Archive Reading

Too young to decipher the combination, too old to be dazzled by devising fresh decoding, I dive into the piles of knowledge archived in the memory of Café Club. Now a Museum. The mind paralyzed by the quantity of information. The amount of possible clues is stunning. Plethora of cues at the inquirer’s disposal. They come in shapes and colors adjustable to the signal of the inquiry. Among the offered ones, the one I chose to open was a tiny treasure chest upholstered with marbled petrol green silk pulsating with golden embroidery. Miniature lock blocking the way into it. A silver key does it. A minute wizard ruling the empire of puzzles. Sovereign of the soft walls of memory. Archived.

Mine was twofold. Not only was I constantly perplexed by the elusiveness of the dream I always have on Sunday, but its leaking into and out of any other day kept me in a constant state of wondering what day it was.

I no longer knew whether it was the dream or Sunday that was eluding me. I no longer needed an answer to either.

All I have to do is dip into the pile of the archival knowledge.

Ah, research…

Tiny silver key fits the fingers’ grip perfectly. Slips into the lock. Gentle sound. When it opens, I feel the exchange between the infamous factory walls and the glorious rites of endurance on the cliff.  Like someone told me these stories before. Like they were nurturing my feeble blood vessels. A gentle blink opening the sun’s eye. Showering the world with the light of the hibernated dream reawakening. Like dew touches the petals of sleepy flowers. Like mist disappears as the night is withdrawing.

So reads the archived memory. So smells the memory of the beach. Lounging in Café Club. Were I a grooviologist, I would myself be one. I would read from the memory walls to glide deeper into the petal-padded tunnels of counterrites. One would weave tissue.

Myriad of yarns to silent the crackling fabricated in interregnums between the moments of dew drops’ slippage into the elegant throat of the delicate floral specimen. When everything between such moments is merely an avalanche of noise destabilizing memory, undermining deciphering, weakening decoding. Dissolving the impressiveness of quantity. Dissipating proliferated clues.

Astringent thoughts to sustain the consistency of those moments disappearing under the violence of the creeks of creaks, screeching, buzz. And the memory of the counterrites resurfacing. Its full-blown clarity  breathes into the noise haze a touch of freshness that reconsolidates the disintegration of foamy sparkles imploding in their own oversaturation with oily dust. Only to reconfirm the beauty of the vomiting fountain. Its thick, lazy, snaky flow. Its transformation into a crystalline stream once the flux reaches the apex, curves, and lightly moves further. Only to reconfirm that so reintegrated memory has scarcely anything to do with the coziness of the room in which one is reading, reminiscing the dream one always has on Sunday.

Were I a mafotherfuckin grooviologist, I would think a thought of you being a rainy whisper on a smell-drenched night year-round. Were I a grooviologist, I would myself be one. I would be able to remember everything, anticipate nothing, and be not quite happy about it. Thus maintaining the glory of the uncompromising intensities of the counterrites.

Too young to know the path of their restoration. Too old to be impressed by how fucking difficult to understand it is.