I have this... compulsive... habit. I seem to only want to buy used books. I haven't always been like this. The fact that new books are so expensive doesn't help my compulsive habit. When I say compulsive, I mean: I know all of our used books store owners and they know me by name. I also have discounts at all of our used book stores because I've brought in so many books-- thus, I get books for dirt cheap. It's not the price that I'm "compulsive" about. It's the age, the time someone spent on it, the story OF the book ITSELF that interests me so much.

So one day I started a book collection of 1800-early 1900 books. They aren't worth anything at all. Most of these books have been mass produced later on in their publication or have simply been forgotten with time and culture changes, making the plot trite and predictable. I often wonder who wrote that Dec. 25, 1908 inscription, "To John, with love- Sarah." Who were the people who wrote in my margins? And who will be reading my scribbles in fifty years?

These time capsules aren't limited to 100 year old books. I recently bought a 20 cent copy of Crime and Punishment. The previous owner wrote her name all over the cover, and doodled on Raskolnikov's face. Yet, for some class she took she scribbled little side notes in the margins. She spent her TIME writing in those notes. Who was this Ali Lawrence? How did her beloved book come to be in my hands?

Our time capsules are everywhere. We are constantly being confronted with little bits of forgotten history everyday-- those initials in the pavement, the graffiti in the bathroom, and that T-shirt your mom bought you from the used clothing store. Everything around us has a story to tell, even if it's just beginning. Do you have a collection that tells a story? A picture? A memory? Or something you wonder about?

i have body marks story from physical abuse.

yeah.

pretty depressing when i thought about it.

Funny you should post this now, considering my sister and I recently found a time capsule we planted nearly ten years ago. It was entertaining to see all the juvenile stuff we had placed in there... from who the latest pop singer was to the latest toy fads. Hehe. But I know what you mean. I wonder that with my books as well; I tend to buy used books. My Brave New World copy has "Mike" inscribed right on the front. It's kinda funny looking. He has bad handwriting. Mmm memories. That's why I love photography so much. I enjoy capturing that half-second in time, then later posting them on my walls so I won't forget. Wow this post is long.

Wow... I'm sorry?




Hahaha, I remember when I used to plant time capsules around my room. I actually found one that made it's way through two moves unnoticed. It was full of pennies and scraps of paper-- not the best time capsule in the world, I also think I had little animal toys in it as well. That's why I love photography too! I didn't know you were into it. I love how I take about 200 pictures one day and then two or three days later I'll look at them and I can remember EVERYTHING about that day I took pictures. I can remember smells, sounds, and dialoge that I would never normally remember. It's all terribly romantic and poetic, but thats why I love photograpy, memories.

Yeah, I just don't really display it on the computer. I know - a camera whore actually into photography. Odd, no? My one wall is entirely filled with pictures I've taken over the past five years... of friends, family, random people. I should take a picture of it for here; it's pretty massive. I'm actually supposed to get a frame for this one picture I really liked that I developed recently. It's of a gorgeous rose, but it's decaying. I don't know, probably inspired by Placebo's "Teenage Angst," subconsciously, but I took it because it was this beautiful, perfect thing. And now it's decaying, withering. Everyone takes pictures of flowers when they're at their peak.

You should definitly display them here! I'd love to see them.

LOL.

no need ;]

I have a "time-capsule" from when I was, like, 7 that I made at a museum. It has this string in it that measured how tall I was and some other stuff. It was kinda lame, but, I still have it. =]

Are we allowed to bump Lounge topics? I really thought this was a quality thread, and I'd be sad to see it go that quickly.

Hrm, well I don't know. So, I'm going to be taking pictures of the fireworks. Today is really special since our family hasn't gotten together in four years. Hopefully everyone will make it, and it's at my aunt's house. My aunt's house is in the country, I used to live there when we first moved to the Houston area. It holds a lot of memories for me, especially in the summer.

I loved buying used books with notes written in the side margins but I have many photographs that I take over the years and save. As well as a complete collections of Victor Hugo's works, all printed in the 1800's. I loved them.

Doesn't matter, I'd rather see good threads go to the top than see the stuff that's been surfacing lately.

