‽istis reclaims ‘stuff’ (weekending August 1st 2020)
‽istis, moving home, reclaims thoughts about the ‘stuff’
of life… the ‘things’ collective, unnamed, defying specific categorisation, not
curated more just somehow accumulated or kept because at any moment - past
(tucked in a box, put in a drawer) or present (plonked on a shelf, no longer
maybe even noticed, just around, just ‘always had that’) – they may help define
a life, define a ‘me’, or an ‘us’…
‽ a handwritten original poem in a tattered
handmade booklet (staples probably traceable to a time before ‘Staples’ had come
and gone) written just for you, with your childhood nickname (somehow cool
again if only it hadn’t been ditched in the important process of growing up and
creating an identity, at least until the next one!) on the cover and everything,
the only lasting handwriting and creative expression of a relative who died
decades ago…
‽ papers left over from work, signs that perhaps
one was, at least once upon a time, vaguely competent; reminders of the mundane
everyday that sustained a family even if it didn’t quite change a world
‽ pictures
with many, many people encountered and events enjoyed or endured, some of which
are always part of the present-day for good or ill; others which flood up in
the memory, or well up in the eyes at the prompt; still others lost in the
mists, completely irretrievable, unrecognised, incredulous that one was even
there or we had met…
…and on and on… Perhaps, possibly, maybe add your
own…
But ‽stis looks up from the re-reading and
remembering and wondering at what was and what could have been - and thinks… of
perhaps a young person in care, moving to yet another placement, belongings in
bin bags; of possibly an older person, a single significant picture on the wall
facing a bed they are not sure how they got in to, in a room they are not sure
they can get out, of in a home that they can’t recognise, with people who are
new every time they meet them; of maybe anyone, living on the streets, ‘stuff’
in a trolley that was nicked when they slept for a brief moment just a little
too soundly; of someone choosing a small backpack-full before climbing in to the
crowded rubber boat; of perhaps, possibly, maybe everyone, in or at the
end - where ‘stuff’ may just not matter anymore but for whom it has been such a part of 'them'…
And ‽stis, having built a case that really
doesn’t fool anyone else, and having calculated that surely there will be
enough room somewhere, at least until the next move – pops it in the box…
© Pistis
NB: further reflections linked to this week’s theme
and past blog
entries to be found on Twitter: replies, retweets (which don’t necessarily
indicate approval, sometimes the very opposite!) and ‘likes’: @Pistis_wonders
