three in the morning productions

memories of green

Lately I've preferred using black and white film in photo taking. There's something gaudy in the vibrancy of coloured moments that's passed--a cheap simulacrum of then. Then again, so is my taste for semblances of aged things. This comes to me as I look at a black and white photo taken of me and my sister. We're not quite children anymore but there remains traces of our child-like perceptions. Her long hair is swept to the side, and she's dressed in a black skirt and a collared blouse. As for me, I've got my hands clasped in front--likely wringing them in strained sufferance. In my jeans and a white cotton shirt cut out at the sleeves, I have a smile of a fidgety child who'd rather be climbing trees. I could pass for a boy. Except for the way my feet point inward at each other, giving me a seemingly coquettish look. That's how we were. Jemima played the piano, I played outside with the boys.

I remember the trees best. The calachuchis with their nectarous blooms and slender but sturdy silver branches were perfect for swinging to the next tree. I'd just learned how to hang upside down by the knees and I felt like such a big kid. The akasha trees' ample girth and foliage draping like spanish moss held the most appeal for my imagination. Because they were haunted, no one ventured near an akasha tree without sooner or later some mishap befalling them. I would run away from home and live up in an aratolis tree. It wasn't much of a tree to climb up on, but it had small, easily crushable fruits that was my source of nourishment. And if my taste grew impartial to the aratolis fruits, there were other fruit growing trees that I could eat freely of: mangoes, rambutans, santols, avocados, dorians, papayas, star apples, passion fruits; it was a wilting paradise.

We lived in the mountains and while fruits still grew freely and aplenty, the rainforests were beginning to feel the saws of logging companies and the thievery of poachers. There was a legend of the last black tiger, but the only animals that were to be found in the park displays were monkeys and snakes. The snakes always got loose and the monkeys were mean. I was prying loose a chum from the greedy hands of a monkey who wanted to groom him for edible lice when the creature turned his attention to me and set to pulling a patch of hair from my scalp.

I do believe trouble always seemed to prefer my company. If I wasn't bullying boys under my rule, I was falling out of trees. I climbed high and fast--I was the best tree climber there was. But sometimes I'd make a slip--too many a times for my father, who belted me after I fell off a tree on my head and came home in tears. I never quite understood how they could say they give you a good beating only because they love you. After that, I learned to come home with the most head-splitting ache and never blink in pain.

I haven't climbed trees in years.

But I bet I can still fall out of them.

10.06.02 - 1:04 p.m.

	memories of green Lately I've preferred using black and white film in photo taking. There's something gaudy in the vibrancy of coloured moments that's passed--a cheap simulacrum of then. Then again, so is my taste for semblances of aged things. This comes to me as I look at a black and white photo taken of me and my sister. We're not quite children anymore but there remains traces of our child-like perceptions. Her long hair is swept to the side, and she's dressed in a black skirt and a collared blouse. As for me, I've got my hands clasped in front--likely wringing them in strained sufferance. In my jeans and a white cotton shirt cut out at the sleeves, I have a smile of a fidgety child who'd rather be climbing trees. I could pass for a boy. Except for the way my feet point inward at each other, giving me a seemingly coquettish look. That's how we were. Jemima played the piano, I played outside with the boys. I remember the trees best. The calachuchis with their nectarous blooms and slender but sturdy silver branches were perfect for swinging to the next tree. I'd just learned how to hang upside down by the knees and I felt like such a big kid. The akasha trees' ample girth and foliage draping like spanish moss held the most appeal for my imagination. Because they were haunted, no one ventured near an akasha tree without sooner or later some mishap befalling them. I would run away from home and live up in an aratolis tree. It wasn't much of a tree to climb up on, but it had small, easily crushable fruits that was my source of nourishment. And if my taste grew impartial to the aratolis fruits, there were other fruit growing trees that I could eat freely of: mangoes, rambutans, santols, avocados, dorians, papayas, star apples, passion fruits; it was a wilting paradise. We lived in the mountains and while fruits still grew freely and aplenty, the rainforests were beginning to feel the saws of logging companies and the thievery of poachers. There was a legend of the last black tiger, but the only animals that were to be found in the park displays were monkeys and snakes. The snakes always got loose and the monkeys were mean. I was prying loose a chum from the greedy hands of a monkey who wanted to groom him for edible lice when the creature turned his attention to me and set to pulling a patch of hair from my scalp. I do believe trouble always seemed to prefer my company. If I wasn't bullying boys under my rule, I was falling out of trees. I climbed high and fast--I was the best tree climber there was. But sometimes I'd make a slip--too many a times for my father, who belted me after I fell off a tree on my head and came home in tears. I never quite understood how they could say they give you a good beating only because they love you. After that, I learned to come home with the most head-splitting ache and never blink in pain. I haven't climbed trees in years. But I bet I can still fall out of them. 10.06.02 - 1:04 p.m.