On Memory II
Apricots, Figs, and Charcoal Trees
The Apricot is breaking up in the sun. At breakfast we look out to a dome that grows some unknown weeds in the cracks between plaster and brick. The sun refracts off the marble table, ornate green metal chairs beneath. My back rubs hard against the metal, the cushion doesn’t offer much.
I bite into the fig, freshly picked from the tree. Handed to me by a warm, experienced hand. The gesture means much more than my broken Greek or her much better English. Xombourgo, Tinos. My pick axe cuts the earth. Rubble, Rubble, crack.
I’m trying to appropriately categorise black-figure pottery shards unearthed by my pick axe. The room is dark. I remember the stick man tattoo on my fellow archaeologist’s leg, I wonder what people would think of me if I had one. Could I be an anarchist archaeologist too? Would I like this life, or is the knowledge that this is an escape from the ladder I’m on what makes it fun.
The peach is roughly cut. Elegantly served in my tiny hotel room with cheap Danish bread, pressed, squished into a ball, in my sweaty hand. Sitting on the corner of my bed, I notice quite suddenly that I miss her. We can watch Gossip Girl together virtually, but Blair and Serena on the Met Steps don’t feel so warm without her next to me.
Close Netflix.
Must close Netflix and complete the online lessons on regression analysis. What even is regression analysis? It’s so much less fun than guessing who Gossip Girl is.
Odd that suddenly I’m 8 years forward, realising that the hours in that hotel room in Tinos were worth it. Yes, I have pre-completed the modules. Makes the time before the flight to Boston, the last few weeks in London and Oxford with friends much sweeter.
Friendship is better without regression analysis.
Salted meat, burnt thyme. He remembered another time. I’m muddled, I’m in Boston, I’m in Paris.
But the fatty, salty, meat - that’s Greece.
Rock Salt. Malden’s Rock Salt. I’m home. That stupid wooden spoon that we use for the salt. Was it even Malden’s? Maybe it was Cornish…something. I remember thinking it was odd that we bothered to have a special spoon for the salt, but then just put the plastic container on the table.
There was salt in the rivets of the wooden table.
Why is he using a knife to remove it?
He is performing bloody carpentry at supper. Guests do odd things. I can sense mummy’s anxiety. It’s odd I can sense she is anxious before she even knows it herself. I have always been able to do that, with most people.
The candle has almost burnt out, I’ll snuff it. No snuffer though, only grandpa had one at Christmas. Overly prissy really. I used my fingers.
Ash Wednesday, fingers ashen again.
Moving quickly now.
The darkness of the stumps. Charcoal trees. I’m in Greece again, fires miraculously stopped at the monastery’s door. I’m back for the second time.
Charcoal trees are still here.
The monk asks my name. “Yes, Charles, like the King”.
He asks me about his health, as if I am a briefed member of his medical team. Squeeze the bracelet over my knuckles. Skin puffy and red, then immediately lifeless and white. Who knew these things would become a ‘brand’ for me.
Back in Boston.
She is asking so many questions.
Why do I enjoy them so much?
Am I self obsessed or is this just a fun way to learn someone.
Overripe apricots, freshly cut with Himalayan rock salt. How did those words come to me? Maybe heat. Something to do with those apricots by the dome at breakfast. Warm. I was and am so happy in that memory, my favorite place. Well not quite. But close. Not sure but they feel right. Is it weird that they do? Now they have a memory, I’m re-framing it now, and putting it on a matchbox. Why did I do that? Trying to make a connection. Showing that I learnt well? Not sure.
Nothing else is flowing now.
Memory match box shut.