My Grandmother was a horder, what a scene it would have been for the reality show folks to open her refrigerator, peruse her kitchen table, navigate her back stairs and witness the chaos that ensued for her children when she died. She lived alone in a big house. I can only assume that she liked it that way, until she was tied up and beaten in her own kitchen by gypsies who stole her silver.
So my string theory is launching today from an awareness of inert object abundance and self preservation. Whenever I hear the old yankee joke about “saving pieces of string too short to save” my mind wanders to look up the back stairwell at my grandmother’s house while looking for the milk, and then opens the door to her jam packed refrigerator. What I find are minute pathways between material vestiges of her mysterious life. The milk is not in it’s rightful place but on the floor in the unheated porch – laden with ice crystals – a jug of white slush. A tasty treat that complimented a fresh piece of fudge or penuche, if I could find the right tin.
The work above is nearly done, I can’t horde many more marks in this small space. So I ask you to look for the pieces of string too small to collect!
