strawberry jam or speculative editor/s note for a lifestyle periodical

by Laura K. Hydle

(2024. White City, London, UK)

editor/s note

Years ago/ while visiting friends in New Orleans/ it seemed like summer/ Though most of the year seems like summer/

It could have very well been spring or fall. Trivial details but I love them.

I find beauty in forgetting sometimes.

Which makes me think of the omnipresence of contradiction when I forget Details I feel so self determined to remember/ like those of my father who has Passed onto the other side.

When my mom and dad were dating/ they went to New Orleans/ not too far From our spot in the /rainy/ sunshine state we lived in all my life. A psychic Told my mom she would have a girl

I wondered around and found a building With a gallery in it and within that gallery was a small room with several large Mac desktops in the middle of a massive cherry wood table that took up Majority of it/s real estate/ sunshine on the north/west edifice/ papers/ and Books everywhere/ and a prominent man placed in perfect ratio of the scene.

Getting ahead of myself /as usual/ before entering this building it was of a Charming French/style/ New Orleans architecture speckled with light running Through surrounding tree branches and leaves and fruit… Through relentless debauchery on a southern axis/ mangroves and natures Domination of the city and filters freshness/ flooding my lungs and realigns my Posture. I walked

Up a set of comfortably tight stairs to an ambrosial studio space/ with art Pulsing through several vertically woven rooms/ on the other side/ Serendipity Caught me at the door/

A publishing office/ hundreds of photographs/ moods covering the walls/ People in the middle of it/ engaged/ speaking/ looking/ quietly/ intently looking/ Thinking.

I felt like I was eating a spoonful of fresh strawberry jam.

I did not want to interrupt/ it was warm

I thought to myself/ I would like to create here.

And then life happens/ and you forget About these moments and that man sitting cattywampus at his desk With a picture in one hand and a cup of something in the other/ Soft jeans and a their baby/ tucked away in dead architect/s dreams Within the sinking city. My friends surely know this place/ of course/ More deeply than I/ and the ones to correct me if I/m wrong/

And the ones to love me anyways.

I left them And without much say or reason/ I couldn/t Do the normal goodbyes/ Too embarrassed/ Too ashamed/ Too nervous/ Too awkward/ And too forgetful.

Now/ I/m in London/ my other home. Yesterday/ and a significant /forgettable/ Number of times before/ Downing Street was filled with Protestors to end the war in Gaza/ in Rafah/ and in many more places Just to/ as I am sure as history has foretold/ be forgotten too easily in The coming years.

And that is it/ period.

We forget.

How self/determined am I/ really/ to remember? Am I always destined to forget and what reminder do I have besides Countless of those who care to set in place alarms for me? Endless Struggles and grief due to our forgetfulness/ and natural violence/ to Remember/ more relatively/ years ago/ the ambulance/ to see the lack of air/ To feel like all the life had been taken from my own body/ like an Attack and my instinct was to scream the separation from my lungs that

Day. I remember

Recently at my part/time job/ this woman/ a publisher/ threw a leaving Party for her publishing company she founded and ran for something Odd years. The room was packed/ I stood by collecting a wave of coats And rucksacks from editors/ authors/ publishers/ with most likely Hundreds of years/ worth of assorted and curated words and letters with a Font/size of 24 points in piles of zippers below me. The retiring owner Of the company/ now moving along to another chapter of her life with a glass Of Grillo in one hand, gracefully speech/ing in the other.

I stood in the back corner by the door/ left of the cloaks/ among others Listening/ probably forgetting something.

She ended her speech along the lines of/

This is not goodbye

Only/ au revoir