I like boxes. Little ones that I can fill with things like marbles, notes, bits and pieces, reminders of our relationship between a thing and the various meanings we give it. I like that we fill things with significance, and then I like to mimic that by making empty boxes full with the odds and ends that are full now of meaning.
I've filled a particularly handsome cigar box full of reminders that at some point, to someone, I have meant something. A notecard from a favorite cousin, mailed to me, that says only "I love you," important enough to not just text or email or say over the phone but to write down, put in an envelope and get the federal government in on delivering it. A post-it note from an old roommate wishing me luck on my test. Reminders of meaning that I have in turn given meaning to. I keep it for when I need it, if I do, which I don't often. Usually just knowing the box exists does the trick.
Of course, meaning isn't stagnant. Trinkets that once brought comfort can become unhappy reminders of what's no longer there. I've had someone carefully comb through my happy box to spare me this fate, putting what's unwanted away in a smaller box somewhere.
And you can say they're just things, but I don't buy it. When your dorm burns down and your insurance gives you money to replace your stuff, it's not a simple, logical matter of replicating the old. It's that suddenly, you're rebuilding from the ground up. And to varying degrees, we all know what that's like.
I found this flyer when I was in Nashville a few weeks ago- this quirky and esoteric plea for "artifacts from past loves." It made me laugh when I read it. Then I thought about it, how it gives purpose to objects we may have set adrift in a meaningless void and perhaps wish to snatch back and reappropriate. That NY mug, those super comfy men's sweatpants, the left-behind journal, the small stuffed teddy bear can have a home again.
So, don't throw them in the bin. Send them my way and we'll put them here. Why not?
Sincerely,
Another Box
I've filled a particularly handsome cigar box full of reminders that at some point, to someone, I have meant something. A notecard from a favorite cousin, mailed to me, that says only "I love you," important enough to not just text or email or say over the phone but to write down, put in an envelope and get the federal government in on delivering it. A post-it note from an old roommate wishing me luck on my test. Reminders of meaning that I have in turn given meaning to. I keep it for when I need it, if I do, which I don't often. Usually just knowing the box exists does the trick.
Of course, meaning isn't stagnant. Trinkets that once brought comfort can become unhappy reminders of what's no longer there. I've had someone carefully comb through my happy box to spare me this fate, putting what's unwanted away in a smaller box somewhere.
And you can say they're just things, but I don't buy it. When your dorm burns down and your insurance gives you money to replace your stuff, it's not a simple, logical matter of replicating the old. It's that suddenly, you're rebuilding from the ground up. And to varying degrees, we all know what that's like.
I found this flyer when I was in Nashville a few weeks ago- this quirky and esoteric plea for "artifacts from past loves." It made me laugh when I read it. Then I thought about it, how it gives purpose to objects we may have set adrift in a meaningless void and perhaps wish to snatch back and reappropriate. That NY mug, those super comfy men's sweatpants, the left-behind journal, the small stuffed teddy bear can have a home again.
So, don't throw them in the bin. Send them my way and we'll put them here. Why not?
Sincerely,
Another Box