Underground, Week 3

As time went on, I found that, back in Boston, certain things began to catch my eye that would ordinarily garner no interest. These included the disregarded cast-offs of some of the nicer neighborhoods in Cambridge. Curbs became potential treasure troves where one might happen upon needful articles.
Character or 'soul' became the prime requisite for any potential addition to the Room. Things with no history or significance were worthless. Used things, even if I knew nothing about their past, seemed more desirable. Each addition, provided it was of sufficient quality, brought a new energy into the Room. A pillow from the couch of my deceased Nonna (that's Italian for grandmother), an indescribable rusted metal widget that had served some municipal purpose for seemingly long decades, only to end up in the middle of the street in front of the house one brisk night (a contribution of my younger brother), paintings done and forgotten by art students I'll never know. Some objects or images from venues that I would disqualify out of hand I found to be, on the contrary, quite apt. A trip to the dollar store, for instance, yielded an oriental cane in the design of a dragon. On the one hand, it was a cheap piece of commercial crap with seemingly no soul to it. On the other hand, it was a real wooden cane, hand painted and jeweled with glass marbles, that someone halfway around the world had labored to produce using skills (for the non-automated aspects of it's construction) that I myself did not possess; skills that had most likely been honed via unfathomable repetition. And here it was, via airplane or ship, being sold for a dollar - a dollar - in upstate New York. What pittance could the worker who produced it possibly have netted for his labors from that one particular wooden cane? It rests, with another ornate cane brought back by my grandparents from some long forgotten trip somewhere exotic, by the door.
The object that comes most to mind was a wooden pulpit that my younger brother and I found on the curb in Newton on one of his visits up, years ago. It was painted a pallid yellow and looked a bit beaten up. It was about four and a half feet tall, had a slanted top for an open book, a shelf underneath for more books, and a wooden cross affixed to it's front. It was itself in front of a church and was clearly being disposed of. Without a second thought, we snatched it up and put it in the trunk of my car. I lived with several housemates in Waltham at that time, and couldn't quite bring myself to bring it up into the place. It sat in the basement for a year or two, occasionally I had to rescue it from the garbage pile on my own curb, since no one in the building claimed ownership. My landlord himself once lamented to me that he had personally put it on the curb the night before, only to find it back in the basement the next morning - perplexing because he had asked everyone in the house if they new anything about it and no one claimed any knowledge. I shrugged, said something like "that is odd" and continued with whatever I was doing. I didn't really know why I lied about it, what I was keeping it for, or why I even wanted it, but it had accrued so much character and had so many near-misses that I felt I had to keep it.
The pulpit came home with me when I moved out of Waltham, and sat in yet another basement (my parents') for a few years, until the basement Room became mine. My parents hated it from the first. My father (who, like me, is Jewish) told me unequivocally that it was 'disrespectful' (to the catholic faith, I gathered) to have it. My mother (who is Catholic), simply deplored it for what it was - a beaten-up eyesore that served no conceivable practical purpose and was creating yet more clutter in her basement. I moved it into the Room and it served as a great stand for my TV. I really meant no disrespect by having it, it wasn't displayed in any particular irony, I simply liked the character of it and thought it added something intangible yet of value to my space. How many sermons, prayers and eulogies had been delivered from it? The face of the TV, perched on the pulpit above the cross, assumed an eerie, incandescent glow under the black lighting, giving it the aura of a slightly creepy shrine to entertainment or some such. This was totally accidental and is illustrative of how objects can achieve a purpose and personality of their own, independent of ones intentions, in the right circumstances.
In the end, my parents finally got their way when I showed up at their house with an unexpected fourteen-foot kayak that I needed to stow there. They hated the idea of keeping the kayak there and flatly refused to unless I, in exchange, finally got rid of the pulpit. I really had no choice now but to acquiesce, but couldn't bring myself to throw it away or discard it (I also knew better than to ask my girlfriend if it could find a place in our apartment.). I drove it back to Cambridge and found a Salvation Army goodwill store on Mass Ave, and finding no one near the door, hastily dropped it near some end tables below a hand-written sign that read "do NOT just leave furniture here, you must register" . . . etc. I've wondered since then if anyone had attached any significance, religious or otherwise, to the fact that it had appeared so suddenly and without explanation. I offhandedly imagined some worker, upon returning from a bathroom or cigarette break and finding it, taking it as a sign that s/he should begin doing God's work and travel around the country preaching the word, from behind the mysterious pulpit, to whomever would listen.
Objects which are so clearly old and history-laden can conjure their own stories if allowed, and sometimes, I think, what I don't know is more significant than the potential truth. With regards to the Room and it's aggregate energies, this creates an aura about the place, abetted by the requisite black light, incense, music, etc. that to me hovers between joy, comfort, security, familiarity, empathy, sadness, finality and regret in varying chemistry.