foreign

the way the memory works is a funny thing. i am headed out to hand deliver a piece of mislaid mail - about a 15 minute walk each way. wearing the peruvian gloves, the ones with the llamas, the old cozy north face from my first city away from home (san francisco), the striped sweater, the pointy flats, and that silly bee dress. pop into epoch for a cup of tea for the trip.

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texas is at its best this time of year, i think, just one woman's opinion. just warm enough during the day, just cold enough at night. my hands are already getting chilled, bad circulation.

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i'm almost to my destination and i see a cactus - i know the name, the common one at least - but it escapes me. i immediately think "christmas cactus" and i know this is so wrong, it's just at the top of my subconscious. mom has one in the kitchen windowsill. pretty sure they're not even actually cacti, oh well. this is going to bother me.

and then fast forward, almost home, turning the corner after foreign & domestic, there it is again, and it comes to me immediately. pencil cactus. such a funny thing, the brain.

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happened earlier today, too. it's been at least a week since we were talking about artists, modern art specifically. and i'm trying to tell you about the painting with the fishes, that's part of the name, something about fish. but i can't remember the artist for the life of me and it doesn't come back all week.

halfway through eugenides' book, the marriage plot, there it is. madeleine is talking, and for some reason it comes up: cy twombly.