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British Isles Friday: Parakeets in the Park

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Parakeets in the ParkOn a beautiful day in May, 2017 my husband and I walked through Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens. It’s really not that easy to tell where one ends and the other begins. We were looking for the Peter Pan statue (next week’s post) when we came across a small clearing cluttered with people holding their arms in the air, offering perches for surprisingly green birds fluttering in the air. Parakeets, and so prevalent, and with so many people standing about in their midst I stupidly assumed this must be some sort of birder club gathering. Ding dong me! I didn’t know the birds were wild and the people were just regular folks like us trying to get a better look. 


Doing a little post-trip homework I discovered the parakeets are so abundant in the park—and the inner mile they’re actually considered a bit of a nuisance by some people! I wish I’d known before the trip that all I had to do was bring a slice of apple and I could get the birds to land on me too!

I thought this wom…

Revisionist History

Still Life with Glasses and Tobacco, 1633 Willem Claesz. Heda (1594–1680)

Writing in the memoir genre can make you feel less like you're retelling an authentic part of your story, and more like you're rewriting it. Or should I say it can make me feel that way. Get out my red pen baby, cause we're doing some major editing tonight. There are times when that fine line between truth—yours, mine and ours—isn't straight but wavy. And undulating. Trying to grab onto, and hold it straight to the page, the line slips and slides through our hands, too fine to get a grip on, it flies through our fingers like fishing line spooling out from the reel, unstoppable, when a big one is dangling at the end of it. It's not that our personal stories are whoppers, tall tales a fisherman tells; it's just that our truths don't always match up because they never matched up to begin with. Like a meal we once shared, the fresh swordfish I raved about is what I recall, while you not only know that we drank a bottle of Robert Mondavi Sauvignon Blanc, and that I drank too much of it (another factor in our differing memories of the dinner), you remember the year. 


Those vagaries of memory and mindset may be why I've left a few narratives unfinished; the undoing of my first marriage at twenty two that I posted under the umbrella Leaving Home being one. I think of what I've written so far and I wonder: is it hurtful, unfairly so, and is it even true? Or is it the story I've told myself over and over again, more important to the maintenance of my sense of self, of being a decent person, of being compassionate, than seeing his side might allow me to be? Did I stop because I didn't know the ending, didn't like the ending or because after all these years I still don't know the how or why of it? And what's the point of rehashing the past if you can't put a point on it, if you can't draw a line from A to B and come up with C?
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#AtoZChallenge, The Letter R



Comments

  1. Thanks for all the comments, guys! I'm really getting a kick out this #AtoZChallenge; getting to meet so many people from all over the globe!

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  2. OOPS! I meant to post that comment on Queen Me http://simcarter.blogspot.com/2015/04/queen-me.html?showComment=1429658737435

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