We don’t hold on to many “things” for very long in our tiny space: photos are scanned (as are books, if not available digitally) and discarded, most objects are either not brought home in the first place, or are enjoyed for a while, then given away.
I procrastinated more about this direction than any of the others, because I don’t really have a “burning building” box or list of things (besides Ludo, but he’s not an ‘object’). This conscious non-assignment of value (sentimental, at least) to objects has created a funny indifference to most things.
I have things that have monetary value, but they are replaceable. It hardly seemed appropriate to hug the hard drive that holds the digital versions of memories.
For all my claims of moving beyond sentimentality, I admit that there is, in the back of the slender “to be scanned” drawer, a little stash of objects: hand-carved rubber stamps, sticker-booth stickers, a folded paper heart with ragged black edges, and the two things in this image.
The burnt fake rose, attached to a black satin rectangular pouch, was wrapping from the first Christmas gift GB gave me. It smells like a fire in a magic shop, and it feels like something you forgot at a beach house.
I came across the photo (which really should be scanned, but it has some pleasing dimension that I’m not ready to let go) while digging the rose out of the drawer. I had forgotten about it entirely. It is proof that I get both my stubbornness about aging and my willingness to make myself look quite revolting on purpose from my insanely hilarious Mom. It, too, smells burnt, and feels fragile.
This one feels like a circle closing to me (not ending though).
Thanks Molly, thanks for making this happen. Watching these extraordinary images and stories come in as a result of something I was lucky enough to be in a position to suggest is a very special thing.
Reblogged from Molly Broxton.