Mad in Pursuit Notebook

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Who Will Care for the Ghosts?

Sept. 29, 2016. We lived in the red log cabin for over a year before we decided to sell our condo and live at the lake year-round. This meant transferring our household spirits from Penfield to Ontario.

The ancient Romans had their lares et penates, ancestor spirits and hearth gods, embodied in figurines that turned a new dwelling into a home [1]. Ours were mostly adopted—the souls of tribal arts, Civil War artifacts, old optical toys, Art Nouveau vanity sets, Buddhist votive figurines—the list goes on.

Upstairs, our walls were now crowded with African masks. A gathering of statues huddled under a table. Another group crowded a shelf along the stairs. They are taking over the window sills. I can feel them.

For years, in the name of downsizing, we had moved many of our spirited possessions to new homes. This move made us try again. But we kept hearing the same refrain from long-time dealers. No one collects anymore. Young people can't be bothered with heavy old furniture and dusty old knick-knacks. They were too mobile to be weighed down by "stuff." They preferred irony to history.

And the ethical landscape had shifted. A Precolumbian pot, a chunk of stone from a Hindu temple, the head of a Buddhist statue, or a sliver of carved ivory meant you had participated in a crime, either legally or through the predations of colonialism. Even if the crime was commited a hundred years ago, ownership now included the burden, however light, of shame.

Everything was a hearth god now. We were hosts to a pantheon.

When the first order of shelving came in, I spent an evening trying to organize all the "history" strewn across the floor. Frustrated with the growing category of "miscellaneous," I dared to wonder what would happen if some things found their way into the trash.

But suddenly, a wave of sadness struck me. They'd all ganged up on me... the Meershaum pipe, the Civil War grave marker, the Magic Lantern set, the wooden airplane propeller, the Edison recording cylinder. No one wants us. No one wants us. Why don't you just light a match and release us from our loneliness? Our history will vanish. Our spirits will be extinguished. We won't be a burden to you anymore.

Oh my God, I had a room full of noisy spirits. They had given me so much: they made me curious, they took me on journeys, they told me stories. Why the hell is owning them out of style??? I found myself promising to take care of them, envisioning myself a doddering old lady, still listening to the sound of their voices in perpetual conversation.

One room on our ground floor was already my studio and office. The other, I understood at that moment, would be the Magic Room, where history and beauty and ancient rituals would open portals in time and space to transport us, Jim and me, happily ever after.

Notes

[1] Religion in the home during the Roman Empire

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