I've been playing with the opening of this wonderful collective memoir. Mainly just shuffling and added a couple more excerpts.
[It's/ There's] a four street intersection right in the centre of the city that bears an energetic charge. [Between March and June/In the spring] the Jacaranda trees blossom thousands of tiny purple flowers and the city is carpeted with purple... [And There's] a tree. At least it looks like one tree. If you come close you see that there are actually two that have grown so intertwined that their trunks and branches look like one. You notice the different barks and that one part of the tree has plain green leaves while the other grows inedible little red apples.
Once a black cat and a white cat both appeared before me coming from different directions.
Right in the intersection, there’s an old, empty newspaper stand, with a single light that sits above a red door. A four by four cast iron kiosk that now holds only autumn leaves that get in through the broken windows. It’s the entrance to the city's secret tunnels. Knock on the door. Wait for it to open...
A 16 years old, I entered it, funneled down concrete stairs and into a dark tunnel.
I felt as if the ceiling was dropping lower and the walls were closing in. Just as my discomfort peaked, relief came immediately as I was spit out into another time.
It was like a place in a dream, it is a place in a dream, the pocket of euphoria where music plays and passing thoughts are full of promise.
I haven't touched the rest yet except to relocate the part about purple flowers.
[It can easily become a new story, a new adventure, a new world - every single day.
Some days it’s the backyard of my grandmother’s house, where my cousins and I took turns pushing each other on the rope swing that hung from the old willow tree.
Other days it’s a library: shelves holding words, holding worlds as they have down the years.
Or the dining room in the house we grew up in, where my three brothers and I would have the best times there, talking and laughing long after our meals were eaten.
It’s the wooden art studio owned by my Aunty where she taught folk art. The smell of paint, wood and art supplies hit you as soon as you opened the doors. There was a small fireplace and one little radio that if you sat it in the exact right spot on the window sill you would get reception.
My sister Marian's home, 2 blocks from the beach. It was loud and busy... but it felt like home to me.
A road on a mountain, which dips and curves with a form of wordless hostility. The pavement breaks and splits, causing wheels to skip-hop and deliver a momentary sensation of weightlessness and delirium. And when you're driving through one particular curve, a panoramic ocean is sudden and exhilarating.
Across that dirty road and down a hill, the leaves made a canopy, and the grass was like soft feathers, and everything was green, green, green. I usually took a small bag with me, filled with cookies and an old book that had black and white illustrations of people in a town. Days passed laying on the grass with my book, the smell of hay and the sound of the wind, with nothing in my eyes but the green of fields and trees.
The wind through the pines...the gurgling of the crystalline river...the howl of the coyotes...the squawking of the blue and black stellar jays...the ghostly whispers of the ancient cliff dwellings...all tell me: "You're home."
The peace in that little sanctuary still hits me just thinking about it.]
Created: Jun 12, 2017Iluminar Document Media