Bring It on Home
When I need a fresh perspective, I physically give myself one. I rearrange rooms, even swap their traditional uses for one another. But it all has a weight. The 70-year-old upright piano has a weight and it is best calculated at un-budge-able. ShoesThe dining room hutch has a weight that could be set at “Maybe I will move that one tomorrow.” Couch technology, at least, has progressed such that it is easily slid against a new wall, and then another—furniture Ice Capades.
I have locked myself out of my house once or twice before, but only recently realized it is also possible to lock myself in. To fill a space so precisely that rearranging rooms cannot happen unless and until there is less to rearrange. Drawers are a kind of seduction until you put something inside. Shelves can’t hold themselves. Empty flowerpots are filled with your fear of commitment.
I like this passage in particular, but the essay as a whole is about how things become memories and vice versa.
“Bring It on Home” by Amy Woolard for The Rumpus