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Bladderwrack In the bubbles of bladderwrack giving buoyancy to seaweed are memories They don’t pop easily. But if, just as the sun is slipping down the back of the sea, I make fire with a bunch of salt-cracked woodsticks and chuck on some dried bladderwrack; when it’s popping like bullets I can breathe them in.
They’re not always mine. They’re blended like a memory pot pourri an amalgam of the sea - dredged. Wrecks, traders, saints, an incoherent, intangible mass of smells. Pockets of sensation all the more intense for having been sealed inside seaweed and then released hot like breath whispering. |
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