Objects

I am consistently told, by my family, by friends, by "wise elders" and trusted advisors, to make the most out of my experience here, during my travels. A multitude of voices shout to me, "See everything! Do everything! Be everything!", whether these voices be palpable or merely phantoms, they plague me constantly. My eye falls on every action I take, every place I go, every choice I make and each and every second that ticks by, weighing them, testing them against this call to ceaseless movement. In my room, I'll sit, reading a book, listening to a track or two, gluing my eyes to the computer screen in some mindless fashion or just reflecting and writing... no moment like that is silent for me. Guilt and pressure from all sides; my own choices seem suspect, sinister, ungrateful to all those who "got me here"... why?

Why must experience be all-encompassed by movement? Be unstoppable exploration and endless flux? There is a place for reflection and stasis in travel; it allows you to gaze around at the world that will be your "home" for the time being. To look upon the buildings, the vistas, the skyline and nature about you. When I stopped and looked around me, I noticed something I hadn't before; objects. When you travel, leap from crash-pad to hostel, or from a day spent as lightning on a hike or drive to a quick nap in a bed alien to you, you miss the hidden things around you. You miss the alleyways drenched in graffiti, in personal tags and story lines; the minor vandalism in the nooks of the city.

I find myself wandering about my city, now that I sit in a stasis, my eyes fixed to the bricks, pavement, plywood fencing, mailboxes, lampposts, every column of municipal bunting and public buildings, scouring them for marks. I stalk those roads in search of graffiti, stencils, murals, posters, flyers, the blemishes of counterculture, of youthful revolt, of simple advertisement or whim. They notate the skin of the city like so many birthmarks, flaking off to be replaced with a new set in a month or two. It's these transient things that you miss when you travel at break-neck speed, head out and above, focused on that next "experience", because those unique marks last only for a short while. They aren't meant to be immortal-- in Hip-Hop culture, the "tag" is meant to be a sudden burst of display, a splash of color and form sprayed across a wall; it's about pride in the creation. It's about the transience of being, of expression. It's about that first kick that tag or mural gives the viewer, that unadulterated sensation of "newness" and of vibrancy. So each and every one of those marks holds that very same thing for me, so I capture it in writing (verse, prose or fragmented phrasing) or in photo or in my own memory, smearing the sights into a blend of color and remembered sensation. I mix them into a poultice and apply it to my mind, let it sit, let it simmer and then set.

I've taken plenty of pictures of trees and landscape, sky-scenes and sunsets, and now, to punctuate my "photo-journal" with quirk and oddity is freeing. So I take pictures of strange inanimate shit. So I snatch my photos, whatever I find fixed to the city's surface... what isn't fixed to it, if it strikes some odd chord within me, I take it from the perch-- posters exclaiming some underground concert, advertisements for weeks old exhibitions, half-adhered stickers, anything that catches my eye. I unclasp my penknife or pause beside it, my fingers scrabbling eagerly for a loose corner, scraping the refuse off the wall, rolling it up and stuffing it into my backpack or slipping it between the pages of a book...

What do I do with these pieces of the city? There is a space above my bed, empty, plain, white cinderblock; I collect all of these scraps and esoterica to spread a collage across, a shard of the city... a patchwork window of streets and alleys, an abstract tear in that blank space. A cut of color in the white-wash of my little cave; I want the wall to be blasted, pressured inward, toward a fissure in some thin, in-between reality... a vein of vivid imagination. A porthole into that semi-coherent, imagined essence.

Objects as the essence of experience; little shards of life hanging from your neck or wrist, clasped about a finger, in the non-face of a torn knee of a pair of jeans, in the sown (or sewn) ink of a tattoo, the glare of sunlight on metal, the musk of wood or chemical tang of plastic. Sensation in each mote of gathered item. They can most definitely encapsulate the world of experience as well as any bought or chosen trip. After all, what are memories anyway? Owned things; collections of snap-shots and quips and meaningful images, all boxed away within the mind. But a thing, that's just a tiny physical reminder of a place or person or sentiment. A decanter of sound, touch, smell, taste, sight; they are open to past experiences, to be placed in a sort of reminder-mode, to be filled with the memories and nostalgia. They can be attuned to current happenings or be prepped for a future event.

I wear three cords around my neck and a fourth and fifth on my wrist; one a gift, the rest picked up in various locales (Pennsylvania, Auckland or the Northlands), but each has absorbed some meaning, some memory, which I stores, to be accessed with a simple touch or glance. A rough carven bone infinity loop; a smoothed shaft of ancient Kauri wood; a tarnished loop of silver; a worn yak bone mala; a thread-bare bracelet of flax. Symbols of personal meaning, their cores, their essences, only attainable through my own lens. I will that meaning with a flexing of the mind, a tuning into some deeper thread, some necessary thread, tapping into comfort and love. Flushing my body with serenity. And on my skin, two "brands", two marks of my own... the tree and the semi-colon... connection and deep-rooted strength. Ink sown across my skin. Little islands of history, burning bright and hot whenever I look into them. Some judge. Some question why? Some scoff at their permanence; but when my thoughts grow old and shriveled, those marks will remain, like some bent corner of a page of some worn book.

"... sometimes his gifts were old beat-up things but they had the charm of usefulness and sadness of his giving."