Monday, March 15

this is what scrapbooks are for

there is a theory that oft-remembered memories—the kind you replay in your head again and again--wear out faster than the ones you carefully laminate and file away straight off. And by wear out we mean lose their resemblance to whatever they were meant to remember.

so it's been six years since I spent springtime in England. which bits of my regularly remembered past will still be recognizable? will I be able to measure precisely what percentage of those nine months are still as bright and sharp in my mind as they were back then?
"sometimes I really hate how slippery time can be.
we played hide and seek among the oldest-looking stone walls, draped with thick fuzzy moss. It was really cool, even if I did get moss in my hair. 
I've recently realized how lovely it is to open a gate and enter something so very like a secret in its separateness and its hidden-ness. It might be a public garden but it still feels very private. I love pushing open a rusted metal black gate, or one of wide, painted wood, and slipping into a quieter, enclosed space, full of green and smelling of plants. It is really nothing extraordinary, just a gate, in a wall, but it does seem just a tiny bit magical.
The sea looks as smooth and soft as silk, shining and light light blue. It frays, unraveling and curling up at the edges into lace fringing the sand. One up side to all this rain/sun/rain/sun/rain/sun manic depressive weather is I get to see a lot of rainbows.
This morning the clouds looked like purple loaves of french bread, buttered by the young sunlight. The sky was so clear I could see, in detail, the red muddiness of the cliffs on the other side of the Exe, and the bright green hedge-crossed hills basking in a wet sunrise."
these are my memories. I'm trying to keep them safe.

excuse me while I put this laptop away and take out my camera.

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