preface to a table.

by dorarandom

photo(1)i have to try to explain how i feel about this table.

but it is The Kitchen Table. it’s all mixed up with my preverbal consciousness. more than anything, to me, it is the feeling of my feet tucked into the lions on the table legs. or resting in the paws? i really have no idea. this is the table where we ate all our meals and it understands my feet. and soon it will be in my apartment because it will be mine.

this is unexpected. and i am unexpectedly going to have a bunch of other furniture, too—actual furniture—objects that were designed and intended to be used as furniture—not improvised—not those plastic bins or things-with-drawers that i try to pretend are furniture—not broken-and-scavenged-from-the-curb—not ikea left by grad students in a vestibuleĀ with a piece of paper that says FREE! taped to it—(which you, in your turn, will leave in the same vestibule)—oh my, i am getting apophatic—(well, i am excited. can you tell?)—anyway, neti neti— furniture.

but this table needs its own post.

my mother and stepfather are moving out of state and getting rid of a lot of stuff. (which i knew.) including a lot of really good stuff, including some pieces of serious heirloom wooden you-know-what. (which i did not know.) so i went over to their house yesterday to make my picks—thinking, like, ‘free table lamps aww hell yeah’—and it was more like the score of the century. a genuine haul. my mother kept being surprised and/or “touched” that i wanted things and relieved when i accepted things she offered. yes surprised though she knows my general taste-in-things and also knows that i have very little furniture—i mean the woman has been to my apartment, renowned for its charming porthole windows and vast open spaces—experienced the chairlessness—but, yeah. of course that is my mother. i was a little surprised at her surprise—i was way more surprised to learn that she was inviting people to take her cast-offs instead of just calling 1800GOTJUNK or making my stepfather take it to the dump. (that is not uncharitable speculation. there is precedent. for the record.) so when i got to that house yesterday and realized that basically everything left in it was up for grabs and my mother was in this whimsical generous mood, well. i grabbed. i made up my mind to be crass. i filled a bag with a decade’s worth of unidentifiable fad kitchen gadgets. i took pictures off the walls just so i can use the frames—just so i can use them hypothetically—without regard to size. not exactly selective or sentimental behavior. though i am naturally both of those things. ‘get it while you can,’ my brain whispered. ‘you can be selective after it is ours.’

and there was really nothing i could have been sentimental about except the table—it is a house where my mother and stepfather happened to live for most of the past two years. it is not My Childhood Home.

but my feeling about the table is new and distinct. deeper than sentimental. (on beyond sentiment!)*

but it’s almost 5 now. stay tuned! for more extreme introspection and scrupulous recollection of inanimate objects.

____

* (most people stop at the Z—-but not me.)

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