Ode to Things (and collectibles)

Ode To Things

I have a crazy,

crazy love of things.

I like pliers,

and scissors. 

I love

cups, 

rings,

and bowls – 

not to speak, or course,

of hats.

I love

all things,

not just

the grandest, 

also

the 

infinite-

ly

small – 

thimbles, 

spurs,

plates,

and flower vases.

Oh yes,

the planet 

is sublime!

It’s full of pipes

weaving

hand-held

through tobacco smoke,

and keys

and salt shakers – 

everything,

I mean,

that is made 

by the hand of man, every little thing: 

shapely shoes,

and fabric,

and each new

bloodless birth

of gold,

eyeglasses

carpenter’s nails,

brushes,

clocks, compasses, 

coins, and the so-soft

softness of chairs.

Mankind has 

built 

oh so many

perfect

things!

Built them of wool

and of wood, 

of glass and

of rope: 

remarkable

tables, 

ships, and stairways.

I love

all

things,

not because they are

passionate

or sweet-smelling

but because,

I don’t know,

because

this ocean is yours,

and mine; 

these buttons

and wheels

and little

forgotten

treasures,

fans upon

whose feathers

love has scattered

its blossoms,

glasses, knives and

scissors – 

all bear

the trace

of someone’s fingers

on their handle or surface,

the trace of a distant hand

lost

in the depths of forgetfulness.

I pause in houses,

streets and 

elevators

touching things,

identifying objects

that I secretly covet; 

this one because it rings,

that one because 

it’s as soft

as the softness of a [cat's fur],

that one there for its deep-sea color,

and that one for its velvet feel.

O irrevocable 

river

of things: 

no one can say

that I loved

only

fish, 

or the plants of the jungle and the field, 

that I loved

only

those things that leap and climb, desire, and survive.

It’s not true: 

many things conspired

to tell me the whole story.

Not only did they touch me,

or my hand touched them: 

they were

so close

that they were a part

of my being,

they were so alive with me

that they lived half my life

and will die half my death.

Pablo Neruda

Stuff, trinkets, collections, treasures, clutter. They come by many names. The things we collect and keep that tell the history of our lives and those that passed through it.

On a deeper level they offer a tangible permanence to our existence. On a superficial level, acquiring coveted objects is fun and rewarding. On a psychological level? Well, eff that. Im tired of analyzing and justifying why we do the things we do.

I collected early. An active child with an active imagination, my earliest memory is of a box (I must have seen this in some children's program), where I collected found objects. One was a big red bead that I'd fed a red ribbon through and if I combined the pieces in the right way they would offer clues to some magical place. My father found the box and the contents were discarded.

Later came geological and semi-precious stones. Posters of animals and the solar system were subsequently replaced by fine art prints. An evolution of early interests that remained. 

Of course I'm also of a generation were upcycling and sustainability make one hang on to even more stuff in direct opposition of a certain Buddhist mentality to not be attached to materialism. But those unused chopsticks in the junk drawer came in handy when I had to remove something from a narrow container.

But it matters. Stuff and things matter. A lot. My father recently passed. In the same way that I stared at the Mona Lisa (OMG DaVinci actually touched this), objects transport one back in time and while they cannot replace the person, looking at my father's tool box immediately evokes the memory of the very serious business of measuring and leveling, my mom and I laughing because he would make this whistling sound of concentration, and getting angry if interrupted.

 

Mom:"Shhhhh. Your dad is building something" Me:"No, I think he's just hanging a picture" Dad:"Why don't you two hold this instead of laughing." (Turning around so we wouldn't see him smirk). Who knew that a hammer, pliers and his organizational skills of a tool box would make me smile.

I am not referring to junk or found objects, but items that may have been gifted by a loved one

and despite their style are kept regardless. I am referring to some strange societal norm imposed on many that our homes (especially living rooms) must look magazine ready, with select items on coffee tables instead of looking lived in.

This was actually meant to be a post on collections, but turned into something else. One of the things I sort of collect are bookmarks. Sort of, because the really nice metal ones are not useable and anything with a bead or a metal pendant bangs against the book. I have art ones from exhibits and even some carved wood scented ones that one of my teachers gifted me when I graduated. Then I made a few of my own. I had to relearn how to make tassles, which we learned as a craft project in elementary and simply cut out some interesting patterns that I glued onto cardboard. I hand them out like candy. (Particularly to my mom, who keeps misplacing them but loves the soft wool tassle).

Interesting, quirky or unique collections? I'd love to hear about it.