Rummaging through the dead

I'm sitting next to an etching of St. Marks Square in Venice. It's quite lovely, a view from the water looking into the square through the gondolas. I bought it and another for $30 from an apartment sale who's owners died. they had no children, just a gruff brother and a wacky neighbor who volunteered to give away and sell their things to the random strangers who answered the ad.

One by one people came, entering meekly, stopping to stand in the living room, visually absorbing the scene. At first look, it wasn't promising. Seventies decor in the front room, and the kitchen filled with odd dishes and ancient utensils.

When I came to the door it wasn't by way of the ad the neighbor had placed. I'd met a woman in the elevator who was heading to the apartment. She told me someone was giving everything away. She was furnishing her new apartment.

I rang the bell and the wacky neighbor answered looking as if I was the first person to ring it, ever. I fumbled for words, "Hi I just met a woman who said you were giving things away." Blank stare from the lady so I fumbled some more, "She said you put out an ad? That people were stopping by?" After a series of pointless questions I was finally approved and allowed in to wander through the stuff.

When I first came in I spotted the two etchings I eventually took home. I knew they were worth more than I was going to pay for them. I asked the overseer how much they were, "$20 each." "Will you give them both to me for $30?" Lady lets a flicker of defeat cross her face then, "Ok."

I walked around the front room feeling odd about rummaging though dead peoples things. It was clear they were elderly and had collected these things their whole lives. A prickly feeling crept over me. I felt rude pushing things aside to get to another, picking that up, pulling this out. It seemed wrong and weird.

I slipped to the back bedroom to get away from the overseer, who's voice seemed loud and out of place, increasing the feeling that we all should be ashamed of ourselves. In the back room there was a young man who was in earnest in his quest to find stuff. He was latino and gay, two of my favorite attributes in a man so I pushed into the room and hovered around him to make myself feel better.

The space was strange and dusty. It was at some point a work room, filled with homemade radios and other electrical hoo haas I knew nothing of. My new friend here was finding old photography equipment, light sensors, film rollers and cameras. All of this was a boon for him as he was a photographer. He told me he was here helping the wacky overseer find things of interest to put on Ebay for sale.

I stood watching mostly, still feeling strange about these old dead things left in this room since the 50s. Dirty and forgotten now being pulled out, opened and set aside. I positioned myself in the center and decided to pickup only the things that peeked my interest. I found a small framed picture of the dead couple with family and I had a desire to slip it into my bag unnoticed, to save it from the onslaught of strangers to come.

With a pile of ancient old pillows stowed for whatever reason, came out an old photo album and with it my friend tells me what he knows of the people. "Oh look at thissss, it is the woman's family album from when she is a child with her family. She and her husband were Jewish, Austrian refugees from World War II."

The pictures were so charming and sad considering the families eventual status in that part of the world. They looked like upper middle class gentiles fitting all the stereotypes of the ideal Hitler aryan family. Fat blond haired children, content and happy, fed too much, representing abundance at it's most successful. The father was dapper, not handsome but he carried himself as if he were irresistible.

Most of the photos were summers at the beach through the years. In recline in the sun with the wind lazily pushing at their hair. Somewhere in each frame, beach balls, picnic baskets and the water reflecting the warmth that made their skin brown . My favorite photo was of the mother laying on her stomach looking off with a soft squint in her eyes. Happy and motherly, she was as content and relaxed as I could ever wish to be.

In the middle of the album were two unopened letters dated in the 1950's. They were from a locksmith in Manhattan. From a locksmith? Could these be from a lover? Or are they just forgotten mail she used as a bookmark way back then as she absentmindedly paged through her memories? Then I wondered, has she not looked through the pictures since then? I fought the urge to open them, I fought the urge to slip them in my bag.

