warm needles

flickr

winter time by depuntillas

Welcome to the Memory Exchange.

Let us begin.

It is September 24th, 2016.

Today, the Memory Exchange is just off the road, among a thick stand of tall, slender shortleaf pines and great, spreading oaks.  The late afternoon sun angles through the trunks in sweeping rays that paint everything in shades of gold.  Beneath your feet, the packed dirt of the trail is scattered with leaves and needles and stray acorns.  The almost-cool air smells of pine and warm earth, and tastes clean.  The stillness all around you is green and deep.

The Exchange is a simple stall – wooden slats and a red canvas awning, and a long table covered in a hodgepodge of baskets and boxes.  Wind chimes at the corners of the stall jingle softly.

To the right is a grassy area dappled by shade.  It is watched by a small goblin that looks a great deal like a fluffy black cat.  Things left here are guarded until reclaimed.  They will harm no-one.

Today’s Keeper is a short, round person with pale skin and short brown hair.  They have a pleasant face and soft hands, and are wearing battered jeans that don’t quite fit and a black shirt that says My Story Is Not Done.  This is the Proprietor.

Come on over!  There aren’t many memories to take yet, but if you have anything beautiful to leave, we’ll be glad to have it.  And if you need to set something heavy down for a while, my assistant there will be glad to watch it until you can carry it again.  While it’s with her, it can’t cause too much trouble.

You step nearer.  The sun is warm on your back.  You peer into the baskets.  Some are full of nothing but hope, and some … some hold things that glitter or shine or glow.

Will you take a memory?

Will you leave a memory?



After over 12,000 notes on this post, I think it is obvious this tumblr is badly needed.

There are so many terrible things in our lives.  The memories are heavy, and sometimes they are hard to escape.

Put yours down for a time, and hold another, brighter memory.  Take it to be yours, carry it near or far, for as long or as little as you wish to carry it.

The Exchange cannot take painful memories away forever, but you may set them down for a while and take another beautiful memory with you any time you like.

You are always welcome here.

about me, tag stuff

I was tagged by @blue-moon-magic, who is delightful <3

Rules: answer the 20 questions and tag 20 amazing followers you would like to get to know better.

Name: Eleana.
Nickname: Don’t really have one.

Zodiac sign: Capricorn.
Height: 5′2″ and killin it
Orientation: Mostly dudes, some ladies.
Ethnicity: @blue-moon-magic used the term ‘pasty northener’ and I’m just gonna second that.
Favorite fruit: Strawberry.
Favorite season: Summer.
Favorite book series: LoTR .
Favorite flower: Roses, calla lilies.
Favorite scent:  Warm pine needles (the forest floor on a sunny day).
Favorite color: Dark red.
Favorite animals: All of them. Foxes (they remind me of my dog), whales, elephants, snakes, horses, pumas, elk.
Coffee, tea or cocoa: Cocoa.
Average sleep hours: 6-8.
Cat or dog person: I like both but I’m more partial to dogs.

Favorite fictional characters: I have so many but the first one that pops to mind is Gandalf.

Number of blankets you sleep with: Two.
Dream trip: Italy.
Blog created: 2012 I think…
Number of followers: 116

I’ll tag @thejacksonteller, @boxingcleverrr, @lizthefangirl, @forestfaerie, @evalesco, @dreaming-in-delight, @realfunnyoldsport, @friendsoflostandbsg, @tolkiens-trifecta, @liciapocalypse

tattoo artist! luke would have met you when you came into his shop, quite hesitant and nervous. Your hands would be shaking since you absolutely dreaded the pain the needle would cause.

Luke would smile at your nerves, offering you a drink and a speech before you had your tattoo done. He’d sit down beside you, resting his large ink covered hand over your shaking ones. He’d give your hand a light squeeze, “Just talk to me. I’ll listen. Just complain, bitch, scream all you want.. Do anything that’ll get your mind off the needle.” He let out a chuckle as he heard you giggle softly.

After hearing you laugh and slowly relax, he’d hold your hand gently as he leads you over to his station. Getting all the colours set out, the needle warmed up and the stencil where he’d gently place against the designated area where your first artwork would forever be displayed. 

“Remember what i said, if you need to scream, curse at me, do it. I won’t hold you back.. Just do whatever you need,” He reminded you once again before he went to his work. Gently wiping off the excess ink, and going over it with the needle. Hearing you whine softly before talking to him. You’d bring up how you’ve seen his work before and how you were inspired by some of his designs.

Luke would definitely be a little cocky after hearing that a beautiful girl like yourself had seen some of his pieces. However he’d continue the conversation and quite soon the tattoo was forgotten, you were so into the conversation with Luke that the time had flown by so quickly.

Both of you were laughing, joking and talking about everything as if you were the best of friends. After he was done he’d gently clean the area and apply a cream over the fresh ink while applying something over it in order to keep it sealed from bacteria. 

Luke would help you off the bench, and he’d smile. Before shyly asking for your number, dying to see you again.

And he did. 

Passion generated from passion. A rain that didn’t stop. A fire that couldn’t be put out. A body without end. A desire that lit up the bones and the darkness. We didn’t sleep except to be awakened by the thirst of salt for honey and the smell of slightly burned coffee, roasting over burning marble. Cold and hot was this night. Hot and cold was that moaning.

I was stung by the heat of a silk that didn’t wrinkle but became more taut as it rubbed against the pores of my skin and cried out. The air was like needles of warm spittle between my toes. On my shoulders an electric snake slid and craned its neck toward the embers. A mouth that devoured the gifts of the body. Nothing remained of language except the screaming of rooms wherein warring domestic animals were locked. Then sweat that cooled the air, making us shiver.

( Each would kill the other outside the window.)

—  Mahmoud Darwish, from Memory for Forgetfulness: August, Beirut, 1982 (University of California Press, 1990)

Passion generated from passion. A rain that didn’t stop. A fire that couldn’t be put out. A body without end. A desire that lit up the bones and the darkness. We didn’t sleep except to be awakened by the thirst of salt for honey and the smell of slightly burned coffee, roasting over burning marble. Cold and hot was this night. Hot and cold was that moaning.
I was stung by the heat of a silk that didn’t wrinkle but became more taut as it rubbed against the pores of my skin and cried out. The air was like needles of warm spittle between my toes. On my shoulders an electric snake slid and craned its neck toward the embers. A mouth that devoured the gifts of the body. Nothing remained of language except the screaming of rooms wherein warring domestic animals were locked. Then sweat that cooled the air, making us shiver.

—Mahmoud Darwish, Memory for Forgetfulness: August, Beirut, 1982 (University of California Press, 1990)