This small class jar is decorated with a delightful floral pattern, sure to endear itself to whoever is lucky enough to own it. The top is closed with a waterproof rubber stopper, (slight age deterioration and loss of elasticity) which would make it great for storing pantry goods like flour or sugar. The wire clasp ensures ease for opening and closure, you won’t have to struggle or call in your stronger gripped spouse to open up this jar! The label on the jar indicates that it is an Arc International jar, a much beloved and trusted French glass ware company. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arc_International) You can look forward to that reliable European craftsmanship. At present it contains a series of maudlin love letters posted from Edinburgh to Brisbane that are of no interest to anyone.
Only serious buyers need inquire. Prince negotiable.
These are the shirts I wanted to get you for your birthday,
But I got you this instead. Remember? We had great discussion about one of our favorite authors, and the transformation of her text from marriage to zombies.
Looking forward to the holidays, I stepped back to remember last year’s festivities. I made these pies, and arranged them on the kitchen counter during Thanksgiving last year. Our sister was sad, from a fight she had earlier that day with her boyfriend, so we cheered her up.
Soon we will be getting ready for this year’s dinner. I’ll make the salad,
Dad will pick the wine.
The mood will be set.
I’m sorry I won’t be seeing you this year for Thanksgiving, but I’m excited to see the rest of our family in a few days. I know you have a long trip though, so don’t forget to strap everybody in for a safe trip!
Love, your Sister
This is the sun that we looked at together when I first entered the world. It is the source of my vitality and I hold it up for the world to see, world within worlds, light within light. A symbol of our friendship. I am older now and stronger, but the light within never changes and never grows old. It will outlast the sun.
The moon is not so different from the sun, two sides of the same circle. How many nights and days have we shared together? I remember the mystery of the universe, the eternal rotation, all things coming together. Strange dreams, prophetic visions, who am I, and did that guy actually walk up there? I hope you don’t think we are arrogant or our dreams rise too high?
Can clouds be an object? Can a man be an object? My head is always in the sky with you, sometimes I feel like I don’t belong here. Is dusk more beautiful than dawn, and is there really a difference? If nature is a cycle which never ends and humanity is a part of nature than humanity is a failed cycle, a broken circle, a dull reflection of the eternal principle.
This is the cross where I grew up in Sewanee, I think I used to live there. How cliche, how symbolic and unnatural! I’ve spent a lot of time here in the past, looked at it as I drove to class, it passed by too fast and rhymes and pictures, objects and nature, all seem to vanish when I think of you. They can’t contain even myself, but maybe I need to be limited or maybe a life without limitation is too terrifying and so I have to try and remember. I have to know where I am, where I’ve been, and where I’m going. I can’t get lost or fade into the night.
This is the light you didn’t believe I bought at Walmart. Which you then made me feel bad for buying at Walmart. This is the light that turned on when the room was too bright and we only wanted to speak in the dim. Tinker Bell was a third party in our conversation that night, observing our strength in friendship.
This is the sign that you noticed in the middle of the street, that you didn’t want either of us to walk past without acknowledging. We stopped and stared at its beauty for twenty minutes and I even remember the way your eyes squinted as you rescued its memory into your cellphone. Before encountering this sign we sat in a field, and listened. To everything and anything that touched our sphere of grass–the leaves sparkling like droplets of fall, the sky booming in its permanence, and the wind comforting anything that feared.
This is the watch you admired, as I admired you. Your interest in something so small but with so much to tell. And you weren’t looking at this object for the time, but to rather have a time. A time of observation, following an expression. To you this was speaking something that thundered in truth, and radiated in its necessity for meditation.
And this is my shoe that you will later think of immediately when reminiscing about my room. You commented upon its apparent ‘comfinesss’ each time we entered and every time we left. Except you never said it out loud, I just knew.
And this is the face we ardently tried to have wear my green mask. It basically told us ‘it wasn’t it’s style,’ as after twenty attempts (at this point both of us on the floor laughing in waves of hysterical bliss) it still wouldn’t fit upon it’s eyes. You then asked me where I bought this piece of art, and I replied with my first expression to you of my love for the magical land of Marthas Vineyard.
And lastly my friend, the watercolors. The water colors we spent hours in our respective settings thinking about how much we needed to use together. To continue painting with the light, wherever we walk together on this earth.
With warmth and love,
Your forever friend
I am taking a page out of Shapton’s book (not literally!) and documenting my relationship through objects. But unlike Lenore and Harold’s, my relationship is not caustic. Therefore I have consciously not assigned prices to these objects because they are currently invaluable to me, and one doesn’t even exist anymore. Hopefully this won’t destroy my boyfriend’s street cred.
