San Pedro river archive

Walking by the San Pedro is like

walking into an archive with the

strangest archivist.

The archivist works

with calm deliberation,

idly moving stacks of files

between cabinets in an apparently

organised manner.

But every once in a while,

the archivist goes on a feverish quest

to shift the filing system – a relentless

task that lasts for days, sometimes weeks.

The archive becomes a blizzard of flying paper

and collapsing shelves as the archivist storms

its narrow corridors in a frenzied surge of

creative energy.

Countless files are thrown into a paper shredder,

and then scattered around the archive

in a chaotic manner.

Traces of old filing systems are forgotten

in the dustiest corners

of the archive.

After limited success at making sense

of the erratically labelled rows of shelves and boxes

(some of which we can still find peaking

from underneath the piles of shredded paper),

we eventually approach the archivist,

asking if they could please direct us towards the

shelf containing x information on this or that

crucial indicator of system stability.

The archivist then passes us

a scribbled note with the

worst handwriting imaginable.

And we are left sitting between

the wobbly shelves of the archive,

trying to decipher whether that word says

pebbles or gherkin.

Jerk.

Eventually, we step back, boots covered in

persistent mud that we doubt will ever wash off.

Water becomes words, silt settles into its new

numeric niche.

The archivist, nonetheless, remains as peculiar

as ever – a stranger beneath the page.