I'm not entirely sure this is wise ...

[tamaranth]

meme from many, but pasted from swisstone:

If you read this,
Even if I don't speak to you often,
Please post a memory
of me in a comment.

It can be anything you want, it can be good or
bad*,

Just so long as it happened.

Then post this to your journal.
See what people remember about you. Or not.

*T adds: 'if it's really bad, bear in mind I'm feeling a little fragile at the moment. If it is really bad but funny, though, you have carte blanche.

Comments

[lproven.livejournal.com]

A train journey from Birmingham and your joy at my (mis)quoting Beowulf in the original.

Your attendance at parties in both a stranger's house in Hereford and a dodgy bikers' pub in Mornington Crescent.

Your see-through plastic briefcase with clinically-tidy contents.

The colourschemes of your homemade database applications. Your desktop themes. (Little green trees and the Lord of the bloody Rings.) Your bloody awful old PC, Amanda's only-marginally-less-nasty one, and evenings up to the elbows in it.

Your compilation tapes. Your music in general, your love of it, your passion for it, your encyclopædic knowledge of it... and your complete inability to carry a tune in a bucket.

Your mosaic pictureframes, from Jeff Koons' Louise Bourgeois to Dali via the whole damned universe.

Tooting Common at midnight.

The expression on your face, of terror and joy, at successfully riding the sidecar outfit, first time, after pugwash and landsmand and etrigan and khaylock and others had all either failed or flatly refused. (My own terror was not entirely insignificant, either, come to that. I was in that sidecar.)

Your expression when I photographed you in the red sidecar in your red leather jacket and curly red hair.

Burnham on Crouch; a weekend in Essex; the peace of a nuclear power station and the horror that is Southend - and that is random theft.

Your snakeskin-pattern dress at Eastercon.

A mountaintop on the Isle of Man. Several of them, in fact.

Your handwriting; your book dedications; your greetings-cards.

Your themed presents and their occasional deep inscrutability.

Crusty bread and cheese and fisssssh.

Your utter, utter blindness to the fact that there are other good stouts than Guinness porter.

Jirds. Millions of them. Looking at us. With their eyes.

Jirds in the bed. Really in the bed.

Bedbugs in the bed, too.

A long walk in Greenwich Park when I was near-suicidal. The awe and majesty of the Roman Villa. The double-decker Mexican restaurant.

"Elfhood."

A mountaintop (well, a big hill, anyway) in Colorado. Several of them, too. With Angie, too, sometimes.

And mountainbikers.

But especially Bergen Peak.

Evenings with you and mmcpoland.

A Quorn Mole.

Valentine's Dayweekend in Jersey.

Your face when, on the plane to Jersey, I said "we can go and see Tobes!"

Your reaction to my reaction to tickets to Milan.

Zürich.

You arriving at the boating lake in Mooragh Park in Ramsey, dripping.

I could go on, but that will do, for now.