Aquatic, jellyfish, deep, that aside, this is a colour that you have achieved before, particularly the point and tail of the miniature arrows, not sure if I wrote of this before but this colour, seen so seldom if ever elsewhere, grips me by the colour and pulls me 30 years into the past, to a place where memories are smells and sounds, not remembrances specified, but a place, a feeling, it takes me back to the summerhouse that my great-grandparents had, the large fir trees standing as backdrop, contrast, I cannot see this one hue though that may be all that I see without seeing that deep green behind it. The wood, it was the wood that was painted this colour, and I find myself at the very back of the summerhouse, which sounds like it was bigger than it was, small, quaint, hidden, simple, to, and I only remember this right now that there was such a thing, a small porch like area, a deck, with hardwood railings in this colour, the bench, curved, patterned, in this colour, the table of the same thick design in this colour, and my great-grandmother -- on my maternal side, I knew all four, two living to see their great-great grandchild in M, both living into this millennium, but she, Kristine Sandholm, went some 29 years ago, and the memories that I have of her, are hazy, a presence, an atmosphere, no words remembered, I remember her making me lunch, rye bread with cod and remoulade, and the box, shoebox in size of toys, old, broken, that she would put into the living room and that were complete entertainment on every visit, and the oblong table at which the adults would sit, drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes and cigars, the clock would chime, on the shelving unit were photographs of children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren, and the sofas that we so seldom sat in, as it is done here still, gathered at the table, this image, these colours are bringing forth memories, still flooding in as I write this word of thanks, of the tv-room and the bathroom, the kitchen and that there was a passage out to the garden through the back of that kitchen, the dark wood of the cupboards and the vegetable garden, I swear, I had forgotten for as long as I remember all of this, and here it comes, the telephone, black, today, perhaps even then, considered antique, in the hallway, and it is thought of so affectionately in remembrance for how many times I have been told the story of how my great-grandmother slept that night, the night of my birth, despite her age, on the floor next to the telephone waiting to hear. Love in as hazy terms as the memories were, felt always, but what was it felt for, something essentially forgotten, but for this image, she appears to me, closer and closer, clearer and clearer, and I just want to cry for this unexpected, unimaginable gift that indirectly you have bestowed upon me. Black dress with flowers, short sleeves tight around the expanse of her upper arm, hair curly, face slightly masculine, pictures I have, yes, I have seen, with this hair, with this face, with these clothes, but here it is, remembered, real, mine to have not to behold. Wow.
Poppet, the image is excellent for itself, and I would have told you so had I not begun concentrated on that colour, now it shall forever be cherished, invaluable, on a personal level and so I hope that you won't mind this one time that the image itself, for itself, be allowed to fade from this comment.
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Aquatic, jellyfish, deep, that aside, this is a colour that you have achieved before, particularly the point and tail of the miniature arrows, not sure if I wrote of this before but this colour, seen so seldom if ever elsewhere, grips me by the colour and pulls me 30 years into the past, to a place where memories are smells and sounds, not remembrances specified, but a place, a feeling, it takes me back to the summerhouse that my great-grandparents had, the large fir trees standing as backdrop, contrast, I cannot see this one hue though that may be all that I see without seeing that deep green behind it. The wood, it was the wood that was painted this colour, and I find myself at the very back of the summerhouse, which sounds like it was bigger than it was, small, quaint, hidden, simple, to, and I only remember this right now that there was such a thing, a small porch like area, a deck, with hardwood railings in this colour, the bench, curved, patterned, in this colour, the table of the same thick design in this colour, and my great-grandmother -- on my maternal side, I knew all four, two living to see their great-great grandchild in M, both living into this millennium, but she, Kristine Sandholm, went some 29 years ago, and the memories that I have of her, are hazy, a presence, an atmosphere, no words remembered, I remember her making me lunch, rye bread with cod and remoulade, and the box, shoebox in size of toys, old, broken, that she would put into the living room and that were complete entertainment on every visit, and the oblong table at which the adults would sit, drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes and cigars, the clock would chime, on the shelving unit were photographs of children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren, and the sofas that we so seldom sat in, as it is done here still, gathered at the table, this image, these colours are bringing forth memories, still flooding in as I write this word of thanks, of the tv-room and the bathroom, the kitchen and that there was a passage out to the garden through the back of that kitchen, the dark wood of the cupboards and the vegetable garden, I swear, I had forgotten for as long as I remember all of this, and here it comes, the telephone, black, today, perhaps even then, considered antique, in the hallway, and it is thought of so affectionately in remembrance for how many times I have been told the story of how my great-grandmother slept that night, the night of my birth, despite her age, on the floor next to the telephone waiting to hear. Love in as hazy terms as the memories were, felt always, but what was it felt for, something essentially forgotten, but for this image, she appears to me, closer and closer, clearer and clearer, and I just want to cry for this unexpected, unimaginable gift that indirectly you have bestowed upon me. Black dress with flowers, short sleeves tight around the expanse of her upper arm, hair curly, face slightly masculine, pictures I have, yes, I have seen, with this hair, with this face, with these clothes, but here it is, remembered, real, mine to have not to behold.
Wow.
Poppet, the image is excellent for itself, and I would have told you so had I not begun concentrated on that colour, now it shall forever be cherished, invaluable, on a personal level and so I hope that you won't mind this one time that the image itself, for itself, be allowed to fade from this comment.
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