From My Collections
I am organizing the artefacts from my trip, yes I am—to steal the sentence from Walter Benjamin’s Unpacking my library. Sand and bits of drift wood replace the worn and dusty pages in my library. a collection of itmes inanimate objects relatively small appears to be a collection of collections. Each one serving as a mnemonic device returning me to a world I once inhabitied. Some may describe this as being overly nostalgic and pherhaps their judgment is warrented for I enjoy nostalgia and in it I’m reminded of how I felt, and how I’ll feel again. Somewhere in my collection is a small pink rock taken from island park 4 years ago. I wish I had the rock now, to hold it to observe its smooth features. What strikes me most about this rock is that it has moved beyond a memory and it has risen to the level of being something worth remembering—the metamemory. This is a place reserved for only the most treasured objects. Items that shield and bury meaning. Making them extra personal even mysterious. Secrets ready for the world to see, but only coded so as not to be taken lightly.