Re: Of Authenticity & Antiques.
July 7th, 2011 § Leave a Comment
My mind transports me to Memory Lane: reminding me of a season recently past. From where I am sitting, I obtain a perfect view of the activity, both near and far, that is whirring around me — filling my eyes, ears, and nose with an extreme, sensory-laden experience. The sights, sounds, and smells overwhelm me, reviving the once dormant areas of my creative soul. At the moment, I am nestled cozily on a vintage, multicolored blanket that could tell a thousand tales, if inanimate objects had the ability to speak — sprawled impetuously under a massive, expansive oak tree. Belonging to my mother when she was a teenager, and given to me when I was 12, this has always been my favorite blanket — regardless of the tattered seams, frayed edges, and sun-blanched print. In the same way I view people, anything with a few characteristic quirks or imperfections becomes even more endearing to me. The haphazard, kaleidoscope pattern of the fabric — featuring geometric shapes of mustard yellow, turquoise, and avocado-green — contrasts starkly with the slowly browning earth beneath it, hinting at Summer’s inevitable closure.
Gazing across the lawn, I took note of the rigid, maplewood tables that were littered with vintage paraphernalia and kitschy knickknacks. Forty, Fifty, and Sixty-plus year-old items that were tossed aside and forgotten by their original owners, only to be sold again for a-penny-a-piece. “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure,” I mused aloud. Were these items that were so adamantly sought after, admired, and fought over truly unique mementos? I wasn’t convinced. “They’re one of a kind,” I suggested to myself. “Or two of a kind. Or three. Or four. Or maybe not original at all.”
The blinding collision of polished metal mingling with the afternoon sunlight caught my eye, as a sunburst effect was created, and the shimmering primary colors of rainbow prisms began dance with the leaves just above my head. Golden light illuminates the air, exposing speckles of dust, and all that is floating in its’ airy beams. Nothing is hidden. Across the park, I observe an avid antique shopper looking over a vintage Alice in Wonderland lunchbox. From what I can see due to the distance, the box, although a bit rusty, is colorfully illustrated with characters from one of my favorite Disney movies, based off of Lewis Carroll’s prized literary work. This very sight transports me to years past, in the time of my childhood — a time when everything moved much slower and thoughts were much simpler, and carefree. I visualize my younger self: sitting indian-style on my parents comfy beige and brown sofa, watching Saturday morning cartoons, and happily munching on chocolate Cream O’ Wheat out of my plastic, magenta bowl. This was a rare favorite, and a special-occasion treat that could only be successfully prepared by my father. Upon this reverie, my mind transformed itself into a movie screen, reeling through the static memories of my childhood, the transition into adulthood, and the journey down the rabbit-hole, somewhere through the land in-between.
“Is anything original?” I wonder this out loud, almost Alice-in-Wonderland-esque (I was becoming curiouser and curiouser, after all) as I shifted my position beneath the mossy oak, still watching the scene unfold before my eyes. “Has everything already been imagined, or does the originality come into play by the individual way each thought is processed, and exhaled into the world?” Halfway hoping for an answer to fall from the ceiling of the sky, I glance down at my small hands, still stained with oil paints in splatters of primary colors. The stains serve as temporary reminders of last night’s creativity, and an attempt at expression. An attempt at ingenuity, in my search for individuality.
A crisp breeze interrupted my thoughts, blowing my sandy blonde, newly layered hair into my face. The brisk air gently forces itself into my lungs, reminding me of the cycle of familiarity I guess I had forgotten. Inhale. Exhale. Repeat. It is a beautiful day, in everything that fully epitomizes the word. But then again, I guess beautiful would even be an understatement, since the day’s description should be extended far beyond what is tangibly seen. The sky is opulent and cloudless, pigmented in a heavenly azul gemtone; a blue that seems almost surreal. Unbeknownst to me at the time, this is a shade that would later describe the hue of my eyes — now painted with black liner and gold, plum, and periwinkle shimmery shadows — when I am deep in thought. The air is beginning to become a bit cooler, as Autumn begins to peer its face around the corner. The season’s imminent arrival is somewhat slow and hesitant, but its’ steadily creeping presence is undeniable. I could almost smell the season’s shift: the scent of 73-degree air, laced with cinnamon and freshly chopped firewood. Autumn released a beckoning call for two of my favorites — soy chai tea lattes, with no water and extra foam, of course — paired with long conversations that create a feeling of comfort and belonging — even if only temporary. Autumn evenings, which I am anticipating, have always been my favorite. Starry, infinite masses of navy blue sky stretching over my head, while tiny, silver stars peek out, almost asking for permission to show off their enthralling beauty. Orange and red hued leaves will soon scatter the sidewalks of the downtown art district, surrounding the area that I am now sitting. I am home — a place of mind.
