Terry’s Chocolate Orange

Two things before we start; I was born in England and I’m a big fan of zombie movies.

Now off we go.

There’s a scene in the film 28 Days Later where Naomie Harris says “lf l never see another chocolate bar again, it’ll be too soon. Not counting Terry’s Chocolate Orange!”

Every year since I was a boy my mother buys me a Terry’s Chocolate Orange for Xmas. I believe it’s a way for her to keep me connected to my British roots. I can’t say for sure, of course, but it’s become something of a tradition.

And, interestingly enough, I can’t think of the words Terry’s Chocolate Orange in my own voice. Can’t do it. In my head, whenever I think of this orange-shaped ball of chocolate and orange oil I hear Naomie’s voice saying “Terry’s Chocolate Orange.” It’s impossible for me to get through the entire name without her voice in taking over.

It’s funny the things that we remember and the things we forget. I guess in a way all we are is what we remember. For all the lofty things we hope to be, at the end of the day neurons fire and something emerges from some secret vault between our ears and that is what we are.

Whether you believe its karma or our subconscious, most of us want to believe there is a gatekeeper fishing through all the possible candidates to be brought forth and remembered. A reason that a particular memory surfaces out of the mire and that reason is for our own benefit.

However unlikely it might seem.

In our heads our thoughts are like the lines on an Etch A Sketch. Some haphazard zig zags and squiggles and some drawn with the greatest of care and either way life comes along and shakes them and gives them equal value, making sure that we can never even be the person we were ten minutes ago.

So we scramble to find who we want to be for the next ten.

The lucky ones turn to sorcery and spells. Incantations that save us from ourselves.

Poetry.

Collections of common words that when put in the right order act as shepherds. Imploring us to exalt. Warning us of the road ahead.

So bum me a cigarette, buy me a beer till i’m happy to be here, happy to be here.

With all of my family hookers in heels and the men who watch them like hungry black eels.

– Noah Gundersen – Family

You were expecting Frost or Longfellow?

Whatever floats your boat.

This isn’t an advice column. I’m not a particularly good writer and I’m an even worse source of wisdom. All I can do is arrange a few thoughts in such a way as to perhaps jar something loose in your own head … as I stated I would try to do back in 2012 when I started this dumb website. Something greater than the sum of my parts. Something for you to take into the daylight.

Plus, I’m a terrible poet. Not my fault.

Nothing rhymes with Terry’s Chocolate Orange.