The Weird Kid
Monday, December 1, 2008
Never Leave The Imez Unattended
The County Historical Museum is a very good one, and the volunteers who run it can't see all of it.
The crazy-quilt in the Oregon Trail section with "Mildred Lassiter 1901" embroidered sloppy on it has a laminated paper sign that says, "Don't Touch" and god help me, I know it really says, underneath, in special ink, "Everyone But Imez, Who is Very Careful."
How can I not TOUCH? The stitches, thousands, were pulled by a hand that never flushed a toilet. My hand is where her hand was. We've opened a hole in time together, with our hands. And that fabric. All that fabric. It came from wedding dresses and petticoats and wool farm pants and work shirts and Sunday dresses and the first bedspread in the trousseau. That fabric doesn't exist anymore, except in books and this quilt. If I don't touch it, if I don't smell it, it will crumble without me ever having it.
I touch everything. I wiggle the thin leather on the baby shoes and sit on the floor to lift up the Victorian travel dress and look under it. I sit at the school marm's desk and the chair creaks and I remember the average weight of an adult female in 1925 and I stand up quickly, but still flip the enormous pages in her grade-book and pinch a sheaf of wide lined children's penmanship paper. The phone operators console says don't touch and I connect a wire from Portland to some other hole. I can't creep inside the Model T because a volunteer sits in front of it, so I stick my head in smell the leather back, and then punch the tires on the side she can't see.
I am a terrible, selfish museum guest abusing the privilege rented with my $3. I can't think of an analogy to describe why I feel like this. All I can think of is how I was too tired to touch the medical equipment in the far corner or the old dolls in the toy room. I need to go back. It's like, I'm still hungry.
The crazy-quilt in the Oregon Trail section with "Mildred Lassiter 1901" embroidered sloppy on it has a laminated paper sign that says, "Don't Touch" and god help me, I know it really says, underneath, in special ink, "Everyone But Imez, Who is Very Careful."
How can I not TOUCH? The stitches, thousands, were pulled by a hand that never flushed a toilet. My hand is where her hand was. We've opened a hole in time together, with our hands. And that fabric. All that fabric. It came from wedding dresses and petticoats and wool farm pants and work shirts and Sunday dresses and the first bedspread in the trousseau. That fabric doesn't exist anymore, except in books and this quilt. If I don't touch it, if I don't smell it, it will crumble without me ever having it.
I touch everything. I wiggle the thin leather on the baby shoes and sit on the floor to lift up the Victorian travel dress and look under it. I sit at the school marm's desk and the chair creaks and I remember the average weight of an adult female in 1925 and I stand up quickly, but still flip the enormous pages in her grade-book and pinch a sheaf of wide lined children's penmanship paper. The phone operators console says don't touch and I connect a wire from Portland to some other hole. I can't creep inside the Model T because a volunteer sits in front of it, so I stick my head in smell the leather back, and then punch the tires on the side she can't see.
I am a terrible, selfish museum guest abusing the privilege rented with my $3. I can't think of an analogy to describe why I feel like this. All I can think of is how I was too tired to touch the medical equipment in the far corner or the old dolls in the toy room. I need to go back. It's like, I'm still hungry.
posted by Imez at 4:52 PM
2 Comments:
I went to "The Bodies" exhibition in Atlanta last year and smelled a human brain. I don't have the "touch" bug like you do, but I have to smell everything. Especially in museums - leather, wood, fabric, brains...whatever. I've got to smell it. Don't even get me started on my food, either - drives my Mother crazy but I've never had food poisoning, either. My nose, knows.
Oh, I'm a toucher too, and so are the boys. Can you imagine what a nightmare taking the boys to the Guggenheim was? Aghhhhh!
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