I think there are certain flowers and plants that you just have to admire.
True, I would probably immediately love the poppy for the inner contradiction it displays with the brash scarlet colouring and the paper-fine delicacy of its ballerina-skirt petals.
We humans are creatures of habit. We are comforted by familiarity.
We visit the same places, we think the same thoughts, we tell the same stories; and – if I’m anything to go by – we take the same pictures again and again.
I mentioned “memory” in yesterday’s blog post, which is hardly a new subject for this blog: if you search on the word, you’ll find eight pages of posts come up, or 29 pages if you search for “remember”. This compares with no instances -until now – of “forgetfulness” and just six pages of posts including the word “forget”.
Since they are two sides of the same coin, I wonder why there is such a bias. Presumably it’s the way I phrase things: I probably talk more about “not remembering” than I do about “forgetting”, but I’m not sure why.
Continue reading “shaping memories”
I don’t suppose these giant orange poppies are indigenous to the UK, and I certainly can’t imagine they grew in the Forest of Arden, which once surrounded the area where the photo was taken.
Even so, the straggling clump by the gate of this traditional thatched cottage was utterly glorious and deserved a better photo than I could manage with my phone.
This morning when I went out I had my camera with me:
And, while I do have some glorious flowers on my table, sadly, there’s not a pensamiento to be found among them:
don't confuse the narrator 