
You feel legacy in these bones.
You’ll feel the spirit in these words that hold up the walls of this Maison.
And I invite you to steep in the warmth of being deeply and intimately recognized.
“Djordje” is pronounced George.
Which is funny, because I spent years trying to run away from that name—and even longer learning how to reinterpret it.
I’m 39. Full Taurus. Born in Fort Lauderdale, Florida in 1986. If you’re millennial-minded, you’ll probably relate to my knee-jerk reaction to architect my childhood into a sentence that smells like 1995. That year is the emotional centerpiece of almost every childhood story I carry under the palm trees of South Florida. And truthfully, that’s about as much factual family heritage I can tell you. I don’t come from a long documented line of crests and heirlooms.
I used to envy those who did.
The families with antiques and momentos.
The ones who talk about their great-great-grandmother like she’s in the next room. The ones who pass down land, companies, recipes… stocks and shit.
That’s stunning. I genuinely love that some people get to live that reality.
I don’t feel victimized, anymore. I’ve learned how to smolder and smoke the spices of my childhood into a life that is far richer, far more decadent, than if someone had simply handed me a dream life with a bow on it.
I was named wrong.
I felt energetic offense the moment my skin felt earthy air. Moments out of the womb, I knew something was off. I sensed it.
And I knew that I’d registered that feeling before I was able to name it.
I’ve never forgotten it. Not dramatic. Truth.
I carried the sound of my own misnaming like background noise—like life’s background music I never picked, but everyone assumed I liked. The human that held me in her birth canal called me George. They all did.
Mainly because she told them to. I didn’t take me long to get it. I figured out it all worked. The lead humans that orchestrate your entrance into the atmosphere get the responsibility of blindly choosing a label for your spirit so the rest know how to point to it. Convenient. I’ve come to find this dimension loves convenience. It’s distraction from what requires attention. Escape from recognition of truth.
Convenience dilutes reverance though. It strips soul in exchange for palatability, making what’s whole digestible for those with small frameworks. I felt my fragmentation the moment I was placed in her arms. No malice, only deeply unaware. A conveyor belt of protocol. Cut umbilical, smack butt, wrap in towel, place on human vessel. Branding was complete before spirit entered. Paperwork sealed and placed in mail. Something was wrong and knew it.
And how could y’all not know?!
At first, “y’all” meant everyone. Including you. Sometimes still does.
Eventually, I realized I was really talking to her though.
She was the human I saw most. The softest and most consistent presence I had.
And with no words, no understanding, just instinct—I began expecting her to meet all of my needs.
All I had was sense back then. But that sense had enough sense to know:
She was the move.
As I started to realize I was assigned to her, I recognized she had a host of ideas, beliefs and expectations to follow. She wanted me to follow her lead. She insisted that the other humans she knew, were also people I should know. People I should acknowledge and sometimes revere.
I didn’t get enough opportunity to assess my own framework for the type of humans I wanted in my energetic field as she kept insisting that the people she referred to as cousin, aunt, grandmother and father were also somehow linked to me. And that I had some type of allegiance and expectation to meet of them. I didn’t recognize them. Things felt rushed. Misaligned. I could feel my power lessening by the minute and I knew something wasn’t right.
My family? No kind of traditional fabulous.
And for a long time, I held a quiet disappointment about that.
These weren’t the people I’d seen in my visions. They weren’t the ones I sat by the fire with. They smelled of smoky coriander and sage.
I was born with other people in mind.
And these puzzle pieces... just didn’t seem to fit.
But what choice did I have in the matter at this point? I’d agreed to their energy, not their aesthetic.
Turns out, I had to rediscover my family.
It took me a couple of decades to piece it together. You’ll learn the sauce that flavors the base of this rich and complex gumbo.
It’s been simmering for centuries.
And I’ve been chosen to serve it.
You’ll know these people.
You’ll feel the energetic tug of curiosity, sparkle, and awe as you unfold them.
And you’ll come to realize:
This is your family too.
They are felt.
Their visions. Their aspirations. They live in your spines. In the hum of your quietest breath. In the depths of deepest patience. They’re manifestations of love, stirred with complex herbs and holy heat.
My specialty in the lineage is architecture. The maestro of design and packaging. The ancestors sent me to give this to you with style. The expensive shit, baby. It’s the kind you didn’t know to ask for.
So expensive the “rich people” don’t recognize it.
So soft it doesn’t show up on radars.
So slick oil cans can’t hold it.
So bright, words block its view.
You have to know what you’re looking at to appreciate this.
And those who don’t?
Well... aren’t we glad they don’t? Don’t come crowding this Maison with unqualified tastes.
My soul has brought you The Djordjes—our deeply human story, dressed in elegance. I’m only one kind. But a kind none of us can fully comprehend.
This story I’m coming to tell?
It’s rough, as in raw. Rustic, as in rough chopped on purpose. Organic for health, not for trend. Then, draped in “Djordje Inheritance Teal” for a velvety texture. You haven’t had it before. It takes some time for your palette to align with this.
And it started with two beautifully imperfect souls.
My real-life father, George… a paraplegic English school teacher.
And a teenage chanteuse of a mother—Veronica, 17 years old, now with two children in tow. The undeniable core ingredients of “The Djordje” recipe. It’s in everything we serve here.
They weren’t who I pictured.
But God?
He’s the best artist there is.
He paints with colors we forgot shined brightly on the palette. He did His thing with those two.
They got my name wrong though.
_______
Upgrade your latte and then return, darling.
This is a slow sip and no place for skimming.
If you felt even the slightest bit of discomfort from reading this, I highly suggest studying The Djordje Codes before you continue roaming the parlor. Don’t get full, I haven’t served you yet.
Christopher.
