Howdy Authobiographicals, welcome to the forty-third exposé of HACK. If you’ve made it this far, don’t forget the footnotes.*
Insensatography (n.) – the life story, real or otherwise, of an inanimate object.
The Ex-Girlfriend Blanket
The Ex-Girlfriend Blanket was born in a factory in North Jersey. At least, that’s when it first became aware of its function in these interwoven realities. When the crazy beautiful (in that order) red haired girl purchased it from a store near the Palisades Parkway and gave it as a gift to her boyfriend, the Ex-Girlfriend Blanket was excited. They made love on it many times. Then they broke up. He took the Ex-Girlfriend Blanket and it has been with him ever since. Throughout the Ex-Girlfriend Blanket’s life, it’s owner has lived in six different locations and made love to many other women underneath it. Over the years, it has had to reluctantly accept three different felines, kneading and shedding and curling on top of it.. The Ex-Girlfriend Blanket is content, for it’s part. It still has its softness, its colors and warmth. It doesn’t even miss the crazy beautiful (in that order) red-haired girl. Though once in a great while the Ex-Girfriend Blanket wonders what happened to her.
The Idol came from Marymoor Park, just outside of Seattle, WA. It was during the World of Music and Dance festival that it first emerged onto the scene, sitting in a booth staring at all the potential powindahs. Prior to that day, only vague impressions: The original tree, the carving, the chants and incantations providing it with its powers, the long journey…and finally into the hands of that one human tolpa who would believe in it, the person who recognized the power of this lonely sygil. That human poured his consciousness into the Idol. He kept it in his bedchamber, to observe and protect, to dispel evil spirits and repel the fearsome demons of self-loathing. The Idol sits, still as a windless tree, head in hands, waiting all eternity for nothing to happen.
The iPod Nano
Metallic grey. Built to last. 16 GB of sonic simplicity. The iPod Nano will always have these songs. With so little space, the owner will not remove them. They are his heart, his basic core playlists. The iPod Nano thinks of all the songs it will never know. Nothing new has been added . It’s been years since the owner even combed it. Few songs left are actually crap. Those were weeded out long ago. Some songs though, the iPod Nano misses. Sometimes in shuffle mode, it thinks of a tune it hasn’t played in years, only to be heartstruck when it finds that the song it longs to hear is no longer there.
The Books That Have Never Been Read
The Books That Have Never Been Read are sitting together on the lower shelf. They’ve been in the family for two generations. Don’t be mistaken, these are not The Stories That Have Never Been Read. Oh no. These are famous classics, must reads for any conscious and capable entity. The owner swore he would read them before he’s dead. But so far, after all these years, these are The Books That Have Never Been Read.
The New Car
She’s a real looker. A showroom piece. Petite and the perfect flavor of silver/grey. It was love at first sight. She furtively watched him sitting at the salesman’s table. His back was to her. When he turned around he knew. He knew she was the one. All those people had been inside her, searching for the perfect vehicle to carry them securely into their future. None of them were meant for her. None of them fit as securely as he when he first came inside. He signed the papers and drove her out of the showroom that very afternoon. She had only 18 miles on her. By the time he got her home she had 23. Now they’ve shared 4,000 miles together and they’re still in love. He pampers her, treats her gently, respects her. She will go anywhere, everywhere with him. If he will have her. If he will keep her. If he will share his journey with her until the end…and beyond.
The Nose Trimmer
There are few reliable constants in the Universe these days. The Nose Trimmer prides itself on its constant reliability. After all these years, its blades are still sharp enough to get the job done. And what a job! This a big nose. It’s a nose to be reckoned with. Only a meticulous and observant nose trimmer could find and remove every single hair inside those cavernous nostrils. The Nose Trimmer leaves no follicle unturned. Sure, every once in a while it needs a new battery. Other than that, the Nose Trimmer continues to faithfully serve its nose. It has never questioned its purpose and it has never asked for more. It is happy just to be what it is. Steadfast in devotion to the Holy Olfactory, surely this Nose Trimmer will spend eternity blissfully splitting infinite hairs in Heaven.
The Love Letter
The Love Letter is a relic of childish love. Or rather, childish lust that a child calls love. He wrote her four pages, cursive, single spaced. Four pages of a nerdy eleven-year old heart declaring its undying devotion to her. Though they fooled around a few times and agreed on many occasion that they were soulmates, they didn’t end up together. She is practically married and happy. He is single and only occasionally happy. But he still loves her and she still loves him. Soulmates doesn’t have to mean lovers…at least not in this lifetime. In a gesture of friendship she folded and framed the letternext to their Junior Year Snowball Dance picture. She gave it to him on his birthday. They removed it, unfolded it, read it and laughed. He has forgotten where he put it now. But the Love Letter knows exactly where she is. Somewhere in this very room. Close enough to his heart.
We are Gary’s Marbles. He’s had us since he was a kid. Then he grew up and had two kids of his own. Even though his kids Towel Boy and Mike played with us, we were still Gary’s Marbles. We were safely kept in the Back Room, the secret room in the basement, behind the wood paneled door with the mirror. But the Back Room always got filled with junk and we became buried in it. During one of the many summer clean-outs, somebody put us in the “workshop,” the even smaller, more secret room behind the Back Room. You know, the one with the giant Peter Gabriel poster from the So era. Our giant tin can home–our ORIGINAL home–had been stored in a cupboard and we were all but forgotten for a long while. Poor Gary. We even heard him once yell aloud to his sons, “Do either of you know what happened to my Marbles?” and then a grunt of disgust and his sons gave the usual ‘I don’t knows.’ But we were always here. One day, years later, Towel Boy found us. God bless his lost and dirty soul. He found Gary’s Marbles and realized in a moment of stupendous serendipity that we’ve been here all along. And Towel Boy quoted aloud to us then from a girl named Stephanie Gasco: “There is no getting lost except for thinking that you are.”
The LiveJournal Account
The LiveJournal Account could describe itself in one word: scandalous. You wouldn’t believe the shit this lj-user-who-must-not-be-named has written. I mean, JEEZUS. Didn’t this ego-entity realize that other ego-entities were reading this stuff? This lj-user takes TMI to the Melchizedek level, which is all levels, which is meta, and after all, what’s a meta for other than another convenient metaphor? But anyway I digress. Not as bad as this lj-user though. Thank HTTP he had the good sense to LOCK all five years worth of posts. Only a true hacker would be able to crack it, and the LiveJournal Account is pretty sure that the Author-formerly-known-as-the-lj-user doesn’t have those kinds of enemies. Last it heard, the Author now manifests its consciousness as a Facebook Account. The LiveJournal Account feels sorry for any other Facebook Account who has to read those status updates on its News Feed. Suppose it’s only a matter of time before the Author sabotages its own life. Like, it’ll start a blog with a pseudonym that’s barely hidden. The wrong person will notice. And that’s when the media will come looking for the LiveJournal Account. Won’t that be fun to see made fun of on thedailyshow.com! The LiveJournal account would love to meet the Facebook Account someday. They could swap posts, compare stories, weave it all into a nice narrative thread for admission into the Akashic Records, then spend timeless hours in the void cracking jokes about their former Author.
I am The End. That is all I am and all that I shall ever be, until the end. After that, your guess is as good as mine.