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This post is a stream-of-consciousness post. If you liked the one on coffee and summer afternoons, you’ll like this one too. If you found that one too chaotic and nonsensical, leave now – because this one isn’t any different. Greek almonds; and childhood summers; and coffee (yeah, I know);

Stream-of-consciousness means I just type whatever comes to mind; or pours from it, rather. I don’t think we, authors, have much control over what pours from our creative minds. At least we shouldn’t, I believe.

Our brains are filtering devices, that try to help us cope with all the brutality out there. The thing is, filtering out the brutality takes some of the beauty with it.

What does all this have to do with Greece, summers, almonds, and my childhood? What does it mean? It means what you want it to mean.

The Susurrating Song of Greek Almonds

I spent virtually all my childhood summers in an island where my grandparents owned a house. I remember a million sights – the Milky-Wayed starry skies; untold sounds – cicadas during the day, crickets during the night; countless flavors and scents, from the briny scent of the sea to cherry-lined vanilla ice-cream.

And I remember touching Greek almond trees. I remember seeing the drupes growing, the evening sun caressing their curves, rendering them a warm orange instead of a soft green.

I recall hearing the wind embracing the tall branches (all branches are tall when you’re a kid). The scent of thyme carried on the wind…

The Coffee Bending Space-Time

How did I remember of Greek almonds? It’s coffee. These things work in patterns, I’m telling you.

While having a cup of coffee – one of those idealistic, perfect cups of coffee that never come – I recalled of my childhood summers (don’t ask, I warned you). That reminded me of Greek almond trees.

I experienced the recollection of experiencing; or is it, I recalled the experiencing of recalling?

There is a wavy line – imagine it as a cosmic umbilical cord, snaking its way through worlds of thoughts, feelings, and ideas – connecting my tender child’s hand touching an almond drupe with my battle-scarred (poetic licence) adult hand incessantly, madly hitting the typewriter keys, like a hairless version of a chimp writing Hamlet.

How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable
Seem to me all the uses of this world!
Fie on’t! O fie! ’tis an unweeded garden,
That grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature
Possess it merely.