People like me are fond of saying we don't like "things," since it is rarely cool to be a consumer (except when it is). When it comes to conventional consumer items, I'm definitely backward. My car, a Saturn, is nothing to brag about, I don't have a big TV or an iPod; hell, I'm not even a home-owner any longer. My furniture is thrift store quality, my dishes are chipped, and I wouldn't even own a decent bed, except that I am taking care of my ex-girlfriend's bed while she is away in Mississippi.
A bunch of the other, nicer furniture in my house is hers, also. Some of the rest is my ex-wife's stuff. I don't believe I've ever had a fight with an ex-partner for our shared material goods; in the end, it just doesn't matter that much to me who has what.
What I do care about, however, is the memories associated with various other objects littered around my house, and my ex-partner's houses. Every object has its own story; and I often recount these narratives to myself, as in:
*That big shampoo bottle.
*That Chinese liquor bottle.
*That old hat.
*Those design books.
*That baby shawl.
*This old broken piece of tile from Balkh.
*That robe, those slippers.
*"Power Cat," a painting.
Then there is the matter of my many, many collections: Seaglass, shells, stones, driftwood, bottle caps, sand dollars, feathers, stamps, kids' art, magazines, books, coins, sports cards, model cars...on and on. Most of these items have little if any monetary value, in fact many of them qualify as pure junk.
But, to me, they represent captured memories like a certain beach at sunset with someone I loved, stooping and gathering tiny shiny bits of things as they glinted in the fading light. Or, stamps torn from letters sent me from around the world after one of my books on global environmental problems.
I have an especially hard time throwing away things people have given me, like cards and gifts from my kids or lovers.
By now, you are envisioning a pretty cluttered place. Actually, most of my possessions are in boxes.
But there is the occasional surprise: open a drawer and find a matchbox with the name of a restaurant in New York, which brings back a flood of memories, or another from a spa in Calistoga, Dr. Wilkinson's; or a scrap of paper, a credit card receipt from a gas station in Gulfport or the Kona Coast.
A travel shampoo from a hotel, a pen from a conference, a hat that says Hands On USA, an old photo of happy people dancing. Wherever I look, there are stories screaming out at me. None of these objects, or at least very few of them, should be retained once I pass from the earth. To most other people, these bits and pieces of life are nothing more than archeological evidence from an era that, by the time it becomes exotic, will be buried under the bones of those who will succeed us, just as we now stand atop the bones of our ancestors.
Still, stories can be crafted out of these modest possessions; perhaps then they will acquire value that otherwise will elude them during their natural life cycle. In the aftermath of a disaster, such as Hurricane Katrina last year, people's possessions littered the landscape willy-nilly, coated with mud, no longer in any sort of order or condition that would allow their previous owners to reclaim -- or even recognize -- them. Their individual stories were lost, but collectively they spoke of shattered lives and a community lost.
It's nice to build stories out of modest particles, like these small collections of mine, or the emotional waves that lap over me, like tides, coming in, going out, leaving only a soft residue behind. There will never be enough time for me to craft all the stories these tiny items surrounding me contain. Most will lose their potential for meaning when I go silent.
In this way, I am their curator. Their stories depend entirely on me. I wish I had the time to tell them all, but I don't. From the last license plate for our trailer in Michigan, and why; to the hand-lettered instructions for our dishwasher, and why not; most of these stories are destined to go untold, along with their unteller to our common grave.
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