Because the Isle of St Anthony is located in the southern hemisphere it is common during the harsh winter months for northerners, especially those with medical conditions to come and stay at our guesthouse. Amongst the newcomers was Theophile, a monk travelling from the Lonely Saint’s Isle, a middle-aged man of about 50 of average height and weight, salt and pepper hair and most importantly a nature I came to admire during our brief time together. Our friendship began as all friendships do I suppose, by accident. I happened to be taking my daily walk round the main museum gardens when I noticed him looking intently at the carved stone bust of our founder which sits in the middle of the beds. I observed him for a few minutes and slightly worried by his stillness - he seemed to be hardly breathing - I approached him with a sense of concern.
- They tell me that it is a remarkable likeness, though I never knew the man himself, I said, a flimsy attempt to start a conversation and establish if all was well. He turned and looked at me, not at all surprised by my sudden appearance. - I was just thinking, he said, that my order aspires to be just like him. - Your order would like to start it’s own museum? I asked. - Oh no, nothing like that he replied. No, they are more interested in turning humans into stone. Seeing my eyes widen , he let out a bellowing laugh. - That didn’t sound quite as right as it sounded in my head. Forgive me, my name is Theophile and who would you be? I extended my hand and introduced myself. -It is very rude of me to scare my hostess half to death, my apologies! I was speaking metaphorically of my order’s wishes, of course. -I’m afraid I know little of the order you speak of, I said, hoping this statement would urge him to diverge a little more information. I was intrigued. - Well, my order believes that to attain oneness with the divine we must become as still as possible so that our spirit may escape the confines of our flesh and seek enlightenment. As still as stone. They believe that that is how the spirit escapes the body after death, the lack of movement opens the passage for our spirit to achieve eternal freedom. - Fascinating, I said. I couldn’t help but notice the way you phrased your description, you said your order believes this, does this mean that you personally don’t? He looked at me taken aback I suppose by my forthrightness. A moment of awkwardness passed. Then he smiled. - A shrewd observation…. Let’s just say that lately I have found myself asking the same question. In fact a lady about your age was the reason for me to start questioning my path. To this I raised an eyebrow and he hastened to explain further. - No, nothing like that, I was not interested in leaving my order for a chance at a married life. The lady I speak of is a nun herself, she and I traveled on the same boat during my voyage to your Isle. As fellow passengers we got talking and she told me of her order and that is I suppose what triggered my questioning the ways of mine. - Did she try to convert you? - Oh no, quite the contrary after our discussion she started questioning her order’s ways too. What started as a polite conversation between strangers turned into an in depth exchange of philosophies. He looked around him for a place to sit, spotted the stone bench under one of the pines and urged me to follow and sit beside him. He continued. - Her order believes that every cell in a person’s body is threaded together with every other with a single perpetually moving thread of light, like a beaded necklace or rosary for example. When a person’s mortal days are at an end that thread begins to unravel, the body falls apart as it has nothing to hold it together. After the burial the nuns stand over the deceased’s grave and start to untangle the thread helping the light weave itself into…I suppose, into the unknown as no-one truly knows what is out there. Here he paused either for effect or to check I was suitably impressed. By way of reply I gave a sharp nod for him to go on. -Well, then they begin the “untangling” which to an onlooker would resemble a sort of dance as the nuns seemingly pluck the invisible thread out of the air twisting and turning it till it is free. After this part of the ritual is done, flax seeds, Linum Luminari to be precise, are planted on the ground above where the person is buried. The flax plants are believed to absorb the remnants of “light thread” within their stalks. When the stalks reach maturity they are harvested and the thread that is spun from them is used to make a small keepsake and given to the deceased’s family, a symbol of closure both for the deceased and their loved ones. If no family is available they embroider the spun thread into the big wall hanging, they have over their churches alter. - And to think that I have always imagined a monk’s and nun’s life as a simple one that revolved around singing