Assignment: Material Things I need around me

Art, on my walls, is the first thing I see when I look around. I've always 
gathered images around me. As a teen I filled the slanted ceiling of my attic 
room with posters, postcards, and photos from Look and Life. I filled in with 
my own sketches, doodles, and collages. Art is the first thing I added in this
new place. It's not ME, until I have some artwork up. Which artwork I 
bond with changes over the years. I welcomed the out of state assignment that 
required an apartment, because it gave me new walls to decorate. I took a couple
of old favorites with me, but relished the opportunity to buy some new pieces.
Boldly colored Asian pieces of solo women--symbolic perhaps of the necessity of
me being here while my husband is there (a realization I came to only as I wrote
it here). I added the photograph I took of Sedona's Seven Sacred Pools from our 
last vacation. The red rocks and reflected sky blend well with the other images.

The vista I have constructed on my walls tells a story and sets a mood. It is me.
Pillows are a constant. I surround myself with them. On the couch, on the bed,
they are my cocoon of safety and comfort. I love the mix of colors and textures.
The firm ones to support my back, the soft ones to cuddle. The ones with messages
that make me smile. Some I make myself, but the real delight is when I'm shopping 
and find an unique selection at a bargain price and it's just the right colors 
to compliment my collection. I pack a pillow when I travel, so I don't have to 
rely on the hotel's sub par offerings. The "heavenly bed" of one chain is my 
ideal--they have as many pillows as I do. In a pinch (like on a plane) I will 
roll up a jacket or sweater to stand in for a pillow. I may even use my purse 
or a towel or even a suitcase. My husband jokes that I am nesting, but I can't
sleep on an empty bed.

Books are so basic, I almost forget they are always there. I read so much, so 
fast, I can't keep enough of them around me. I have favorites I read over and over. 
Books are mood altering substances. For this feeling, I read that book, 
for lonliness, another. Bored? Read something new. Sad? Read something old and 
familiar. I stole a book once from school (I took it back when vacation was 
over), because it looked so interesting and it was the last day of school.
I lose track of time and forget my surroundings when I'm engrossed in a book. 
I once zoned out on a whole Chipmunks lip-syncing performance because I got 
hooked by the book I was supposed to be pretending to read (I was playing 
Simon) and missed my cue. I buy books (instead of borrowing) because they 
become old friends. I carry them with me and cherish their worn covers. They are 
worn with love, soft with being carried in pocket and purse. I mourn for books 
I didn't get to finish.

And always with me, I have a pen and pad. I never know when the urge to write will 
strike. I love notebooks and legal pads and blank books and journals. I like 
fountain pens, but they don't like me, so I use sharpies and fiber tips. I love
the swoop of ink on paper, filling the empty space with words and images. On 
vacation I add drawing pads, pencils, conte sticks and color pens. A digital
camera lets me capture reference photos for color and texture. I use the shots
with the sketches to do paintings later. Sometimes I write a poem to go with 
the image, sometimes I look for an image to go with a poem I've already written. 
Having a picture helps me remember the trips, reminding me that it was real.

Things I've lost that I miss

My memories are rooted in objects. I need the photo or souvenir to anchor 
the remembrance of that time. It may be just a pebble or seashell, but it links
me to that specific time, it distinguishes that moment from dreams or hopes. 
Artwork bonds me to the person I was when I selected it, and the emotions 
the piece arouses in me. I still feel the loss of artwork damaged by a flood 
(or left with my exes). The damage of the first set was beyond repairing. 
The loss of the second sets seemed trivial at the time, compared to the love 
lost by the divorces.

Most poignant are the childhood toys and books my mother made me donate 
to an orphanage. She decided I was "too old" to have them, but really it 
was a punishment, who knows for what. No matter that she still had her first 
doll stored in the big cedar chest at the foot of her bed. I covet that big 
green book of fairy tales that I can't remember, and the memories of sitting 
in the lap of the good sitter as she read to me. I wonder what happened to 
that doll that was dressed like me. Losing them, I lost the memories of that part
of my childhood.

2008, B. Riley