african violets

as the fog began to descend on my grandmother, she began to hoard kleenex and african violets. she bought boxes in every shape, color, pattern and size. and the african violets bloomed their little hearts out under special lamps in her basement apartment. and i don't think i really noticed that her mind was slipping, even though i should have been old enough to realize. she still made tea when i came over and 15 kinds of christmas cookies during december and a sunday roast that was so tender it fell apart and didn't need to be cut with a knife. she was still my grandma and i don't recall any of the adults around me ever talking about her plight in my presence. maybe it was just seen as a normal part of the aging process in those days. i do remember her in the nursing home towards the end. how childlike she seemed, how innocent somehow. but how hard it was to visit her and know she didn't recognize me. and what a relief it was in a sense when her time finally came, and she was released from the bondage of the fog. from a life that was no longer a life.

months later, i had a vivid dream of her. we had tea together, using her chinese tea set, that we had used so many times for tea parties in my childhood - dragons on the small cups and saucers, ombre grey to black color on the pot. we laughed and played tea party, just as we always had. and she told me, looking straight into my eyes, that she was ok. and i always felt it as the goodbye i didn't have the chance to have with her fogged-in self. it felt so vivid and real and vital and warm. it really was goodbye and i really think that she was there in my dream - the real, whole essence of her. 

i think i need an african violet.

* * *

a tragic ending to a unusual and artistic life.

as long as someone remembers

i'm reading orhan pamuk's museum of innocence, which is one long pondering as to whether objects can house memory and feelings. in the book füsun says "when we lose people we love, we should never disturb their souls, whether living or dead. instead, we should find consolation in an object that reminds you of them..." my visit to the flea market on saturday rendered a new little collection of objects which feel somehow laden with more or less inaccessible memories, reminders of stories not my own. and yet, i am still drawn to these things.

this old typewriter was there the last time i went to the market, so you might say we already have a history together, or at least that we'd met before. i didn't intend to buy it, but as i was leaving, the guy said 100 kroner and so i went for it. mostly because it still had a little poem in it that must be the last thing that was typed with it.

it's a sweet little poem about a little frog by chief doctor morten scheibel from the hospital in viborg. somehow, such a remnant there in the carriage of the typewriter does give a little bit of access to the stories and the memories it silently holds.

he experimented with the lines...using no spaces initially, then reverting to normal spacing. there's even a word he struck out and changed, offering glimpses of his creative process, left behind in the typewriter. tho' there was a more fetching typewriter there at another stand (and another price), this little poem made this one more appealing.

this camera may have similar secrets to tell, as there's a film still in it and it's on photo #14. it'll need a new battery before i can find out what memories it holds within. and discovering the battery thing makes me think that the other practica i got at a flea market a month or so ago might be ok after all if i just replace the battery.

stoneware plates and bowls keep their secrets more closely guarded. the azur nissen denmark plate is crazed and has a hairline crack, belying tales of long and not always gentle use. i loved the color and the amusing chat i had with the rather crotchety woman who sold it, so already i have laid a thin layer of my own memories onto it. the little bowl is a bit more silent, speaking only through the HAK initials on the bottom, as being a descendent of a long tradition of pottery-making in denmark. i loved the soft colors and the shape and size of it.

this little flat bowl/tray is HAK as well. the simple flower motif reminds me of the flower people sabin drew when she was little, so already i begin to layer my own meaning onto the object. it makes me a little bit sad to think that it found its way to the flea market. it must have once been a present to someone, thoughtfully given and once that person was gone and the story with it, it was packed up and sent off to the flea market. objects only retain their meaning as long as someone remembers.

living in the now or how she begins to show symptoms of the mad cow

the grass is insanely green from all of the rain (and that i dialed up the vibrancy one notch in my camera).
nikon rocks the color.
i think it's also somehow the special light this time of year, even on grey days.
and again i fear the photo has nothing to do with the actual post.

i'm a very immediate person.

~ when the sun is shining, i feel as if it will shine forever.

~ when it's cloudy and rainy, i'm quite convinced it will never stop.

~ when it's grey and dreary, i have a hard time remembering the sun. not only the object, but the actual word.

~ during the winter, i think the light will never return.

~ as i write this, near midsummer, with the orange of sunset still in the sky at 11:40 p.m., that darkness is scarcely a dim memory (tho' i can conjure a vague feeling of dread).

~ i make up recipes all the time, but if i don't write them down, i don't remember them. and people say, "why don't you make those fabulous fried elderflowers again this year?" or "when are you going to make us some more of that butter beer?" and i say, "huh?" and frantically try to remember when i would have made those and how i went about it.

~ i read all the time, but don't retain that much (perhaps i read too fast). the upside is it makes rereading more fun.

~ same with all those episodes of british crime shows...i can watch them again and again because i never remember who did it (that's only occasionally because i fell asleep before the end).

~ i almost always use photos in my blog posts that i took that day. only when i stroll down memory lane do i use an older shot.

it's quite trendy to live in the now and i guess that's what this is.

or maybe my memory's just fading. or i've got a touch of the mad cow, just like denny crane.