Memorycemetery

Few years ago I lived in London. I lived rough, with no constant address or money. So I paid attention to what people there dump  in the street. I had an ancient leather sofa, and radio, and a sacvoyage, and an old laptop with broken screen. Those there my belongins. I found them all in the street. There were also mementos, like old photos and random weird objects I used to pick from places, abandon by owners but used by me.  I took care of their treasured memories. Reconstructing their meanings, I was exploring traces of human activities as a keen antropologist. One of them was a book with stamps. Our neighbors sold their house. On their way out they  simply dumped all house insides in boxes: books, CDs, toys, shoes, clothes, plates, hangers, tools, TVs, stereo, toasters, you name it. From all of those I took one thing: this book. I still remember it’s red worn out cover. It contained stamps from yearly 20’s to 50’s, and all from different countries. There were hundreds of them. There was a page for each country. Many of them do not exist now. Stamps were beautiful. Exotic monochromic patterns of their surfaces were my treasures. Each one had a story to tell. I could spend hours turning the pages. I tried to imagine that friendly nicely aged neighbor of us in rim glasses as a kid. Were they from his childhood? Dumping stamps is like giving up dreams. Or burning books. Can’t imagine myself doing this. Anyway, this is how I put hold on somebody’s memories that time. The book was priceless. It proved to be true in a few years time, when I decided to sell one of the stamps in need for money. So, of course I went to Strand to visit Stenley&Gibbons. The number One specialist in the field. Established in 17… it was the midwife of the hobby. They could tell the real thing from the first glance. I made an appointment. A gentleman in old fashioned tweed suit took a massive magnifier. He flipped through my book. Then he said: I’ll give you a fiver for this. Which one? I started to flip through the same book in my mind. I already remembered them all by heart. Many had names. For the book. I couldn’t believe my ears. So I left. His words didn’t hurt me; money for me were an abstract value, art is the absolute one. I don’t know how it happened, but this magic book later disappeared. I moved in one house with it, and when I was packing things moving another time, it wasn’t there. I knew it was a treasure and contained dreams. I didn’t regret the loss though. I let it live a parallel life.

Boris Kislitsin

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