Tag Archives: memories

#308 ~ One Hundred Words and a Photo: 28

picture28I hated that picture. You know the one, of the bay. So perfect it was fake. So bright it gauged my eyes. Why did we ever frame it? She was never very good at taking photo’s anyway. They were too…neat, so linear, like the press ironed lines  of her A-frame skirt. The colors were lifelessly rich. The street unstained, no one walked on it – like her closet, never worn, picture perfect boredom. Why did we ever frame that bloody picture, of the ferris wheel rising in the background, the giggling and laughing that never creased into a smile?

Copyright: Victoria. O

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#304 ~ One Hundred Words and a Photo: 24


I watched myself running into the wilderness, braids stiff in the sultry summer wind, darting into the shades of heavily laden branches. Lost, with a purpose. Soles slapping concrete like the hi-fives I always missed. I watched myself. Running off into the distance. I shouted, asked myself to wait, impatient, you impatient child. STOP

Deaf I watched my shadow running off into the distance. My lungs had to beat faster, as I disappeared like Peter.

My shadow was running back as I ran away, watching myself running off into the distance, braids flying stiffly in the sultry summer – time.

Copyright: Victoria. O

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#273 ~ And So it Begins

It is deceptive. The mind that is. Perfectly created, iPhoto slide shows don’t even compare to its exquisite capabilities. What could I possibly be referring to, you wonder?

When you watch a Powerpoint presentation, or slide show, the computer programme has an ingenuous ability to subtly and seamlessly slot disparate memories, separated by time, space, emotion, geography and content, into one flawless design of seemingly consecutive events. The indigenous green trees of KZN, miraculously are sprouting deep inside the Indian Ocean, which is really a lake in an English town.

Sitting inside a new room, a new home, which is as unfamiliar and unknown as a country cottage in the depths of Mongolia, the sense that I have never left is itching to warp my perception. It is coupled with the feeling of home. That I am home. I am nestled safely, deeply in the folds of a mother’s bosom, a place that I have never left.

Yet I have changed. Perhaps world-weary, or rather more prepared. Where before one was awake at 3am crying because pinboards wouldn’t stick to whitewashed walls, now 4am rolls by and one sighs knowingly; yes, this is how you play the game.

And so it begins. The start of something new, which has really been a recycled experience, yet wrapped within the folds of reused newspaper is a chocolate surprise. Is it Cadbury’s, Galaxy, Lindt or Roche? That is the unknown element of the known experience.

Place your bets, be prepared…to be…

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202 ~ One Hundred Words and a Photo: 13

“Did you love her?”

Parted lips blew out a gentle rattle, the mottled skin flushing with a faint pink hue. Eyelashes hovered over creamy pupils whilst pinched nostrils flared slowly, steadily.

“Her hair was so soft, it smelt like spring rain and crushed petals…” a gurgle, a little choke. “Her face wasn’t plastered with all that make up…beautiful, slender, her smile could light up a room. Lit up my face…when she walked down that aisle…” a gentle laugh shimmered its way through the wheezy breath; cream brightened to a dull blue.

“Yes, i loved your grandmother very much.”

Copyright: Victoria O

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#189 ~ Nostalgia Lane

It was a wander through nostalgia lane, complete with a cerebral, inbuilt tour guide which spoke from the memories of seven years, efficiently compiled, lovingly and humorously dispensed before your weakening eyes. The contours of the Converse shoes pressed against the elegant long toes which splayed themselves over the gum stained pavements of the Broadway, the crescent, the asphalt of the former education facility. The Tesco where freshly baked baguettes were daily bought with their complimentary side dish of humus had been refurbished. It looked more elegant, sleeker than the former black streaked outer-shell which suggested a car had raced over its exterior. The buses didn’t trundle past this time, but the memories; after school racing, P.E. kits scrunched in sweaty bundles into to cheap, corded back packs that cut grooves into young shoulders, arms flailing akimbo, that still hovered around the corners of your exterior vision.

It was a relaxed amble down the well trodden, relentlessly beaten path of nostalgia lane. Yet all the colours, even the smell of the air before the summer rain – they had all changed. Different shadows inhabited this reverie, different children with different stories which didn’t include you – they were the dominant forces; this time round you were just passing through.

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#8 ~ Rebirth

Hoarding is a term usually associated with negative connotations. Single middle-aged people in terraced houses or studio flats crammed packed with newspapers, dolls, or stamps spring to mind. A cloying, stale air of compacted time shrouds their homes whilst a sense of desperation lingers like sweat on a 13-year-old boy, permeating the walls, the furniture and inherently disfiguring the hoarder until they mutate into said single-middle-aged-person.

Since last nights hilariously catastrophic yet inevitably mundane experience, I have realised that I am a said hoarder. I have yet to display the physical signs, but the scent is appearing. It emanates from me in little whiffs that only my acute hoarder-alert nose can smell. However my hoarding is not related to the material. It is a psycho-emotional form of hoarding. The desire to savour memories.

After tragically loosing my phone, I started thinking about all the texts I had yet to respond to – because i’m so popular (or because I rarely have credit). A dull melancholic mood began to settle over my features and a sombre atmosphere encompassed me.

I’m a wordy person. Words have a huge impact on me, therefore whenever people said the old ‘sticks and stones,’ I always felt slightly alienated. Words could hurt me. Yet they could also build me up, inspire and motivate me. As a hoarder I obviously saved these texts. Some were from three years ago when I lost a competition, others during exam periods, interview periods, the summer, birthdays, words of encouragement, congratulations, prayers, hopes, dreams. They were things I held onto to remind me of a truth, a moment in time eviscerated forever in white font on a black screen. I might even be so bold as to say some of these words gave me an identity, a sense of self – who I was to other people. My external definition of being. And now they are gone. Vanished after taking a splash in unsanitary water.

However, they say New Year new you. Considering 2012 is meant to be the beginning of the end, then maybe my hoarding-heart can take heart in the notion that it has a chance for rebirth. A chance to avoid its inevitable fate of becoming single in it’s mid-40’s surrounded by used Metro papers and Teletubbies. It also gives me a chance at rebirth. To redefine to myself the defined and perhaps question the idea that those we love most, the memories we cherish most, are not encompassed in pixellated images, but within the mental and emotional ether that is us, our being, me.

It also alludes to the faint hope that maybe one day I shall lose my deep attachment to the external identity of ‘me,’ and happily acknowledge the fact that ‘words will never hurt me,’ because I am more than a word.

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