Comments on: Free Association

By: sonikcycle

sonikcycle — Mon, 01 Oct 2007 12:14:07 +0000

I guess that means you should have your own key…. Have I told you I have commitment issues? And…um…just take your shoes off at the door eh.

By: Steve Whitaker

Steve Whitaker — Mon, 24 Sep 2007 13:33:34 +0000

Well, thanks! I’ll be more careful about wiping my feet before coming in…

By: Michael

Michael — Thu, 20 Sep 2007 05:09:08 +0000

Hehehe, I almost qualified that statement by including you, Esteban. However, since we so close, and because you a Sonikcycle syndic second to none, I feel as though this is your home, too ;o)>>>

By: Steve Whitaker

Steve Whitaker — Tue, 18 Sep 2007 02:48:11 +0000

’m quite accustomed to entertaining myself, but it’s always nice to have folk drop in and sit for a bit

What am I? Chopped liver?

By: Michael

Michael — Mon, 17 Sep 2007 21:30:56 +0000

Hey! It’s The Mother! Sounds and smells are powerful memory triggers, indeed. I can’t help but feel like the familiarity of this place isn’t a function of the sensory input from when I was 2 years old living in this very complex – the images are gone, but our experience shows they may simply lie dormant until just the right sound or smell sets them off eh.

By: Barbara

Barbara — Mon, 17 Sep 2007 01:27:46 +0000

The bell ringer, the children’s voices in the background, the visual of the phone on the wall of your “married housing” apartment…Now didn’t that all bring back such fond memories of the exact circumstances of 45 years ago in our married housing apartment. Funny how one little sound can bring back a vivid replay of an entire year’s experience.

By: Michael

Michael — Sun, 16 Sep 2007 20:49:22 +0000

Hey! Great story, Kate! Apparently, you not only caught that fleeting transmission on Twitter, but also managed to find your way out here… I am pleasantly surprised and so very pleased! I’m quite accustomed to entertaining myself, but it’s always nice to have folk drop in and sit for a bit )>>>

By: kate

kate — Sun, 16 Sep 2007 13:37:54 +0000

I’m eight years old, living with my grandfather in England (5 Fairhome Cres, Hayes Middlesex). His phone is located in an awkward alcove on the stairs leading to the top level of his brownstone. Run to it and risk bruised knees, walk to it and risk missing the call. The ringing echoes through the house and into the garden where I’m practicing the sacred ritual of dolly tea time. The sound carries with it a certain feeling of anticipation, a feeling that has fallen victim to customized ringtones and caller ID. My grandfather walks slowly to the phone, while I race towards it, gaining speed with each ring. We collide at the bottom of the stairs and he grips my shoulder. To my left is the persistent ringing of the phone, to my right is my grandfather trying to teach me the value of patience.

Twenty seven years later (egads), still freckled and pig-tailed, I recall that day and try to wait just one more ring before answering the phone. (Thanks for the memory.)
k