Another version of ‘my Memory Palace’. It’s great to read how people are building their own very individual memory palaces. Remember, this is your personal place, for you to store your memories (or your items, in order to remember, for example, a list of things). You can make ‘my Memory Palace’ as elaborate or as simple as you like … it’s entirely up to you.
On a Quiet Shore
by Sophia Majken Holmes
(Wake Forest)
I step out of the now, out of the stuffy office desk and onto a quiet rocky shore. It’s my own little isle, an ancient castle stands a top a little mountain, but that’s not my palace. My palace is down the shore, about 1/3rd of a mile from where I stand now, past the gentle waves breaking on the rocky shore, past the white sea foam that smells so fresh in the foggy air. The sky, the land, the cottage 1/3rd of a mile down are all shades of grey, shades of pale green, or blue. I walk down that stretch of shore, past the gentle waves and the white sea foam and through that foggy air.
I walk to the cottage, made of stone and plaster, pale sandstone and light green plaster. Walk up the cobblestone path, open the wooden door, unlocked, of course, and hang my coat on the tree. There’s a cat, a sweet grey and white tabby, and she greets me at the door. To my right is a little kitchen, in which is an old white fridge and an ancient cooker. To my left is a little living room, with a sofa and 2 chairs, a book case full of everything important.
Through another door, through the living room, a bookcase door this time is my bedroom, tiny and sweet, painted a whitewashed short of eggshell shade, and a brass bed with a white blanket and my childhood comfort object, a fading pink and green pig. The cat jumps up on the bed. His name, I remember his name. Basil. I sit on the bed and hold Basil, press my nose into his fur and smell the Basil, he’s been playing in the herb garden for which he was named.
There’s a desk across from me, with a chair, covered in a crochet blanket, my grandmother made that blanket for my brother when he was born. I’m transported back to the moment when my mother walked Paul into my room and he told me that it was my turn, that I was the littlest now and that he was too big for the snowy white blanket anyway. I lift the blanket and wrap it around myself, and the cat follows me into the next room.
It’s a bathroom, boring and cold, so I leave and find myself in an eating area, with a yellow table and 4 little chairs. The table is set for tea, ready whenever I am, ready for 3 more guests who want to stop by. But nobody’s coming by today, so I step out the door, the back door, and into the garden. And I sit, I sit on the rotting old rocking chair and I close my eyes and I hold the cat and I sleep. And I. am. happy.
>> Contributors’ Links over there in the sidebar >>