litmus test; my own limited review on a government data hub revealed there were no greater instances of Alzheimer’s disease in retired military personnel than in the retired civilian population. You never know but I was pretty sure that these pots and pans wouldn’t make me forget anything if I used them tonight. “Perhaps a good G&T would do that?” I wished. "I wouldn’t mind losing some of my memories: Svetlana’s Farm, perhaps?"
I rarely indulged in a stiff drink but could do with a memory loss of a number of events. Svetlana’s Farm was just one of them. Whether from some gin or the aluminium pots, I wished I could remove that memory from my grey matter. The hiking memories, however, would be ones I wanted to keep. "Great times and great people," I reminisced, coaxing the diced meat and vegetables into a well-used and well-loved pot. "That was a great group of friends," the thought of them made me feel alone again. Those had been some great times and the thought, those nostalgic moments, reminded me of just how great some of us had had things, leading into the Great Change. It was after that where you could put a big smoking hole in my memory and I wouldn’t have cared too much. Knowing that my entire group of hiking friends had died was a memory that could go. So could the Great Change and the hard times that followed. "Waking up in paradise, up in the mountains with no memory would be awesome, eh Jesse?" While I flippantly wanted to erase such things, the journey had helped chisel away at my character and define me more. For those memories and experiences I resented, I understood they were pivotal in my survival. A great and famous author once said that pain and suffering in our lives are the things that shape people and define their character. I appreciated this and the idea of being shaped by experiences, but not in all ways. Some things were downright awful and would never positively impact someone: rape, abuse, slavery, extreme violence, trauma, horror in general. But having hardships and triumph over adversity were hallmarks of the best humans that had ever been. It was a paradox I would ponder at times.
Freedom was everything to me and some of those painful experiences I had been through had meant losing that. That wasn’t a good thing and didn’t assist in shaping a person positively. If you disagree with me, just look back at slavery: disgusting in every way, on every level. “Hang-on…Slavery….” I wondered. I had a feeling the Mechanic, Skinny and Blackbeard weren’t entirely acting on their own free will. I spared them a moment’s thought and concluded this must have been correct. Someone was controlling them, shaping them, making them do things: slaves of sorts. I wouldn’t know how right I was or just on what scale my fears would be real until later. But I didn’t want to think about my three recently departed zombie friends or slavery or whatever was going on for a moment longer. A man’s stomach was waiting and multi-tasking doesn’t come easy to us blokes. The little, well-loved pot sat over the fire on a metal rod and I watched the flames and coals over a number of hours, relaxing and clearing my exhausted mind.
My stew was delicious. It could have cooked longer but I couldn’t wait. Hunger had taken over and I greedily slurped and enjoyed the meal more than you would expect. With a bowl in hand, I leisurely wandered around the house, eating and gobbling like it was the first meal in a week. I ate and looked at the rolling hills, pausing for a moment to put my meal down onto a window-sill. I looked for movement with my binoculars.
I spotted a distant mob of kangaroos, birds, some far off rabbits and even a fox as the sun fell behind the hills and mountains that adorned the sunset. Despite the horrors, life was still beautiful. I left half of the stew to continue its maturity, to be enjoyed in the morning. I stoked the fire and let it bubble away, giving the flavour time to
I rarely indulged in a stiff drink but could do with a memory loss of a number of events. Svetlana’s Farm was just one of them. Whether from some gin or the aluminium pots, I wished I could remove that memory from my grey matter. The hiking memories, however, would be ones I wanted to keep. "Great times and great people," I reminisced, coaxing the diced meat and vegetables into a well-used and well-loved pot. "That was a great group of friends," the thought of them made me feel alone again. Those had been some great times and the thought, those nostalgic moments, reminded me of just how great some of us had had things, leading into the Great Change. It was after that where you could put a big smoking hole in my memory and I wouldn’t have cared too much. Knowing that my entire group of hiking friends had died was a memory that could go. So could the Great Change and the hard times that followed. "Waking up in paradise, up in the mountains with no memory would be awesome, eh Jesse?" While I flippantly wanted to erase such things, the journey had helped chisel away at my character and define me more. For those memories and experiences I resented, I understood they were pivotal in my survival. A great and famous author once said that pain and suffering in our lives are the things that shape people and define their character. I appreciated this and the idea of being shaped by experiences, but not in all ways. Some things were downright awful and would never positively impact someone: rape, abuse, slavery, extreme violence, trauma, horror in general. But having hardships and triumph over adversity were hallmarks of the best humans that had ever been. It was a paradox I would ponder at times.
Freedom was everything to me and some of those painful experiences I had been through had meant losing that. That wasn’t a good thing and didn’t assist in shaping a person positively. If you disagree with me, just look back at slavery: disgusting in every way, on every level. “Hang-on…Slavery….” I wondered. I had a feeling the Mechanic, Skinny and Blackbeard weren’t entirely acting on their own free will. I spared them a moment’s thought and concluded this must have been correct. Someone was controlling them, shaping them, making them do things: slaves of sorts. I wouldn’t know how right I was or just on what scale my fears would be real until later. But I didn’t want to think about my three recently departed zombie friends or slavery or whatever was going on for a moment longer. A man’s stomach was waiting and multi-tasking doesn’t come easy to us blokes. The little, well-loved pot sat over the fire on a metal rod and I watched the flames and coals over a number of hours, relaxing and clearing my exhausted mind.
My stew was delicious. It could have cooked longer but I couldn’t wait. Hunger had taken over and I greedily slurped and enjoyed the meal more than you would expect. With a bowl in hand, I leisurely wandered around the house, eating and gobbling like it was the first meal in a week. I ate and looked at the rolling hills, pausing for a moment to put my meal down onto a window-sill. I looked for movement with my binoculars.
I spotted a distant mob of kangaroos, birds, some far off rabbits and even a fox as the sun fell behind the hills and mountains that adorned the sunset. Despite the horrors, life was still beautiful. I left half of the stew to continue its maturity, to be enjoyed in the morning. I stoked the fire and let it bubble away, giving the flavour time to
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