To be completely honest… or at least as honest as I’m ever going to be with others and with myself… although… no… I think I was about to tell a fib… anyway… the reason I joined Pinterest was because I liked the layout. It’s how I would like my mind to archive memories and information. In picture form. Clickable, so I can find the source of each memory and thought.
I have a very good memory. Sort of. It’s like that of the proverbial elephant, except that I keep messing with it. I have to confess that I tend to ditch stuff from my memory banks to make room for new bits and pieces. For some reason I think that there is a limited amount of RAM available in the brain, so I wipe it regularly of things I figure I won’t need. Which is a pain in the ass, as I like to watch quiz shows, and some of the things I’ve wiped are the answers to the questions asked. And I thought I wouldn’t need that information.
When I first started using Pinterest, I used it mainly for gathering images which I could use on my tumblr. I used it as an alternate way to bookmark the things I find as I surf the waves of the internet. Then…. during a few days of feeling disconnected from everything and everyone, including my blogs, I branched out a bit into other possible uses for such an intriguing device. I live in a very tiny cluttered house, so I started a board called Space to indulge my fantasy of living in a very spacious place. Then, since I experiment in photography, due to having been given a camera for Christmas, and due to the fact that I adore photography, always have, especially black and white, and portraits, I started a couple of boards as inspiration for that. I have a couple of secret boards which I use for secret stuff. Shhhh. And… no… no and… I just decided that it might be a bit of fun to try and remember some of the books, movies, and other stuff which have left an impression upon me.
It’s funny how something leads to something else, which detours into unknown territory, which turns out to be known territory which has been forgotten due to… whatever… and so on and so forth.
I am a serial experimenter. So when I saw that you could invite friends to participate on a Pinning Board. I tried it out. Most of my friends thought the invitation I sent them was a hoax, or a stupid idea. A few of the more adventurous friends joined in the fun. I wasn’t really sure what to do with that board, from my own point of view, what my adventurous friends do is up to them. I love freedom in friendship. It is a source of great inspiration. So today I decided to use the shared board to share with my friends some of the places which mean something to me. And as I explored this idea… I remembered stuff which… I hadn’t forgotten, but which I had filed under not worth recalling as it pertains to past stuff not relevant to the now.
One pin in particular started a chain of memories. I pinned the Las Brisas hotel in Acapulco, Mexico. I stayed there many eons ago. It was one of many trips to foreign and fascinating lands that I was dragged on by my peripatetic parents. I have a scar on my foot as a physical memory of that trip. As I recall the incident, I was running along the beach and cut my foot on a gold doubloon. I love that idea, but in reality it was probably just the jagged-edged top of a tin can. It bled and bled, and I kept hitting the spot, and being told off repeatedly for doing so, breaking the scab open until it turned into a scar.
During that trip, like on many of our fun family trips, drama ensued. My parents needed drama to keep them going, like a battery charge. My father liked to wander off the beaten track, so we ended up at a desolate beach. It was a very stormy seas day, and my mother bitched about the weather, sitting primly on the beach as my father pulled me into deep water and murky swirling surf. Suddenly he screamed. He was a screamer, but usually just shouty screams, not screams of pain and alarm. I jumped into his arms as self preservation, just in case he was being eaten by a shark, and he carried me back to shore. Where he revealed a bleeding big toe. He had been stung by the stingray he had stepped upon. In typical erratic and rather stupidly independent human being style, he didn’t rush to the hotel and ask for a doctor, he found a lone fisherman on the beach and asked him for a local cure for such things. The fisherman, I think, suggested that my father get himself to a doctor, but this was too logical, so my father insisted on a local herbal cure, so the fisherman shrugged at the crazy gringo, and pointed at some plant growing on the beach. My father grabbed a leaf, crushed it and dabbed it on his big toe. Healing local witch doctory type herbal cure sorted! The toe stopped bleeding, swelled up and turned purple-green. It was time to jump into the courtesy pink and white striped mini moke jeep, which the hotel provided for its guests, and drive erratically to the hotel, who didn’t have a doctor and didn’t want to deal with a potentially dying guest, which would be bad for business, so they sent us to a local doctor, who eventually lanced the toe, removed the poison, and sorted the situation out. We grabbed some roast chicken from the local Pizza Y Pollo, and head back to our suite for after drama eats and recrimination.
I don’t think there is a single trip I had with my parents which didn’t include some life or death drama. Mind you everything connected with my parents has always been and will always be a matter of life and death, even when it isn’t.
So, do you have any family trip stories to share?