Dear readers,
I published a thread on Wednesday that came to mind as I was driving home the day before, lightened by an orange and imposing moon... The discussion is still open, so feel free to go for a ride! Thank you, Sarah, Ayesha, and Trisha for sharing your thoughts with me and the community. ♥︎
I am writing this letter to you while listening to the album of guitarist, surfer, and traveler Ben Howard, Noonday Dream. I love this artist! The album's melodies, which combine strings and sound effects (feedback, echo, delay, and distortion) give the impression that the music was recorded in the depths of the ocean amid the whales' singing. If you are looking for a travel companion for your writing sessions, this British artist will be your best friend.
Am I a dreamer? I've already thought about taking my guitar, surfboard, and backpack to go on the roads of the world, but I haven't been able to take the leap yet. Maybe one day, who knows.
The writer to discover or rediscover this week on Scribe is Elle Rogers. I especially like her poems, like Re(dress) and Dark Quiet Nothing.
It's surprising how simple objects can evoke old memories. The other day, my mother packed me a little bag that she gave me before I left after having dinner with her and my father. When I opened it once at home, I found a napkin in her small fabric pocket, both embroidered with my name.
I've had this napkin since I was a kid. It has always been part of my luggage during my summer camps and during the holidays with my parents.
As in 1998 during a trip to the treetops where we jumped for joy in a village square after winning the World Cup against Brazil. A very cold winter in Switzerland shortly before I came of age. On Queensland roads in Australia 19 years ago, between Cairns and Brisbane. In the south of France in Seignosse, where I surf every summer. In campsites in the middle of lavender fields, in high mountains and many other places.
I don't know how long these two pieces of fabric full of stories will follow me, but our relationship seems to be a long-term one.
“A question wells up inside me, a question so big it blocks my throat and makes it hard to breathe. Somehow I swallow it back, finally choosing another.
« Are memories such an important thing? »
« It depends, » she replies, and closes her eyes. « In some cases, they’re the most important thing there is.”
― Haruki Murakami
Have a nice weekend, everyone!
Memories... Haruki Murakami has is right, they are the most important thing, they are in an essence what makes us who we are. Even the bad memories teach us something. But the good ones are like dreams we float a top to foster and summon for days when we want to reminisce. I have fond memories of my childhood, of playing in the desert valley of California under a hot, scorching sun, browning my pale skin and hair. We used to build forts out of lost wood beams on our swing set in our vast backyard, using the swing set as a frame and finding everything from a wheelbarrow to ladders to old rugs to make complete it with. These are fond memories I have of playing care free as a child with my brother, and I often think back to them as if they were another life, completely separate from my life now. We had a rope bridge that sat high off of the ground that extended from the swing set to a tall silk oak tree we liked to climb. We spent most of our days outside basking the California sun, getting brown and happy without any worries, as children often are, (as they should be). These memories are dreamlike to me, hazy, wrapped in a big sunny ribbon, perhaps because they were from when I was so young. I cherish these mementos of childhood, for they created me into who I am.