Mes objects trouvés
Things I’ve found.
Things in a box.
A box to open when there’s time.
That’s my experiment. I’m going to dig through real boxes, crumbling cardboard in the attic, to find real things that snag me. It’s so easy to be snagged. That’s the reason for the boxes. In the house, there’s nothing but rocks on the windowsill to remind me where I’ve been—no pictures at all—or I’d never move.
This job is to stop moving. To discover what the snags are all about. Are they worth it? For me or for someone else? What will happen if I pull one piece out at a time and treat it like an object—a piece in my own roadside museum? Can it become a poem? What’s the difference between the box in my attic or the box I make in a cloud? Will someone notice my snags? Will they matter? Is this just narcissistic? Or is each post a window into someone else? I want to find out. That’s my experiment.
