Words: Martha Wright (she/her)
I hope my memento does it justice, though I’m not sure anything could. The smoke, the lights, the friends, the lovers, everyone coming together and, for one moment, forgetting about everything and just dancing.
Dirt covers my hands as I dig and dig. It might have been a good idea to buy a shovel, I think to myself, but oh well – it’s too late for that now. Mounds of soil are already piled high, sullying the spotless green lawn. I think of my mother and smile, her perfect garden ruined by my undying commitment to sentimentality. Maybe I’ll try and pass it off as a mole, absolving myself of all responsibility. Ta da! I pause for a moment to admire my hard work. A large, gaping trench stands before me, finally big enough to accommodate all my belongings. Before depositing the silver chest, I take one last look at my possessions. Burying it feels as if I am burying a part of myself. I hope they’re grateful, the historians, for when they discover my time capsule, this is what they shall see.
Thirty and counting tickets from the GFT, neatly bound together with an old hair bobble. I even bothered to categorise them by date. Marie Antoinette at the bottom and Hamnet at the very top. I wonder if they’ll look through every one? If they’ll know from the tickets how the films made me feel, or how uncomfortable the chairs become when it gets to the two hour mark?
A slice of carrot cake from Cottonrake. To be enjoyed with a good cup of tea and an even better friend. Even if it was mouldy, all black and blue with spores protruding, part of me thinks it would still be delicious. However many years had passed, you’d still be able to taste the hint of orange in the icing. I search for it in every other carrot cake I eat, but none quite hit the mark like that one.
A vial of sweat. Collected while I perch on the cold cobbles at approximately 3:01 am, after dancing the night away in Stereo. I’m tired now, my legs hurt from the inappropriate shoes I’m wearing, and I’m dreaming of Mrs Falafel, but it was all worth it. I hope my memento does it justice, though I’m not sure anything could. The smoke, the lights, the friends, the lovers, everyone coming together and, for one moment, forgetting about everything and just dancing.
My Glasgow Women’s Library card. Do you think when they pick it out, when they play with it between their fingers, they’ll be able to experience the joy I felt when I received it? To them, it may just be a library card, but to me it’s a key to a sanctuary. A place where the tea is always flowing, the faces are always smiling, and the books are always waiting. A home away from home.
Beermats upon beermats, all with different patterns and etchings. Some reminiscent of nights I always want to remember, others of ones I can’t wait to forget. Each and every mat did its job, though. One looked after my pint while I stared at Frannie sitting across from me in The Doublet. I’m slightly tipsy and clinging to her every word. Another looked after my Guinness on Paddy’s Day while I sang along to cheesy acoustic versions of Sweet Caroline in Kitty O’Sheas. Okay, actually, I might not include that one.
My Belle and Sebastian CD. It’s The Boy with the Arab Strap in case you were wondering. Chastise me for being cliché all you want, but it’s impossible not to think of Glasgow when you listen to it. After playing it on repeat in first year as an act of wannabe cultural assimilation, I’ve been hooked ever since. More importantly, I listened to Stuart Murdoch’s advice: I’ve been colouring my life with the chaos of trouble every day since I first heard it, and I think you should too.
A small piece of peeled blue paint. Picked off the first wall that ever was mine. A wall I stared at whilst crying as I broke up with my first love. A wall that I attacked with poster after poster to make it feel less, well, blue. A wall that heard a thousand late-night conversations, early morning groans, I miss you’s, I love you’s, I hate you’s, and everything in between. A wall that was the backdrop for my first year of adulthood. A wall I’ll never forget.
Looking down at the covered-over mound of dirt, it feels as though something’s missing. All of these things and more are stuffed within it, so why am I not content? Because no amount of souvenirs, whether it be photos, cinema tickets, or receipts, could truly explain what this city means to me. Glasgow, you are my world, and to really show how much you mean to me, I’d just have to crawl into that hole myself.
