I am sitting at Ted and Melissa's kitchen table right now and it is very beautiful. I'm struck by how much I like things that show their wear (there is a chipped shelf to my right and I love the lived-in look of those bit of paint showing through). One surprise about not buying new things: on the few occasions when I now go into stores I'm struck by how flimsy and cheap things look. New things are looking less appealing to me, not more. I hadn't excepted that. Even clothes. It makes me think about the construction of desire, how "unreal" (and yet so real) our desires are. But here at Ted and Melissa's kitchen table it is very peaceful: there is the sound of wind chimes just outside the French doors and there are mason jars full of grains and rice and sugars and I'm sitting on an old chair at an old table and there is a history here that one loses with new things. (Although it does remain true that these things were once new and I used to love, and will again no doubt, buying new things with a history [ie. buying something from someone who told me a story and then that story got built into the thing]).
I take the train back to Ottawa today and normally I would have walked out to Roncesvalles and with great pleasure bought a couple of new books for the train. This time I will have to just raid Ted's book shelf instead (sorry Ted).
What did you take anyway.
ReplyDeleteI wondered whether you would ask. Rybczynski's _Home_ and a book called _Five Men Who Broke My Heart_(!) (train reading . . .). I'll return them eventually.
ReplyDeleteYou can keep the broken hearted book!
ReplyDelete