hymns and tending to their gardens. He laughed and slapped me on the back, a tad too enthusiastically may I add. - In many ways I wish you were right. Truth be told, I wouldn’t mind not having to deal with all these theories, I’m a simple man myself. His impish grin faded and his head drooped a little. -You are worried you may be on the wrong path? It was a very personal question to ask someone I had just met but I could feel that he needed to talk about his troubles, why else would he have said so much. He turned to me and gently nodded. -Aye, what if I have spent most of my adult life chasing shadows? These nuns are actually helping bereaved people find peace, what our order does doesn’t really benefit anyone but our selves…His face grew even more sombre. We sat there for a while not speaking. I had no answers for him and I couldn’t solve his problem. He seemed so vulnerable though and I felt that I needed to do something, so I asked him if he would join me for dinner the following evening so we could discuss his concerns a little more. He accepted and we began to meet frequently. At every meeting we would talk through his doubts and concerns, dissect the theories and stitch them back together in a more orderly fashion. Days and weeks passed and though we talked ourselves in and out of conclusions he could never quite reach an absolute decision. The cool winter days began to thaw under the eager spring sun and a week or so before he planned to return to his monastery he invited me to picnic near the stone bench we had first met. We sat on a patch of soft grass, lay our edibles on a plain white sheet and after our stomachs were satisfied, leaned against the trunk of the big pine tree and started to chat. - I’ll be sad to see you go, I said impulsively. I have really enjoyed your company, our chats, even if I’m afraid we didn’t achieve finding an answer to your ultimate question. - Aye, me too, he answered smiling shyly. You know what though? If it wasn’t for that question I guess we wouldn’t have spent all that time together, so I really should be very grateful to it. I giggled. (Side note: I do NOT giggle. I am not the giggling type. In fact the sound of the giggle startled me. I took this as proof that our time together had affected me quite substantially.) I quickly changed the subject. - We had an arrival today I think you may enjoy seeing: It’s a selection of a botanist’s notes, with the most refreshing take on organising flora. He does it by way of sound, you know, there being scientific proof that trees and flowers enjoy and grow better with music? A musical taxonomy, of sorts, most fascinating. Theophile’s eyes widened in amazement. - Your museum never ceases to surprise me! You know, we had a fellow monk that would only speak to his potted plants. When asked why, he answered “because it makes me feel great from my head tomatoes” I winced. - Honestly Theo, you do need to work on your plant pun repertoire! He laughed his bellowing laugh and helped me gather what was left from our picnic. Heading back, he stopped me before taking the path leading towards the museum’s storage room. - I think I’ll go change before joining you, these robes are way too warm for this spring weather of yours. If we experienced these kind of temperatures where I live, there would be heat exhaustion warnings and people spontaneously jumping into the ocean! How do I get to the warehouse from the guest rooms, is there a shortcut I can take? - Yes, just go through the main entrance, turn to your right and take the steps that lead down to the storage room. He nodded with a “right you are”smile and left me to continue by myself. Just as I was approaching the gate I heard crashing footsteps behind me and turned to face a very red and gasping for breath, Theophile. - I…I….think I have it!! He said whilst trying desperately to catch his breath. -What..? I asked, taken aback by his sudden reappearance. -The solution to my question…it was the warehouse…we were going to take different routes to get to the same place…so what if… - Ahhh…yes, I see… what if, there are many paths that lead to enlightenment? Not just a single way to achieve it? His legs gave out and he collapsed with a thud on the stoney path with a huge grin on his face. -Such a simple solution…I…or should I say us humans can be so blind sighted sometimes…we do enjoy complicating things don’t we! I sat beside him and put my hand on his shoulder. -You ok? I asked gently. - I think I will be…I still believe that the nun’s way is a much more productive way of spending ones monastic life. But if you can reach enlightenment through many paths…I guess nothing stops me from asking to join their order. - Ahem…there is a tiny problem with that.. -You mean because I am a man? Pfff…if they are truly seeking enlightenment that won’t stop them from letting me join, surely! I couldn’t argue with that. He made a valid point!
