Postcards, letters, embroidered patches, paper bits, foreign coins, stamps.
All of my collections. All of my prized possessions. All of the things that could be pieced together when I’m gone, that tell some sort of a story.
It started with the paper bits; those were the first things I collected. Ticket stubs, napkins, business cards, pretty packaging…anything. Bits that caught my eye or represented something, like a new place I’ve visited or something just aesthetically unique. Soon the paper bits turned into a new collection of post cards. First by scouring through bins at flea markets and antique shops looking for that special vintage postcard with the colored lithographs faded to perfection, or postcards with 70 year old images of places like my hometown or my university. I’ll always have the most special place for the vintage postcards. They sweep me into a fantasy world (which isn’t exactly a fantasy because someone actually lived in that exact moment, putting pen to this exact postcard). At some point the vintage posties turned into picking up a postcard in every new place my travels took me, which then became a deliberate request upon my travelling friends to please send me a postcard for my collection from whichever faraway place they were at that was definitely better than wherever I was sitting.
There are other people out there who love their postcards too. But, my collection is the best. My collection means nothing to anybody else. To a stranger, they are junk. Trash. Donate them to the Salvation Army.
These happy bits of mail are my favourite possession; worth no money and the only thing I hope to keep with me for life. That’s a bit dramatic, but they’re really god damn important. So I’m going to digitise them. The postcards sent to unknown people from the 1940s, there a bit tricky because the cursive writing of the times is just too hard to read. Ill digitise postcards sent to me ( ill make them anonymous).
If anything were to every happen to them, at least they’re here, in the rabbit hole of the internet, where maybe someone else out there can appreciate them as much as I do. Perhaps someone out there can admire the stories revealed in my postcards the same way I adore the story told in this vintage post card to Arthur, describing the Isabella Stewart Gardner museum which i grew familiar with in school. It hasn’t changed a bit since 1943.