Sopwith-camel's post here made me think of how much I do own things, which don't actually belong to me.
Things, which I have saved and filed, without knowing who owned them and why they were finally thrown away. It made me wonder why am I saving all my and also other people's things around me. Is it because I am afraid one day there will be no-one interested in what did happen to me when I was alive?
Approximately ten years ago I got to see how one life was thrown away in one afternoon, in huge black bags.
Inside of those bags were one woman's photos, her clothes, her letters, her silver spoons. "We thought they were worthless", I heard afterwards. I don't want to say what they did to her antique furniture, because it might make me cry.
Over ten books of photos containing her and her husband's journeys to different countries were trashed, but I managed to get their Plan de Paris - book.
Sometimes I just sit and think who were the people behind all those objects I own. Who was Signe and why did she write all those sweet letters to Einar?
Who owned and broke the clock? Who drank all the lemonade? Who ate the candies and filled the box with buttons?
I love stories and the lifes, which don't belong to me. I love to make up different stories of unordinary lifes.
I listened to my granny's radio when I was a small girl. I remember reading the names of the distant cities and wondered who lived somewhere out there.
I still remember this line:
The wooden box is my favourite. I bought it from the flea market.
Before getting it's way there, it spent it's life in a house where Bertolt Brecht lived for a while. It's empty, but it tells stories to me.
About my non-existent book - I’ve long been fascinated by the saga of Jim Crace’s Useless America, a book that never existed but, thanks to a typing error or a misheard phone call or...
3 days ago