Johnny carefully filed away the papers into one single stack, measuring each up and placing them underneath the stapler. The simple machine’s buck teeth bit down hard onto the papers and released a single staple, bringing the items together in one neat pile. The handle was well-worn from use, befitting Johnny’s job as a file clerk and storage manager. Everything kept neatly together, everything in their own individual pile. Johnny carefully cleaned his teeth with his finger before opening up the stapler, making sure that it hadn’t run out, so that it could keep working. The slide holding the staples in place slid back and forth as he opened up the top and closed it repeatedly. He closed the stapler, happy that it was sufficiently loaded with staples, and placed another stack of papers between its metallic teeth, preparing to slam down his hand on top of it and release another staple to bind the papers together.
A collection of lost and/or forgotten objects that I’ve found and appropriated as my own. If you are the original owner of an item pictured here, ask very nicely and maybe I’ll give it back.
A green kickball: I found this in the bushes in the Lower Quads my sophomore year, marked with initials MES. I hung a single poster in the HUB depicting the word “FOUND”, my contact information, and a green circle with the letters MES inside. After a week or two had passed and nobody claimed the ball, I added the letters SY to obscure the original ownership.
A ceramic lamp: This lamp was left in attic of the Russian House when I moved in there my sophomore year. I used it for that entire year, and put it back in the attic before I left to study abroad in Moscow. Upon returning to Dickinson for the spring of my junior year, the lamp was still in the Russian House attic, so I took it to the Feminist Collective where I live now. One day I was feeling turbulent, so I wrote “turbulence” all over it in Sharpie. My lei see from the year of the Rabbit (2011) is clothespinned to the lampshade.
A knit GAP hat: Left at the Feminist Collective house earlier this semester after a party. I have a feeling it belongs to my roommate’s girlfriend who was visiting campus that weekend. I have been wearing it for the past few weeks, but will give it to him to return to her when he goes to see her over Thanksgiving break.
An “Our Dickinson” mason jar mug: At the Caf spring feast of 2012, these mugs were take-away prizes placed on the tables in the Caf. I rightfully obtained one, but later lost it and was very bummed out! The next weekend I went to a party in a really disgustingly dirty suite, where they had dozens upon dozens of dirty dishes lying around. This mug was among them, and I figured no one would notice if I just took it. It has since become my favorite mug, and I can often be spotted carrying it around.
A pair of animal print Victoria’s Secret panties: These must’ve been left behind in one of the HUB laundry machines, cause they ended up in my clean laundry. Luckily, they are cute and my size.
A small bottle of Juicy Couture perfume: Left behind by a customer at Tres Amigos, the Mexican restaurant that I worked at in Austin.
A Poketo pocket umbrella: This had been lying around the Feminist Collective house for a while. When my umbrella broke earlier this semester, I started using it.
An elastic grip headband: Found on the floor of the Kline Center during my junior year.
A deck of hot pink Bicycle playing cards: I can’t remember where I found these, but I’ve had them since my freshman year.
A twisted silver rose ring: Left at Landis House, where I work on campus, for weeks. My manager told me I could just take it.
A pair of black matte Rayban sunglasses: Left behind by a customer at Scarpetta, the Italian restaurant I worked at this summer in New York City.
A tube of Aveda Nourish-Mint lipgloss: Left behind by a customer at Scarpetta, the Italian restaurant I worked at this summer in New York City.
A maroon cashmere Uniglo sweater, men’s size medium: I inexplicably found this in my bed in my Atwater dormroom freshman year. Perhaps my roommate had a guest over? It is slightly moth-eaten in some places.
When I was little, my dad (Arnie) made breakfast for my mom and me on Sunday mornings. As I grew older, he taught my how to make everything from omelettes to turkey sausages in our small cast iron skillet, which is now scratched and faded with years of use.
I’ve always thought that I liked men like this:
You know, with glasses and books and a PhD at 22.
But lately I’m beginning to think that I like men who wear
And patterned boxers
And Acoustic Guitar
Pickup Frisbee Games
And Liar’s Dice
And smell like
This cologne (and the occasional post-workout sweat)
And Heath Bars
Every Type of Vinegar Known to Man
And Robert E. Lee
And dream of
And their mothers
Lately I’m beginning to think that I like them a lot.
A lad says what shall warm a farm. A man says that a dark farce can attack, fatal farms. What shall a gal land? As glass spanks a bank, watch as small shards appall Mark’s hard farm hands. Mark can rank a man’s marks, cards and all. A bad lad has Mark’s war, an act that has a trap and a zap. Zaps can trap a lark, far awash a grad that wants a farm. That lad can fall apart, talk as darts, watch a blast. Wham! That man’s farm was dark. A fatal farm blasts that lad’s say apart, and Mark’s war pats a grad’s la-la-land. Damn.