I’m on the fence about objects. Sometimes I can keep something with a fetish-like attachment for years. Sometimes I can’t be bothered about things. I can care deeply for a certain cup and then let it go without any regret when it breaks. There are objects that belong to previous stages in my life which I keep in boxes, so as not to ruin them, there are things I use because otherwise what is the point of liking objects, there are things I maintain and things I forget about immediately. I can’t find any kind of consistence in my behaviour towards objects, no ideological pattern whatsoever. While looking for the right bike for the kids I might go with the `I’m too poor to buy crap stuff` motto of my grandma, but I will buy the cheapest shoes because they will only survive about two months anyway… (although sometimes the cheapest shoes turn out to be surprisingly resilient and the kids’ feet migh just stop growing for months on end – there is simply no way of anticipating these things properly…). I’m only stating this randomness because there is something that ties my whole relationship with objects together: it seems that my objects tend to attract… how can I put this eloquently… the shit in `shit happens`.
There can be objects that I worked for – like the first bed sheets I bought from my own money and my grandma helped me trim to the dimensions of my old bed. We folded the 30 cm of width that we wanted to remove, me at one end of the sheet, she at the other, and then she put the scissors at the bottom of the fold instead of the top, made an incision and then tore happily at the cloth, in the middle of the sheet and in the middle of my unbelieving `NOOOO!`. I still have the blue sheets with flowers, sewn in the middle and imperfect since the very day they were bought.
There can be plants that I watch carefully grow, protect as far as I can and which get eaten by mysterious bugs the day before the bloom would open. New clothes that get washed, after having been worn only once, together with just the one thing that gives off intense blue or indian red. The new glasses that have a scratch on them from the toy car that needed to kiss me the first week I got them. New furniture that gets chipped the day I assemble it. The wall I have just painted, which gets smudged the same evening. The new phone, which was there when I got on the plane, because I’m certain I turned it off, and then it wasn’t by the time I got home.
I assume everybody deals with such nonsense all the time. Or else spends a lot more time being very careful about wallets and putting coasters on coffee tables. Or else, doesn’t have kids. Either way, I’m sure there are people at both ends of the care-about-objects spectrum and that they are happy with where they position themselves. The thing is, I don’t really mind the ‘messiness’ of it all – for a good part, things are just things and they don’t matter all that much in the bigger picture. It’s just the feeling of waste, of everything being usable, but not neat, mostly as soon as it enters my care, the feeling that there must be something I’m doing (by way of which the same escalator I take everyday will turn out to have a screw sticking out of its side exclusively the day that I put on new shoes with potentially scratchable heels)… it’s that `this seems to only happen to me` that’s so annoying… And the undefined guilt that you think you did everything right, but the crack is still in everything, only literally…
P.S. I do think it’s nonsense even to think about this, but I suppose it must come from the same neurotic streak that keeps the egg yolk whole and tries to remove the crust of every wound.