July 27, 2012 § 4 Comments
I have a habit of going through the charity shops in our neighbourhood on Saturdays. I do not take pleasure in shopping and am one to feel trapped by the hangers and the rows of clothes and things, the favourite things of all these people. It gives me great angst to see more than 2 pages of items on on-line shops usually prompting me to close the browser completely. But I do appreciate browsing through charity shops and pay them a visit as often as I can. This is the latest item I brought home.
It is different with old things for me. It is like we speak a common language, that of textures and smells, and colours. Always colours. The faded wallpaper foliage remembering the days of sun and passion, the melting navy ornaments like those wild blueberries deep down in the wild woods demanding patience and dexterity, the piercing crimson, a pool of a dead animal’s warm blood on a cold safari night.
These objects speak to me in symbols and images I am too poor to understand, yet there is something they cary in their shapes and sizes that signifies piece and stability to me. They have endured the hours. They have been there to see the end. They are not always items to marvel at but at the same time, items I cannot take my eyes off once I spot them. And so I know they will be leaving with me. I take them, greedily, not dissimilar to the manner Gargantua took food and drink and made it his body, but ever so slightly less vulgar. I am a civilised creature and as such realise so very well the temperament of these things. They are here to outlive and so they attract the weaker link, the one that will make them survive.
This tiny cabinet found home in our bathroom of all places. It is meant to stay there. After a generous application of oil, I feel we are now tied. Tied by our efforts to serve.