I like old things. My apartment is filled with antiques, I’m drawn to old black and white movies, (even if they’re bad) as well as listening to the crackly sound of old records on my 100 year old Victrola; I also collect antique toys. My toys are very sentimental to me. They are not left, forgotten on the shelf, mere objects of investment, but receive lots of attention and [one-sided] conversation. Always sort of in the back of my mind is the realization that each one was probably very much loved at one time, but was at some point dumped, considered trash, or unworthy of keeping. And it’s a thought which makes me feel protective of them. It must come from the odd fact that as a child I used to have guilt over ‘abandoning’ a toy; relegating it to the bottom of the toy closet, so in my silent nightly prayers I would send it a secret message that I still loved it, in case it felt sad and alone. Even board games. (I know.) They all had souls to me. In addition, I always felt kicked in the stomach if I went to a playmate’s house and they hit or beat their toys, (which probably is a bad sign, anyway; children who ‘torture’ teddy bears) but was too embarrassed to let them know how I felt, since even then I knew my sensitivity to the soul of a plaything was unique and would be considered crazy in the nut; I'd therefore instead resort to distracting the attacking child with suggestions of other things to do. “Let’s go downstairs.” I would say, or “Didn’t you tell me you got a new bike?” Anything to stop the action. I couldn’t stand being a witness to the cruelty. If possible, I'd even tend to the injured toy when the devil-child had his/her back turned, assuring the toy that everything was going to be alright.
My picture today is a Polaroid taken with an old Polaroid 100 camera (the big kind, with the bellows) using expired film and a fixer, which is like a little chapstick thingie you wipe across the film to set it. This is just a small example of all the little ones I’ve adopted.