Madrigle

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carefully collected objects
Monday, May 28th, 2001 @ 10:50 pm

For the first time in longer then I care to remember I can now see my living room carpet. Enough said about that.

* * * * *

I just woke from a dream.

A dream that has me a bit disquieted.

In the dream someone was making me to get rid of my carefully collected objects and furniture.

I have a whole shabby sheik/country sheik thing going on.

I was having to replace them with new sterile things because of their nicks and dings.

Being forced to trade my possessions with all their lovely stories and character, for soulless, storyless, historyless, mass produced junk.

I know my things may be frayed around the edges, but that is the very quality that drew me to them in the first place.

Even in clothes I prefer the slightly tattered and worn, to the brand new.

I love that if you close your eyes and run your fingers and hands over these objects that you can almost hear them whispering their tales to you.

I can imagine the stories exchanged over the 150 year old lion footed, five legged, family dinner table that graces my small dining room . . .

I can see my great grandmother Whitman, a lady that I never met, hunched over the small secretary writing a letter to one of her three daughters . . .

I can hear the German being spoken during the wonderful meals served on my 12 place settings of 1918, Mitterteich china. The china that once belonged to a German rocket scientist, who was later to settle in the White Sands, New Mexico area . . . His English wife served tea everyday from the delicate little teapot. You can see the ware of nearly 75 years of use from the rub of her hand on the pattern of the tea pot . . .

I can hear and see my grandpa, a devastatingly handsome, cleft chinned, blue eyed young high schooler in Lordsburg, New Mexico, silently working to smooth the grain on his beautiful cedar chest . . .

No, not silently.

If I know grandpa he was either whistling or singing in his lovely tenor vibrato that I so rarely heard him use . . .

I pick up images of a silent country life from my great grandmother's end tables, and skeletons. Many skeletons, floating behind a veiled mist, that even these objects are not willing to reveal . . .

From my grandmother's maple chest of drawers, and her small mahogany desk, both enveloped in many layers of a creamy white enamel, I pick up many things. But ultimately the feeling that comes through the clearest is sorrow . . . A deep bitter, silently keening sorrow . . .

I'm surrounded by history.

A warmth emanates from these objects.

I hope I am never made to give up their stories.

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