Why Some Objects Feel Like They Have Already Lived a Life
Some things arrive in your life already feeling like they belong to it. I have been trying to work out what they have in common.
C:\ARCHIVE\ENTRIES — 12 files
12 of 12 entries shown.
A Wooden Mug and the Life I Imagined
I bought a wooden mug from a man who made maybe six of them a month. Then I spent a week noticing what I had actually bought.
The Problem With Things That Look Premium
We spent three weeks making our bottle look more expensive. Then a shop owner asked a question that undid all of it.
Rain on an Empty Shanghai Street
For about ten minutes the street emptied completely, and I got the photograph and a conversation I didn't expect.
The Beef Soup I Will Make Again
A bowl of beef noodle soup from a shop with no name, reverse-engineered over three attempts. The third attempt goes in the archive.
What a Customer Said at the Sink
We were installing a refill station and a customer said one sentence that reorganized how I think about the entire company.
Basketball Courts at Closing Time
The lights at the community centre court turn off at nine. The last twenty minutes are a specific place that exists nowhere else.
Notes on Airports I Have Slept In
A field guide compiled at Gate 23 at 3:40 in the morning, by someone using a backpack as a pillow.
The Smell of My Grandmother's Kitchen
I have been trying to describe one specific smell for two years, partly for a scent project and mostly for myself.
A Question I Keep Not Answering
Filed here so it stops circling the apartment. A note to self about the size a thing is supposed to be.
The Oldest File in the Archive
P1010031.JPG, taken in 2005 on the family camera, mostly by accident. On why the worst photograph I own might be the most valuable.
The Vegetable Stall That Opens Before the Sun
Notes from the 5:50 am shift at the wet market near my apartment, where the real economy of the neighborhood happens before I am usually conscious.