Objects tend to become belongings once they are enclosed behind walls that we erect – the sense of belonging to that space (wherever it may be) containing a photograph of one’s mother placed atop the furthermost corner of a nightstand hidden behind a couple dusty novels, one by Danielle Steele and the other of common prayer – speaks volumes of the indweller, perhaps even more so than how he presents himself in daily life. His habits in this space are worn; they are like skin. His possessions provide history, memory, the sense of self that constitutes an existence in the world. And his existence will persist...in belongings, so long as these walls stand.
The power of a belonging is diluted when it spills out into the world through the cracks of crumbling walls. A ghost fades quietly from the belonging causing it to reclaim the status of object. The object then begins to decompose into material raw with potential. This is my favorite part.
I think deeply of the person caught between the wood grain of a my little pony sticker adorned drawer as it collides with a lamp shade wrested from a deceased hoarder’s stash. What do their stories tell when together and how does my story change as they pass through me? What is possible thereafter, when the ghost has departed?
Perhaps we are always dying. Yes, this much is true. It is part of life. Walls will be porous and skin cells will flake off only to be replaced. I dump my old self onto the street corner for some wandering soul to possess. I bring what lays on the next into my home. Some things I keep longer than others, but everything eventually returns to the place from which it came.
I find the spaces we inhabit are as much a part of us as we are of them. We build houses to live in, yes, but they also live in us. It makes sense to me that as life evolves, so too does the home. A bedroom gets re-modeled with a new idea. A window may either be open or closed, or slightly blinded so as to allow the right amount of light in. Of course, when one decides to rest, they may desire very little light.
Before I close my eyes at night I press a button that communicates, through a system wires and circuitry, with a brain; it tells the brain to make it either more or less hot. This air conditioning – this life-force, spirit, pneuma – is the wind of my soul; it hums an om at low frequency; it circulates through hallways to connect rooms of diverse function.
I, for one, prefer control of elements such as these. And if the homespace truly is a body I will even say that I expect such control, for I can hardly imagine living without plumbing, electricity, or a properly functioning refrigerator with a light that comes on when I open it. Call this part of my modern sensibility to enjoy comfort where I may find it.
Outside, I subsist on transience. My material is the live-in world. Furniture marred with the scars of someone else’s history now hold my own. I’m continually brought to this realization: though within my influence home is far from my control. And I can accept this. Still, I wish to grasp what is the what is the future of this space is and how it will reflect the person inside.