I could have stayed longer but I had duties to attend to. So I slipped out with my two etchings wondering how I'll carry them onto a crowded subway. Wondering if my weird feelings and sorrow for the dead people and their long forgotten things were worth considering. Do I really care that the things they loved or at least liked went out of their apartment to new homes? Besides we're giving the stuff a new life in new environments. New drawers to sit in, walls to hang on, floors to stand on.

I guess, considering the people's life experience it would have been nice to have known their story. Maybe the wacky neighbor and the gruff brother could have written a page or two, made copies and handed them to each of us as we came into the apartment. It would start: These things you take from here today were owned and loved by two people who lived and survived an extraordinary story, it went like this...

Where's my fix for the day?

Ive created several distractions for myself. These distractions better help to prevent me from feeling relaxed and happy. Rather than calling them distractions lets call them, habits. Or can we be dramatic and call them...addictions?

Yes, that's what they are for me. And it's really not several, it's just one. Fear. Yes fear, it comes in all shapes and sizes, content doesn't really matter. It's that delicious fix of adrenaline I get when I sort for all that's wrong in the world and find it.

Here's how it works; Over repetitive years of shit sorting I've been able to develop an almost instant state of anxiety in myself right when I wake up. I then take this feeling to indicate that something is actually wrong rather than realizing it's just a stinky habit.

I then lay in bed pulling all the covers off of me as my temperature has risen because I'm anxiously alert and sorting for the reasons why. And believe me, I'm a very good investigator, I find what I'm looking for.

Examples follow:
"I owe so much money, I'm in debt. What bill is due? Oh shit, did I forget to pay something?! No. " A lull in the sorting then, "I've got to clean my ferrets cage and sweep the litter around it, I need to mop this floor, what am I some loser that doesn't care?" shortly after, "I need more clients, I need to make more money...why is it so slow these days? There's too much competition, I can't keep up, wonder if I never get anymore..."

I'm very affective at keeping my peace and happiness at bay. Just writing the last paragraph has risen my pulse and made me feel like a wee little good-for-nothing. And the ironic thing about this amusing past time is that it takes up all of your energy and confidence thus leaving you listless and a little paranoid. You should try it!


Kidding aside, I've determined to see this little addiction for the drama that it is, realize it's all just a silly bore and find something better to do in the morning..afternoon and night. Like being relaxed and happy.

5:56 AM

With a loud crash a van drives into a building across the street. I crawl out of bed, look out window, assess situation for interest and drama value. Not much, so I don't run to get dressed.

Wander back to room, step over partially unpacked moving boxes looking for that hippy dress I use as a house frock. It's location, sandwiched between vintage pink vinyl purse containing bright pink dildo and partially unpacked box of shoes. Frock is wrinkled.

Slip into frock, shoes, grab phone as to dial 911 for the poor drunk fucker who drove into building. My mind is starting to wander, I call out in a loud and clear voice, "KEYS" in order to remind said brain what it's looking for.

I don't remember the walk down the stairs. Out on sidewalk, gypsy cab drivers have beat me to the scene and are strolling back to their cars chuckling. I have 911 operator on the phone, giving info, She asks, "Is anyone hurt?" I say, "I don't think so, the guy is sitting next to car looking like he feels stupid about running into a building, I mean, It's not like it ran out into the street in front of him.", 911 lady ignores my humor.

I stand, looking for a minute, not enough drama, my mind wanders back to the box of books a neighbor left to give away in the lobby of my building. Box of books wins my attention, I wander back to lobby and sit on floor reading. Early to work neighbors pass through lobby, see me sitting on floor, wonder what I'm doing. I put on my best, "Good Morning!" smile to convince them I'm not a transient who is camped out in the hall.

911 operator calls me back, "Hi, it's me the 911 operator, listen, the police are on the corner of 204 and Broadway and they don't see the van, can you tell me where it is again?", Me, "Well it's just south of them about 100 feet, next to the school, it's the green van on the sidewalk smashed into the building...."

I gather the ten books I've found from the box, which is good, they will refill what little space I created from getting rid of books when I moved. Go upstairs, make toast, lay in bed and read.