Looking back, I am shocked I could have forgotten Ryman’s death so blithely, even if for a moment. But there were distractions … The breeze was carrying a scent of green apples from a grocer’s trolley stall and cinnamon from a baker selling hot cross buns. The buns were laid out on greaseproof paper on lattice trays. I bought one and it was delicious. I could mention the sticky glaze on top, the way the light crust broke in, but the real thing I remember was the burst of sweetness when I hit a currant. But maybe I am being too hard on myself – eating, drinking, most of all sex, those activities ease the turbulence of the flesh, allowing us, briefly, apparent escape from the burden of soul. As I ate and walked, I recalled something Ryman had said about consciousness being like the berries in jam – that sometimes we are in the berry, sometimes in the jam, with the difference being that the ‘berries’ are the exterior surfaces of consciously directed thoughts (such as one might explore while pursuing a line of research) whereas the jam is what we’re mostly paddling around in.
