Do you believe objects have memories? That day to day mundane objects that you carry or that lie around the house in fact remember where they’ve been. Could it be possible that the secrets of history and the way we used to be are locked up embedded in wood and stone, completely unaccessible.
It sits there on my desk, even as I type this, it seems it is forever around, if somebody was ever to write my biography it would be such a good source, if only it could speak. Most of you have already seen it, the massive bunch of things that constitutes my “keys”. Yet calling them keys is really a lie, for its just one key and a bunch of chains.
It’s funny, I never purchase key chains when I’m abroad. I am a firm believer that travel is a gift in itself, the sights and sounds and experiences will forever be etched in my mind, carried in my heart and cheriched. There is no need to bother with something as trivial as souveniers when you’ve got memories. On the other hand, whenever somebody else is travelling, when they ask me what I would like, my answer comes automatically; “A key chain please”. I’ve become quite the collector, and each one is completely different, each reflecting the nature and culture of the country who’s name it proudly bears. Yet its not really about the chains, its more about the thought, the knowledge that I was remembered, that is gift in itself. My current group is host to 2 flamengo dancers from Espana in a copper formation, another is a landscape of Istanbul, at some point I had a chunk of cedar wood from Lebanon with my name engraved, a canadian glow in the dark flag that read “If you find these keys, dial 1800 Goddess”.
This exccessively large collection of chains serviced just one sole key. The keys to my car. Here comes the disadvantage of typing, one can’t accentuate that last sentence enough. That car was my pride and joy, a gift from my parents on my 21st birthday. That sophisticatedly cut metal and oversized black infra red control. There is more to it than meets the eye. Just carrying it is a symbol of my freedom, my ability to be at the desired location at the desired time. The fact that I no longer have to deal with impudent drivers, suicidal taxi drivers or the Cairo smog. I can just roll up my windows and exist in a space that is entirely my own.
This harmless bunch of shiny objects doesn’t include a key to our house. I’m 23 wouldn’t you think I’d be carrying one by now? Yet that is so symbolic of my life as a whole. My conditional independence. My parents overprotectiveness. My general lack of responsibilities. A total carefreeness. Most of all, its a reminder, that anytime I get home, no matter what my arrival time is, there is always going to be someone there. That all my family are well, that my mother or grandma are going to lovingly open the door, ask how my day has been, feed me and tell me about theirs. May I never have to carry a key to our door.