This time, begin with the phrase 'I don't remember" and fill p a page. If you draw a blank at any point, repeat the phrase "I don't remember" in writing, until something else forms in your consciousness. Notice if one of these non-memories suggests a section of a piece, an experience for one of your characters, or perhaps a topic to write about. Notice what subjects of non-memories emerge: are they the same themes you often write about? If not, further explore one of the new ones.
This makes about no sense to me but here goes, will try not to write about own shortcomings again... it's getting boring even for me!
Monday 14th May 2007
I don't remember the name of that beach on the Indian Ocean, or was it even the Arabian Sea? But I waded in to the water wearing my yellow swimming costume. I waded and waded and couldn't get any more than thigh-deep. I had been warned of basking sharks, not killers, but babies, more wary of you than you of they.
The water was crystalline, colourless; not blue, not green. The sand on the bottom was white-grey and the shells, oh the shells. I stopped to pick up tiny whorl after tiny whorl of puce, carnation, chocolate, white. Crayola colours. Candy stripes, holiday colours. Out of the water the salt dried on them and dulled their colours; beige, coral, dove. I held them like talismen in my hand.
Occasionally there would be a spiky white shell; a glossy, spotty conch; or something still living, still moving with claws and tentacles waving hello, surprise, panic. I put these gently back and looked on for more. Tiny, perfect razor shells, pointy grey whirls of calcium. Every so often, a trip back to the shore with my haul, dropping them into a sun-bleached basket for the journey home.
And then, suddenly - clear, circular forms all around me. No tentacles, just bulbous discs of jelly, opalescent in the sunlight. Lit from above and reflected by the water below. A slight milky blush to their gelatinous forms. I scooped them up with my bare hands, slippery and slimy on my skin. These were carefully carried to the awaiting bucket on the shore.
My treasure, my finds, my things. From an exotic beach, on an Eastern shore, The Omani waters of the Gulf. I was twelve. My yellow and black spotted swimsuit that made me look like a skinny, brown ladybug was fading to lemon and conker-brown in the sun. My bucket of jellyfish, transported all the way home to England and a bemused Biology master. My shells still with me, now some are glued to my mirror with a more recent collection of mother-of-pearl buttons. Some are in a matchbox, some in a jar on the bathroom shelf. Some still in a carrier bag in the bottom of the airing cupboard, awaiting a home or a project. Some in my son's own treasure cabinet - he's aware of their meaning to me and that renders the special to him. I treasure that.
I don't remember the name of the beach, I don't remember the date we went there, but I'll remember the shells, and the way that I found them, choosing each and every one for their beauty, forever.
3 comments:
Well, I just clicked and drifted over here to let you know that I was happy that you responded to my questions about the late Isabella Blow. And then, I was drawn into your floating notion of what it might be that we don't remember.
How I thank you.
It is so odd to realize that you are way younger than me, and have been to places that I am sure, pretty sure, just sure, that I will never see. But how wonderful that I can feel a bit of what those places (beaches, tides, treasure left behind) through what your very young and talented eyes and words can see and relay to me.
So, many thanks.
xo
Lovely writing KittyB. It's all your fault that I am geting nothing done this evening. I like the notion of thinking of what you don't remember - I also like the writing challenges that you share.
Yes, it's your fault that I'm getting nothing done this morning!! I was right there in the Indina ocean, where I've never been, picking up shells. Beats a rainy morning in Suffolk. You are so talented.
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