Memorycemetery

Few years ago I lived in London. I lived rough, with no constant address or money. So I paid attention to what people there dump  in the street. I had an ancient leather sofa, and radio, and a sacvoyage, and an old laptop with broken screen. Those there my belongins. I found them all in the street. There were also mementos, like old photos and random weird objects I used to pick from places, abandon by owners but used by me.  I took care of their treasured memories. Reconstructing their meanings, I was exploring traces of human activities as a keen antropologist. One of them was a book with stamps. Our neighbors sold their house. On their way out they  simply dumped all house insides in boxes: books, CDs, toys, shoes, clothes, plates, hangers, tools, TVs, stereo, toasters, you name it. From all of those I took one thing: this book. I still remember it’s red worn out cover. It contained stamps from yearly 20’s to 50’s, and all from different countries. There were hundreds of them. There was a page for each country. Many of them do not exist now. Stamps were beautiful. Exotic monochromic patterns of their surfaces were my treasures. Each one had a story to tell. I could spend hours turning the pages. I tried to imagine that friendly nicely aged neighbor of us in rim glasses as a kid. Were they from his childhood? Dumping stamps is like giving up dreams. Or burning books. Can’t imagine myself doing this. Anyway, this is how I put hold on somebody’s memories that time. The book was priceless. It proved to be true in a few years time, when I decided to sell one of the stamps in need for money. So, of course I went to Strand to visit Stenley&Gibbons. The number One specialist in the field. Established in 17… it was the midwife of the hobby. They could tell the real thing from the first glance. I made an appointment. A gentleman in old fashioned tweed suit took a massive magnifier. He flipped through my book. Then he said: I’ll give you a fiver for this. Which one? I started to flip through the same book in my mind. I already remembered them all by heart. Many had names. For the book. I couldn’t believe my ears. So I left. His words didn’t hurt me; money for me were an abstract value, art is the absolute one. I don’t know how it happened, but this magic book later disappeared. I moved in one house with it, and when I was packing things moving another time, it wasn’t there. I knew it was a treasure and contained dreams. I didn’t regret the loss though. I let it live a parallel life.

Boris Kislitsin

Other posts by boris kislitsin

This is what probably happens with all new cyberadventures. People don’t know what to expect. They wait. They want to see content. We started this project because we wanted to see it too; but the work is still in progress, as we have zillion ideas on how to improve but very little particle practical knowledge.

I’m very excited, though for last few weeks hardly had time to write anything myself, being busy trying to understand, as they put it on WordPress site, the poetry of code.

The binary wisdom of humankind poem.

The rhytm of commands.

The chorus of links.

Anyway, I think our memories like anchors or rather beams in the ocean of consciousnes. We measure our lives in memories, not in years. Trying to figure out what did actually, happenned to me in year 2000 starts from one of them, the memory of the very millenium night. 

This moment became a string on which I started to put my memories anew; a day by day, a month by month, and now a year by year.

 Let’s hold one bead of my life’ necklace a time.

Reset. I remember myself sitting on a plastic chair, which I borrowed from the place there I was purchaising local port wine for the last couple of weeks. The place was facing ocean. It was rising. It already scared away a beach party and was slowly advancing towards little row of bungalos. The water was very shallow, so I made myself comfortable quite away from the beach. I sat with my feet dipping in the Indian ocean. Chair legs were slowly sinking into muddy sand. Soon I found myself up to my chest in the water; it didn’t matter. The water was warm and gentle. I could figure out far away silhouettes of ships, above which a pride of  clouds raced south through bright pink sky. The sound of waves wrapping around. Behind was scattered laugther, and klingklung of forks and knives over the plates, and dinner talk, a trance track playing from the open window and dyiung in a distance motorcycle roar. A picture of a perfect peace. The sun set qucikly, but after it was gone behind the  horizon, I still could see for a few minutes, which felt like few eternities, the last ray of our nearest star balancing on the surface of water of the new millenia.

It was a great moment. Everything from that point somehow started to be different. Thinking about it still puts a smile on my face.

Boris Kislitsin

Other posts by boris kislitsin