The forlornness of forgotten objects

The forlornness of forgotten objects is not to be borne. Who amongst us has not felt the anguish of a discarded chair, steadfast in its grief, as it waits on the curb for the garbage truck? Who has not sensed the distress etched into the soul of that discarded dresser, drawers askew, sitting on the side of the road with the weekly trash? The birdcage poking out of the moldy cardboard box, the red wagon missing a wheel, that cheap 1950’s suitcase…Those things once fulfilled their purposes. People sat in that chair. That dresser was filled with clothes. A bird sang its little heart out in that birdcage. That broken lamp shed its golden light over many a page in its day. Objects once needed, used, appreciated. Objects living out their destinies to the hilt in gladness and joy.

Now they’re yesterday’s news.

This bothers me. Maybe their feelings are hurt when they’re left out on the curb...maybe it pains them to be exposed to the elements, unprotected...perhaps they actually mind that everyone can see their shame. If you're not part of the solution, you're part of the problem, right? How can I just leave them there? These things require saving, pronto!

So garbage day, which arrives every Tuesday, usually constitutes a bit of a rescue mission for me. Stuff I have dragged or carried home from the side of the road: a monstrously heavy art-deco dressing table with Bakelite handles, a ruinously rusted 5’ x 4’ luncheonette sign that reads “Texas Lunch”, a cast iron coal stove with pink legs, a Singer sewing machine from 1915, a twig table with a red top, a mandolin…and of course, many less noteworthy finds, finds beyond counting. Original artwork (who can forget the two giant sheep heads, done in acrylics?), lamps (how about that 36” tall shepherdess carrying a sheaf of wheat?), and of course, innumerable chairs, galaxies of chairs, universes of chairs...

Because is there anything lonelier-looking than a chair by the side of the road? What a pathetic sight. They just seem to epitomize every gloomy existential truth on the planet, each sad empty chair an actor of one in a poignant tableau expressive of all sorts of 3:00 AM-type personal fears. It is alone. Discarded. Unloved. Broken. Who doesn’t fear these things? I could be that chair…wait, what am I saying? I AM that chair. Would I leave myself abandoned on the side of the road like that? So what’s there to do but rescue it from its misery and bring it home…where I can guarantee you it won’t ever be lonely again, because I’ve got a dozen rejects just like it waiting to keep the damn thing company.