{They bathed like bathers before them. (With Georges Seurat's Bathers at Asnières (detail) sandwiched in between.)}
I always carry about my person a collection of things. Things I am not altogether conscious of and things sometimes irrelevant. Sometimes it reflects the manner of my arrival home, things unpacked from my bag left until next time. Loose buttons, hairpins, lipstick, receipts and junk mail and napkins, they all fall largely into this category. Sometimes what is stored, what has been squirreled away, sometimes it reflects the equipment’s memory, such are the things stored on laptop or iPhone. On my phone’s memory and camera chip, I carry a slew of old photos. Some of the photos I have already uploaded to computer and there is now no need to hold onto them all. Nevertheless, I do. I hold onto things out of sentiment, out of attachment, and the collection serves as a string of highlights threaded like a necklace to be worn, tucked in close to the heart. (Have I mentioned this before? I have the distinct feeling that I have, that I am repeating myself. Oh dear. Perhaps a pitfall of Sunday posting.) Having now posted (a mere) two of them here, I will delete them and set to gathering a new crop of visuals with a press of my finger.
squirrel
verb
1 [ trans. ] (squirrel something away) hide money or something of value in a safe place : the money was squirreled away in foreign bank accounts.2 [ intrans. ] move in an inquisitive and restless manner : they were squirreling around in the woods in search of something.Current verb senses date from the early 20th century.
+ Two films in and thus far spellbound. Twenty-four to go and feeling perhaps as though that is too few. Undoubtedly shall book more. Undoubtedly shall post about it here too.