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Most of our artefacts have been donated by very generous people from all around the isles, but some have been acquired by other means like the collection I am going to be talking about today. This collection was purchased from a young lady that had inherited her great uncle’s estate. Her letter arrived one autumn day and as I had nothing else important planned for the following week I took our boat, the Wandering Dove to the Isle of St Martin's to meet up with her. She was a frail looking girl, aged around 20 and struck me as of a carefree and cheerful nature even though she had recently lost a close relative. I hurried to offer my condolences for her loss, but she waved them aside telling me that "she really didn’t know him that well as he traveled a lot" and that "it came as a complete surprise that she was the sole beneficiary to his will. What a stroke of good luck, to be sure!" She explained that she would take me to her uncle’s studio and there I would be free to look through his items and take anything I liked providing the "price was right". His studio was situated near a bridge on the outskirts of the main town and looked like a building that had once served as a cottage to a small family rather than one custom built as a photographer’s studio. On the outside it looked compact but well maintained with whitewashed walls, wooden shuttered windows and a slate plaque above the door announcing in swirly characters the name and occupation of the resident as "Rufus the Rational, Photographer and Inventor". Stepping inside I was almost immediately overcome by a strong not to mention noxious chemical odour and by the sheer volume of furniture, knick knacks, bottles and boxes that covered every square inch of the tiled floor. After a brief inspection I announced to Winifred - the great niece- that I’d need more than just one afternoon to go through all this and asked if there happened to be an inn nearby I could stay the night. "There's a perfectly suitable bedroom upstairs if you don’t mind staying here! I can change the sheets no problem and I am sure uncle must have some food left over in the larder". That seemed like a practical proposal so I acquiesced. I spent the afternoon and most of the night sorting through the larger items in the house, first the furniture, moving on to the books and the boxes, while staying well away from the various suspect looking bottles that were the root of the eye-watering smell. The furniture was simple and practical, the books were mostly about engineering and chemistry with the odd poetry book(!) thrown in but it was the boxes that held the most interesting finds. Box after box contained complicated inventions I assumed were created by Rufus - all of them looked like variants of a camera, all in all there must have been fifteen different cameras, carefully packaged and looking like perfect Museum material. This was exactly what I was looking for! In celebration I poured myself a glass of brandy from the decanter on his desk and with a smugness I cringe looking back at, took myself upstairs to bed. Unfortunately, I did not rest well. I kept thinking on Rufus, the cameras, the science and poetry books, his life as a photographer. While the cameras themselves were really interesting artefacts and would certainly be of interest to people visiting the museum, was that really what his life was about? Were they the items that best portrayed the important moments of his life? I hated to admit it because it meant I would need to go through everything again, but I could not shake the feeling that they were not. So, after a simple breakfast I returned to the work at hand. I began with the cameras because they seemed the most obvious place to start. I inspected every single one carefully looking for a sign of a more personal nature. On the seventh camera, labelled Camera Veritas I believed that I had found what I was looking for: a folded piece of thick colourful paper was tucked in-between the camera and it’s protective padding of rags. I carefully unfolded it and found that I was looking at an old advertisement poster declaring that Rufus the Rational was in town with his invention, the Camera Veritas. I put the poster to one side and continued the hunt. While I was nearing the last box I had an epiphany. Rufus was a professional photographer yet nowhere in his house had I seen a single album or for that matter a single photograph! I left the boxes and went straight to the bookshelf to leaf through all the books and check if there was a picture album I had missed and that was when three peculiar photographs slipped from one of the books and glided into my lap. All three were of young ladies with their torsos resembling bell jars. After my initial bewilderment I looked back to the book they had fallen from - it was a homemade calendar of sorts with his client bookings scribbled in. I searched every inch of it trying to find another photograph but without success. I then focused on reading through the bookings carefully, hoping to put names to the three girls in the pictures. After around an hour of searching I came across a booking for three sisters, Esme, Clara and Thea with a note next to their names I believed to be made by Rufus. The note went as follows: “Sisters, all born mute. Only ones wanting to try the Veritas. So surprised. I honestly thought there’d be more interest.” And an additional note I assume was added after the photographing had took place: "Best sitters, charming girls. This may be my best work to date. Don’t understand a bit of what I am looking at but I know it makes me glad. Keeping a duplicate set". Rufus no doubt was a genius but alas a man of few words. I looked at the photographs again, they made me glad too and I had to admit I didn’t know what I was looking at just like Rufus. I decided there and then that these and the Veritas Camera were what I was going to take back with me to the museum. Later on I tried to get more information out of Winifred about the photographs but she just looked at them, pulled a perplexed face and said that she had no idea what her uncle had been up to. I explained what I was taking and after I payed her a sum that I hoped would satisfy her she helped me carry the items to the harbour. On our way, we chatted companionably.
"I never got to meet him or my aunt" she casually mentioned during our conversation. The statement literally stopped me in my tracks “He was married?” I asked. "Oh yes, but they never had children. From the little I know she traveled with him wherever his work took him. My mother used to pay them visits when they were back home, but he wasn’t one for socialising, neither was his wife. But I guess you couldn’t blame her for that." “Why is that?” I asked. "Well…" she giggled nervously "She was one of those deaf and dumb people wasn’t she, poor thing. Mother used to say that’s probably why he married her!" I didn’t ask anymore questions after that. I also didn’t mention why I believed her mother to be wrong in her assumptions.... I have the privilege of meeting extraordinary people during my tenure as museum curator and I count Thomas Volitare as one of them. He has devoted his life to delivering the written word to countless hungry minds who may find themselves isolated for one reason or another. A human of many talents: a pioneering ship designer, a notable scholar, a master archivist and editor and a fearless and compassionate captain to his crew.
