Sometimes I wonder if that sharp pain in my brain, the kind leavetaking of a departing migraine*, is actually the onset of a haemorrhage. Shortly after leaving primary school and heading to the big school (circa 400 pupils), one of my new teachers died suddenly from a brain haemorrhage. She Read more…
Does anyone else collect ghost dates? I don’t mean literal potentially-romantic meetings with the corporeally dispossessed, or anything to do with ghosting (actually, I have a draft of a potential post on just this subject, perhaps I should polish and publish?). No, I mean birthdays, anniversaries, days that you used Read more…
Up until this morning, my laptop browser (I currently use Opera) had a neat little bookmarks bar, featuring the favicons of my most-used sites. No words, no folders, just tiny, pretty sigils. I liked this, and still do, but I realised I never click on these any longer. All those Read more…
I recently had an odd experience whilst sorting through most of the clothing I’ve kept in storage these last few years.
It was peculiar, melancholic,* unsettling and, occasionally, just downright weird.
Each t-shirt, each pair of jeans, even underwear — each carried memory and baggage. Which is odd and not really something I have dwelt on up until this point.
I would pull out a shirt and remember how I wore it for a friend’s wedding. Or remember discarding a different one on a lover’s floor. I haven’t seen her in years, yet I remember that.
Clothing to me is first and foremost a practicality. Yeah, sure, I like things to look like I’ve at least given my clothes a passing thought — rather than thrown on a bunch of colours and styles — but I’ll always choose hard-wearing travel and wilderness-ready gear over fashion (although the muted colours I favour: greens, browns, greys and other earth-tones, handily go marvellously with one another, as do the textures: rip-stop polycotton, ventile, canvas, wool). †
So it was strange, to find that these pieces had become invested with memory, some so intrinsically tied with one particular event — a break-up here, a night out there — that I could almost savour the emotion one last time. When I had packed them away I had not thought about them as items of repository, simply as, well… as clothes.
What did I do?