Susan Stewart: “[The] souvenir moves history into private time” (On Longing, 138).
Photographs of tile patterns, house shapes, windows, roads, reflections, water, flowers, roofs. Three short videos of the ocean (yes: this was the first time I have been that close to that much water for that amount of time. I now can’t understand how people can bear to live away from it). An orange blossom crushed flat in my notebook, which now smells just faintly of the orchards around Silves.
Many pages of new writing, a couple of ideas for essays, a part-completed story (yeah, I know: what? when did I start to write prose?! I blame the dissertation), a few poems, note on my manuscripts, and two manuscripts that belong to my friend, with my comments on them. And part of a chapter for my dissertation, yes indeed, I even did work-work.
Not to mention just daily recordings of things there.
Wrapped in newspaper, a few shards of tile that I found while out walking. Blue, white, pink, yellow, dark red; I find them so beautiful. And with them the materialising concept for an installation I want to do about archaeology and history and migration.
The smell of salt, rosemary, mint, the memory of the marketplace, the sound of the language. Tiny drawings of buildings, flowers, the coastline, the cobblestones; the memory of swallows flying just for the pleasure of it, and finding their nests, and whistling to them, and turning to go and seeing an old man grinning at my touristy, birdy spectacle.
The desire to make a garden again and to learn more about growing food. Gratitude for hospitality and warmth and dependable sunlight and politeness and rocks and beaches and dusty places to walk and conversation and poetry and good food. And aMAYzing desserts.
Also, of course, an orange. And a lemon.
