recycle bananas

When you have nothing pressing in your life - like I don't - you come to realise that pretty much the rest of your existence is comprised of memories and nostalgia in general. And when you go to write your blog you feel helpless because you are in nostalgia's grip and it won't let you go. You can't write about anything that is PRESENTLY HAPPENING, because even if you try to, it is highly unlikely that people will read instantly. You could try to write about the thoughts that come to mind, or what you are currently doing. But why would you, because they are all going to be outdated before you can even write them down. In short, documenting anything seems to be absolutely pointless.

Each time I try to start writing a blog here - not always, but indeed this week - I want to refer to other times I have written. Other people who have written. I know I profess to being a wordlover but if this continues I imagine it could become tiresome.

The grip tonight steers us back to high school.

I found a Vans shoebox under my desk. I looked deep into the box and found myself tumbling forth into a dark abyss. I wildly flailed my arms around in an attempt to stay afloat, but try as I might, I had been ensnared by a force stronger than my limbs could resist. After the initial shock, I became used to the feeling of sinking and began to somewhat enjoy myself. Music washed over me as I was pulled in by this purgatoric spiral, haunting melodies that are still with me today.

*she cannot decide at this juncture whether to speak of the music she was actually truthfully listening to, or whether it is apt to make a funny and so nothing will be included*

Reaching the bottom, I toweled myself off from the sopping songs that had doused me on my fall and cautiously surveyed my surroundings. A young boy clad in an orange jumper and a naff cap with a flap at the back appeared swiftly, taking my towel and disappearing just as swiftly as he'd arrived. Not quite knowing what to make of this ball boy invasion in my reverie, I shrugged and slid open my phone, using it to light my way. The dim light from my phone revealed that I was in fact in what appeared to be a cage. I furrowed my brow, unsure how the ball boy had come and gone from this space so quickly. Shrugging again I noticed a small gap between one wall of the cage and another, and slid through it to what I felt was my freedom.

Outside of the cage, I noticed a few stepping stones set into sand. Seeing no other possibilities and indeed, having nothing else to do, I jumped onto the first, then the other, and another and so on. I subconsciously began counting the stones and after a spell realised that this was the list of 100 things that my friend Jacki liked about me. It was in that instant that a wave of mirth crashed over me, not only upsetting me from my position on the stone, but again rendering me completely soaked. The ball boy was not in sight this time and I knew I had no choice but to remain in this drenched state.

Shaking my head in an attempt to appear comic and also stave off some of the wetter parts of my hair, I was surprised to see a large, broken mail box. Concerned that my flashback had been mixed up with 'The Lake House', I checked under my armpits for Sandra Bullock. My findings were inconclusive, so I apprehensively approached the English-lookin' box. The box struck me as being quite rugged, well-worn and experienced with drugs. Not for the first time, I furrowed my brow and inhaled as I considered what this dilapidated postbox was doing here. Ah, I thought, nearly choking on the strong cigar stench, this is my cousin. Holding my arm over my general respiratory system, I cautiously approached the door of the box and attempted to open it. One hand seemed to be too little force to access the inside, so I grudgingly took my other arm away from my mouth to aid in the divulgence of the post box's contents.

It became increasingly difficult for me to breathe - it seemed like the cigar odour was intensifying - and the effort of pulling this door was really taking its toll. I gaped for air. My arms were aching. I could feel my knees beginning to weaken when all of a sudden, the door broke free of its hinges and I was thrust back onto the ground. I jumped back to my feet and darted to the box. Curiously, after my fall, it seemed larger, and indeed I found that I was unable to peer into the opening that I had just created. My inability to breathe forgotten, I began to search for grooves that I could use to climb the now monumentally sized post box. Due to the darkness, I found it necessary to crouch down to the base of the round, red box in order to fully inspect the situation.

As I ducked down there, I felt a rumbling under my feet. Confused, I stood up again and looked around me. Unable to observe anything in the quarter light of my phone. Then, for the third time in my woolgathering, I was knocked off my feet by a forceful gush of liquid, only this time, it was the Dutch version of eggnog known as advokaat. Spluttering from the gluggy consistency of the latest flood, I prayed for the appearance of the speedy ball boy with my wet towel, but I was left lying in the dark, custard clad and confused.

After a few moments of disappointment in myself, I stood up and considered my options. The consideration was very fleeting as I fleetingly realised that I had no options to consider, even fleetingly. I figured though, that as long as I was doused in a tasty European dessert alcohol, I may as well have a bit of a drink. Procuring about a teaspoonful from my forearm, I realised that the custard was in fact stuck to something. I stretched out my arm and shook it around a little bit. As more of the advokaat came off, it became evident that there was paper stuck to my skin. I beamed with the realisation that if I peeled off this mysterious yet miraculous paper I would not have to continue in the reverie with a yellow sticky substance all over me.

After a spell, it was apparent that the paper was no mere paper. The paper was the leaves of my past. I watched the pile of leaves growing larger and larger, different colours, textures and sizes accumulating at my feet. Whilst peeling I mused that it would be quite pleasant to take a large leap into the pile. There appeared to be paper simply all over my body. I was utterly confused by this, seeing how the advokaat had merely gushed at me from the front. I grew tired of trying to reach for every bit of paper and, after a furtive glance around for any other torrents, jumped right into the leaves. Upon landing, I wobbled slightly, but retained my dignity. I waited. Nothing at all happened. If anything, my arms had somehow accrued more advokaat!

Growing slightly alarmed with this slow paced turn of events, I bobbed down into the pile and started patting the ground, searching for my phone. I wanted to ring anyone, anywhere, to talk about anything. My mind raced irrationally [that is to say, my mind raced though it had no reason to run. Nobody was chasing it, it wasn't training for anything in particular. In fact, it doesn't even like running that much at all]. The dark seemed to close in around me as my ideas dissipated. In fact, most things were dissipating around me. Indeed, my body was evaporating into a thick, pale yellow mist.

Appearing to have retained control of my movements, I misted above the pile of leaves for some time, only now able to actually observe what was printed or written on the paper. There were of course various inscriptions, most of which escape me now, but the most important one read:

YOU WILL WRITE A LENGTHY BLOG ABOUT YOUR TIME HERE, BUT PLEASE DON'T RUIN IT BY GOING ON TOO LONG. YOU SHOULD STOP WHEN YOU GET TO THE PART ABOUT TURNING INTO A MIST.

another semi-important message was:

GET SOME SAVLON FOR THAT WEIRD THING ON YOUR ANKLE

and finally:

LISTEN TO BORN RUFFIANS WHEN YOU DROP JACKI HOME TOMORROW BECAUSE IT'S NICE TO DRIVE AND LISTEN TO THEM

~

Folks, I did only just get back from the mist arena and I'm still not quite sure what happened there or why, but I know that I should respect the wishes of the leaves because one thing I do know is that when I go into my bedroom there's a shitload of paper. More than I peeled off my arms in the reverie. More than you could shear off a sheep. More than a sheer sheap. More than the sheer shape of things to come.