The collection he has chosen to donate speaks of the time he rushed to the rescue of the residents of the Illuminated Isles after a fire devoured their own library in under a day. During that time he had the opportunity to meet great minds which previously had preferred to withdraw from the world and delve into their own being for answers - the Illuminated Isles are after all a famous philosopher’s retreat - and also work on his own project, a dictionary of impressive proportions, editing it and adding to it relentlessly. The collection comprises mostly of books and tools with a few other additions. The “scissors of sincerity” were an invaluable editing tool for him and the word dissecting tool aided him greatly in his adventures in etymology. His work may revolve round books but so does his pleasure therefore when in need of some respite he would withdraw to the deck garden and read two of his favourites: Journal of an Aviary Keeper and The Metaphysics of Solitude. When the Isle’s library was finally completed Volitare’s work was done but before he departed, he was gifted “The Perspective Shifter” by the very grateful philosophers. Although he counts this book as one of his most precious belongings it had the side effect of making him indecisive something he found difficult to deal with. Thomas and the Biblioteca Volitare still plough the seas carrying their valuable cargo far and wide and making this world a more enlightened place because of it. Today I would like to share with you a collection donated eight years ago, by the naturalist Raphael Rowley.
At the time he had sadly lost his wife and concerned friends urged him to take a vacation to the well spoken of Healing Harbour which fortunately was not far from where he resided. Their advice proved sound as there he could bathe in the soothing waters of the ocean and simultaneously pursue his scientific interests by examining the sea water that is well known to have puzzling qualities. If you have not heard of the Harbour and it’s waters let me enlighten you: the sea water behaves in a baffling way. It inexplicably turns into pigmented fluid when mixed with other types of salt water, for example tears. The pigment if not collected immediately dissolves into the ocean so one needs to be quick about it if they want to obtain a sample. But I can hear you say: why does one not take a sample of water and do the mixing in the comfort of their own laboratory? Well, for reasons unknown this does not have the same effect. Rowley took many samples (see item 6) and wrote in a journal of his findings (see item 5). While there he hit upon a discovery: the pigment that was thought to dissolve meaninglessly into the sea in fact did something no one had ever considered: it became the primary diet of one of the native sea birds, which are affectionately called “Ocean Phoenixes”. The birds would dive into the waters red as a rooster’s comb and emerge hours later bright blue! Locals would have you believe that the birds were burning red hot while flying too close to the sun and would dive into the water to cool off, thus regaining the blue of their feathers and consequently earning the name “Phoenix”. But Rowley set things right. And probably while doing so, cooled down, even if it was just a little, the burning hot grief he carried within. The museum owns a small boat that is used to collect items contributors cannot deliver themselves. However when The Wandering Dove - the name given to our boat - is not out on errands, I take the liberty of sailing her to nearby isles for my own pleasure. Today’s destination was St Matilda, a small island not far from here, where one can watch from it’s rocky shores the schools of gigantic whisper whales travelling east this time of year. All my troubles and worries somehow dissolve when I take time out of my busy life to consciously observe nature’s wonders.
Poets roam our halls daily, as they find our collections a great inspiration to their work, so it would only be fitting for my first collection to be that of one of my favourite poets. She is a collector of truth and words and combines them beautifully in her work. The Poet’s Garden is located on the isle of St David and surrounds the Poet’s Sanctuary where tired bards and weary songsmiths can recharge their brain cells and exchange ideas on how to next seduce their personal muse. It is where inkwells are found on every table and paper makers can make their fortune (though some poet’s prefer to write on the sand and let the ocean carry their creations into it’s depths). The isle’s waters are said to have a positive effect on ones creative abilities and you can see nearly everyone carrying a glass bottle with them and sipping religiously, hence be warned there is always a long queue outside of the sanctuary’s out house.
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About the CuratorMy name is Juniper And I am the principle Curator of the Memento Vivere Museum. My duties include taking care of the primary displays, seeing that every collection is archived correctly and in general ensuring that everything within the museum’s grounds works like clockwork. However, because of the museum’s dwindling spacial capacity, I have taken it upon my self to compile several volumes presenting some of the more interesting and poignant collections that the visitor will very possibly never get to view. Dear reader, within these pages, I shall be sharing some of these collections with you. I do hope you enjoy what I have to show you. Archives
April 2018
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