Scavenger

I am absolutely and eternally fascinated by thrift stores. This is where I've spent the majority of the last couple of days, along with the hardware store and the rebuilding store, searching for pieces of old and discarded furniture which my best friend and I will transform into something funky and arty and modern.

I'll share some of those projects with you soon.

But something perverse in me just loves wandering through the aisles of things, things people once used.

Things people once loved.

All piled together en masse, a mass grave of objects.

Once useful, once valued, once unique. Once someone's belongings.

Who once owned these things? Who touched them? Who laughed and cried and felt with them?

Does some part of them remain in these bits and pieces? Like a residue? Does part of their energy linger? And if so, does it become part of you when you purchase it for yourself? 

$3 for a bike helmet and a bit of someone's chi?

Who slept here? Did they suffer in this bed? Did they die? Do they know that it's wedged between piles of furniture and buried under dust? 

Or are we rescuing some one's junk? Something once piled away in another cupboard, collecting dust. An annoyance at best. A souvenir from a long-forgotten trip. 

A collective of goods, all assembled homogeneously. A commune of stuff.

Ready for scavenging.