Things

written by lucy latorre

art by lucy latorre

“Things” have a history that is swept under the rug because of their supposed commonality. Priceless art and linguistic masterpieces are praised for their originality, being held in museums and erected across the homes of the richest people on the planet. Shielded by glass cases and velvet ropes, they spend their time being viewed, not used. They are not things, but sights. Real things are used. Things serve a purpose, and their purpose manifests in bruises, breaks, repairs, and reformations. Wooden spoons with burn marks from scalding skillets hold more memory than The Mona Lisa because they were allowed to be burnt.

I’m unnaturally enthralled by anything antique. I was raised on garage sales, thrift finds, and flea markets, so from the moment I booked my train ticket to Berlin, their culture of flea markets dominated my mind. To me, the trip meant dragging my two travel companions to the Mauerpark Flea Market, one of the highest-rated in Europe. All it took was one lemon-flavored beer to get me off track. I left my group to purchase the beverage, and by the time I turned back around, they were gone. With our train leaving in an hour, it was imperative that I rejoin them. That’s when a beckoning call came. It began quietly, but soon crescendoed into a bellowing chorus. Jabbers and jests floated past my ears. Alarm clocks buzzed about the morning routines of their previous owners. Teacups teetered and tottered, talking of guests who attended the parties they had gracefully served. I had lost my companions, but found a hidden world. I fell down the rabbit hole, journeying deeper and deeper, spellbound by hundreds of vertical vases reflecting the rays of the sun onto bruised beer steins. My search for my friends became more passive. Maybe they were farther down? Clinging to that convenient sentiment, I had to continue my journey. I was sure they’d turn up somewhere.

I barely walked 100 feet before becoming entranced by a table of candle holders, all stained with the evidence of their past lives, unable to be wiped away. Rust graced the long poles and grime glowed on the base. The ones that held the most memory were those with the remains of a candle still stuck to the bottom. Someone, somewhere, lit this candle for a reason. Power outage? Romantic evening? Spell? Seance? These endless possibilities made me feel like a child again, when nothing was exactly what it seemed. For children, there are no real rules. “Play” is an open-ended term, one that can be flipped and reshaped in however many ways one can imagine. Here in this market, I was playing again. I was surrounded by everything, yet nothing at all. It all became malleable to me. A table of forks and spoons begged to be bricks stacked into a great wall. Ornate lamp shades almost jumped onto my head, the perfect hats for a sunny day. Nothing was what it was; it was the wonder I had wished for, what I planned when I booked my ticket. It was just me and forks and bowls and baskets and books and pens and knives and tiles and records and cards and knobs and maps. I vowed to stay in Wonderland forever.

It was a mixed-up sort of feeling, yet my desire to create a new life, to cling to this inspiration and form something completely unique, almost eased me into a slumber-like peace. But I knew it was unrealistic. On the cusp of young and old, there are choices that have to be made. Life cannot be spent drumming on pans, eventually you have to cook with them. But was it a choice that I was ready to make? Wonder gripped me so hard that it became intoxicating, and the thought of being without it glued my feet to the pavement. I wanted to run back to the starting line and begin my journey all over again, but I knew I couldn’t. I had to get out. I yelled out against the Berlin sky begging for answers, but the clouds simply morphed into a thin, catlike smile. As I attempted to pull myself away from my personal Wonderland, I was left with a relic of my own: the urge to play. I looked to my left and spotted an empty bottle just the perfect size to be a telescope.