Random Objects, Artifacts, and Totems
I have always been fascinated by the randomness of what survives, in particular how certain odd objects settle into a life, and while thousands of other things are broken, given away, conspicuously lost, or simply vanish without notice, these few odd artifacts somehow remain. In many cases they have no real significance other than the longevity of possession. You sort of get used to having them, and I suppose there is a certain sentiment attached to an object you once held with your chubby childhood hands.
Case in point: the denim pouch, pictured above. Its zipper is broken, its fabric is stained, its capacity is paltry and the loops in the back for attaching to one’s belt no longer seem as clever and innovative as they once did. But I have had this thing in my possession for as long as I can remember.
As a little girl, it gave me a sense of Huck Finn-ish autonomy to think that I could stash some snacks or vague necessities inside, hook it to the belt of my dungarees (not that I owned a belt), and take off on some adventure, hands free. A pouch like this implied potential. Perhaps it enhanced my sense of mobility and independence in the days before I discovered that this was what a bicycle was for. (I did not get one of those until I was ten or eleven.)
The sad truth, though, is that the pouch and I never went anyplace. And yet somehow I have never had the heart to give it away, and it has stuck with me through all of my peregrinations and incarnations, half a century at least. So I put it back at the top of my closet with scarves and eyeglass cases and I imagine that someday after I am gone my daughter will look at it for a baffled instant before tossing it into the trash.
Random survivor #2: the dress clip. I am not even sure what this thing is for, but I do remember its being designated “dress clip.” It dates back to the 1940s at least. It is plastic, and the pronged metal clip part at the back says “Made in U.S.A.” and it is not a particularly pretty thing, but there is something functional and substantial about. I suppose in its day it rendered open necklines more modest, kept cleavage concealed, held button-less cardigans together. I have never used it and never expect to. Back it goes into my so-called jewelry box. It would be a betrayal to get rid of it now after its tenacious years of service and long subsequent retirement in my possession.
Survivor #3: the snowman. Now this one begins to make sense. Mrs. Montgomery, my Sunday school teacher, gave him to me for Christmas sometime back in the late 1950s. He is hand-sewn of felt with lovely bits of rickrack and sequins; he wears a smart red jacket (as you can see) and his nose is a tiny red bead. A small brass safety pin at the back allows you to wear him on the lapel of your winter coat. Now who wouldn’t treasure such a gift? The snowman, in fact, represents a transitional type of possession, somewhere beyond random sentimental artifact, something closer to totem.
Almost-totem because it was an object that while I wore it had some power to change the way I felt about myself or the way I navigated through the world. In a funny way the snowman protected me, or if not quite protected me, at least cheered me, and there is strength in that. I am not sure what was in my head back then to render him so dear, but now I think of EE Cummings’: If every friend became a foe, he’d laugh and build a world with snow. The sunny and ridiculous countenance of the plush little snowman gave me that kind of feeling. I haven’t pinned him to my coat in years, but I just may, and I certainly intend to keep him.
Another odd survivor/religious artifact category: the Stern Nun’s rosary beads. She caught me as I tried to slip out of mass at Holy Innocents before it was over. She handed me these very beads and sent me back inside. I was seven years old, both embarrassed and terrified, and I will never know if the rosary beads were intended as a gift or a loan, but I have had them ever since. It is a serious-looking thing, this rosary, with its ebony beads and tiny detailed crucifix, and it brings clearly to mind the demeanor of the disapproving nun who stood in the shadowed lobby preventing the escape of foolish children for our own good.
I suppose I have let the Stern Nun down. To call me a lapsed Catholic would be quite an understatement, and I have never used the beads for prayer -- but they hang above my dresser as they have in every place I have lived, and I cannot imagine being without them.
There you see religious artifact #2 or maybe it’s just magic: My dear friend Ted Martinez gave this St. Christopher medal to me several years ago. It’s a Johnny-come-lately compared to the other objects I have been talking about, but I include it here because of its power. Ever since Ted gave it to me, I have brought it with me on every journey I have taken, particularly those that involve flying, and so far I have always returned home safely, which opens up the possibility that it really works, and therefore I can never again travel without it.
On my desk in front of me is another special object that dates back to the 1950s: a little plastic colt. It's like an abstract sculpture to me, a delightful thing. In my mind it is connected to my beloved brother Eddie, and Cracker Jacks, and Prospect Park, and though it seems too big to have been a Cracker Jacks prize, it is definitely of that era of my childhood, possibly even earlier.
With its tail fluttering like a feather and its long legs just learning to stand, the colt reminds me of hope and innocence. It comforts me to look up at it.
Here's a genuine totem: this walking stick Cresensio made for me. It is a work of art, in my opinion, with its carved antler, its horse hair tails and abalone adornment, its tiny suede bag of secret offerings. It, too, is a newcomer into my life, a mere decade old, but not something I am likely to lose track of. It's extravagant and impractical, as walking sticks go, but when I take it with me and walk up the canyon, I feel invincible.
Well, I’ve listed seven random objects, and once I’ve added pictures this blog post is going to resemble an e-bay page. But I hope it is not seen as a tribute to stuff because in truth I am more inclined to shed than to acquire these days.
Perhaps I’m just taking inventory. If I can figure out why one thing has meaning or why another has managed to elude the thrift shop donation bag most of my life, maybe I can glean some knowledge of myself.
When I first came out to California in 1982, I packed most of my possessions into the famous avocado green Buick but left a carton of stuff in Syracuse for a friend to ship to me later if I ever found a home. History shows that I did find a home, and the carton arrived, and I opened it with great anticipation. Most of it was junk.