TO RECALL AN EXPERIENCE is to alter it. The observer effect, in quantum physics. An unobserved experience exists in every possible state at once. An observed experience collapses out of its wave and snaps into the shape of a concrete memory. Writing stabilizes the wobbly wave of lived experience.
Coffee Wave, part I:
HARAR: See my legs crossed while I sit atop a broken plastic stool near a table for two, large enough to hold a coil of cloth to rest a clay pot of coffee with a dramatic spout. See the sprouts of fresh green rue in a white porcelain dish. See my hand adorned with silver rings pluck the herb and bite it with my front teeth, releasing a jolt of bittersweet surprise. See me take a sip of buna in the tiny porcelain cup with the red, blue and green paint in the shape of a tulip. See me adjust the purple scarf, laugh with my friend, pose for a selfie, my pink, freckled face, see me wave to a girl standing by the road, who I later find out is deaf, and speaks with her busy hands.
Coffee Wave, part II:
STONE TOWN: See me take a seat in the wooden chair facing the sea, put my woven market bag down on the teak table with large slits in between that make it hard to set down my keys. See the sun beating down on my freckled shoulders, see my flowing pants and practical sandals, see my Italian friend sitting across from me, smiling. See the perfect machiatto arrive with white peaks of foam to the top mapaka juu. See the boats bob in the water, their names in all capital letters, LOVE ME FOREVER, JAH GLORY, BRAVE HEART, LADIES NIGHT, and so on. See the long packets of sugar resting on the saucer, torn. See us wanting another one, pronto, and forever.
Coffee Wave, part III:
ANTIGUA: See me walk onto the patio and take a seat on a tall wooden chair with a long back that makes me sit upright, at attention. See me carrying my guide book in one hand, a pen in the other, wearing a hot pink shirt and a pair of navy blue pants, relieved to have this morning to myself. See me with a mug of coffee bursting with cinnamon, too hot at first to drink. See me staring at the scene on the street, the women carrying babies wrapped in handwoven shawls, lugging bags on both shoulders, full of supplies carried down from the mountains. See me reach for another sip, wondering how this day will unfold.
The third scene might as well get categorized as a fiction. I sipped coffee in all three places, but I barely remember the self who sipped her cinnamon-brewed coffee in Antigua, or anything else that happened that day or on that entire trip. Just snippets and fragments that will continue to change as I attempt to reach it.
The memory changes when we recall it. But if we don’t recall or reflect, how do we know the memory even exists? It doesn’t quite exist, does it? Just the parts waiting to get balled up into some semblance of a whole.
Coffee Wave, part I:
HARAR: See my legs crossed while I sit atop a broken plastic stool near a table for two, large enough to hold a coil of cloth to rest a clay pot of coffee with a dramatic spout. See the sprouts of fresh green rue in a white porcelain dish. See my hand adorned with silver rings pluck the herb and bite it with my front teeth, releasing a jolt of bittersweet surprise. See me take a sip of buna in the tiny porcelain cup with the red, blue and green paint in the shape of a tulip. See me adjust the purple scarf, laugh with my friend, pose for a selfie, my pink, freckled face, see me wave to a girl standing by the road, who I later find out is deaf, and speaks with her busy hands.
Coffee Wave, part II:
STONE TOWN: See me take a seat in the wooden chair facing the sea, put my woven market bag down on the teak table with large slits in between that make it hard to set down my keys. See the sun beating down on my freckled shoulders, see my flowing pants and practical sandals, see my Italian friend sitting across from me, smiling. See the perfect machiatto arrive with white peaks of foam to the top mapaka juu. See the boats bob in the water, their names in all capital letters, LOVE ME FOREVER, JAH GLORY, BRAVE HEART, LADIES NIGHT, and so on. See the long packets of sugar resting on the saucer, torn. See us wanting another one, pronto, and forever.
Coffee Wave, part III:
ANTIGUA: See me walk onto the patio and take a seat on a tall wooden chair with a long back that makes me sit upright, at attention. See me carrying my guide book in one hand, a pen in the other, wearing a hot pink shirt and a pair of navy blue pants, relieved to have this morning to myself. See me with a mug of coffee bursting with cinnamon, too hot at first to drink. See me staring at the scene on the street, the women carrying babies wrapped in handwoven shawls, lugging bags on both shoulders, full of supplies carried down from the mountains. See me reach for another sip, wondering how this day will unfold.
The third scene might as well get categorized as a fiction. I sipped coffee in all three places, but I barely remember the self who sipped her cinnamon-brewed coffee in Antigua, or anything else that happened that day or on that entire trip. Just snippets and fragments that will continue to change as I attempt to reach it.
The memory changes when we recall it. But if we don’t recall or reflect, how do we know the memory even exists? It doesn’t quite exist, does it? Just the parts waiting to get balled up into some semblance of a whole.
