On Imperfection and the Need for ‘New’

pulled from my journal / dec 3 2019, 5:05 pm

tonight i found myself steadily floating, suspended in a snowy blue — hazy at all lengths, reminiscent of a frayed cloth napkin that lay on my kitchen counter. imperfect in all ways.

it seems imperfection finds me often these days, and i welcome it warmly. a snag in a sweater, a scratch on a wooden table, a glass jar that shatters. like a collector i carry these proofs of life, lived most simply and fully. i gain an antipathy for things untouched, unmarked, showing no signs of life. i am drawn to scratchy, faded and used.

i seldom seek new — perhaps the idea of 'breaking in' an object repels me, puts too much pressure on my individual connection to it. we are lead to believe that disrupting the pristine dilutes its value. thus we are consequently pushed to live in a continued state of new, and to discard any evidence of life.

i like to live in the shadows of a past so rich it splinters. to carry with me the notion of an inexplicable past, one i cannot fully realize. with every use, interaction, even thought, i am flooded. for these items i cherish are so charged with every touch it has received. i find value in the collectiveness that these objects provoke, rather than their physical form.