---

My dad used to work as a boiler operator for the local Human Development Center when I was a child. The people who lived on this what we called "the colony" were mentally challenged patients that had been deemed unsuitable to live in public or on their own. It was like a small town with houses, buildings, etc. Most of the people who worked there lived there as well, including us. I remember not being allowed to go outside, even in the front yard, by myself, and if we saw someone walking on the sidewalk we were all instructed to run into the house immediately. Pretty scary.

One of the patients had an obsession with trading. It didn't matter what it was, all that mattered was that he gave you something, you gave him something. So my dad would get us up and tell us, "We're going to see Boombox (that was his nickname). Get some toys you'd like to give him." So we'd get all the toys we never played with, put them in a box, and brought them out to this guy, who let us go through boxes and boxes of stuff. We'd come home with new stuff to play with, and we were always thrilled. After we moved away from that place, I put a bunch of the stuff we got from this guy in a box. Somehow, this box survived move after move, and when my dad passed away I found it (the one time I was allowed to look through his house before I was forced to leave).

Looking through the box, it made me wonder. Who were the children who gave each individual toy to this man? How did he get ahold of these toys so that we could have them? Assumedly, he traded something for them. What was it? As I was looking through the box, I was flooded with so many memories, and of course the tears came pretty easily at that point. Unfortunately, I don't have any use for a box of toys, so I took them to Goodwill. Funny.. Now some other child is playing with them.

QUOTE(Libertie @ Jul 4 2006, 3:53 PM)

Doesn't matter, I'd rather see good threads go to the top than see the stuff that's been surfacing lately.

---

My dad used to work as a boiler operator for the local Human Development Center when I was a child. The people who lived on this what we called "the colony" were mentally challenged patients that had been deemed unsuitable to live in public or on their own. It was like a small town with houses, buildings, etc. Most of the people who worked there lived there as well, including us. I remember not being allowed to go outside, even in the front yard, by myself, and if we saw someone walking on the sidewalk we were all instructed to run into the house immediately. Pretty scary.

One of the patients had an obsession with trading. It didn't matter what it was, all that mattered was that he gave you something, you gave him something. So my dad would get us up and tell us, "We're going to see Boombox (that was his nickname). Get some toys you'd like to give him." So we'd get all the toys we never played with, put them in a box, and brought them out to this guy, who let us go through boxes and boxes of stuff. We'd come home with new stuff to play with, and we were always thrilled. After we moved away from that place, I put a bunch of the stuff we got from this guy in a box. Somehow, this box survived move after move, and when my dad passed away I found it (the one time I was allowed to look through his house before I was forced to leave).

Looking through the box, it made me wonder. Who were the children who gave each individual toy to this man? How did he get ahold of these toys so that we could have them? Assumedly, he traded something for them. What was it? As I was looking through the box, I was flooded with so many memories, and of course the tears came pretty easily at that point. Unfortunately, I don't have any use for a box of toys, so I took them to Goodwill. Funny.. Now some other child is playing with them.

Oh okay. Just checking. And wow. That's pretty powerful. It's just so... weird how even toys and such become history, no matter how insignificant it may seem.

That's an amazing story. What a great memory to have. I've found boxes of toys my grandmother used to give me (probably bought from the Goodwill) and I've had a hard time letting a lot go.

My family goes to resale and antique shops and they love garage sales. We don't buy crap or anything like that. My whole house is full of antiques that my mother and I shopped for when we bought it. We have a huge 1920's wardrobe with engravings on it and a beautiful key that goes to it-- we have two smaller wardrobes. Every bit of furnature in my room was either bought from an antique store or passed down from my mother. It's all this creme and gold, French funrature. Our area has a huge amount of antique stores with really low prices. The desk I'm sitting at now is one we bought. I found a secret compartment in it and I wonder what had been kept in it before I had it? I got my hands on two brass book ends. They have scratches on them, not fancy at all. But both bookends have someone's initials engraved in them. R.W.M. I wonder who they were and who gave those bookends to them.

Today our family got together for the first time in a while. Chairs shifted from scene to scene (we had guests as well). When we went back inside because of the rain, we all gathered in the living room to talk. Somehow an extra chair wound up empty because one of my uncles decided to sit on the fireplace. I looked at that chair... it was the one my grandfather always sat in. I don't think anyone noticed. But there we all were, talking in the living room. All the chairs and sofas were full except that one.

Wow.. You know, it's kind of like that at my grandma's house since my grandpa passed last year. I'm assuming in your story leaving the chair empty wasn't intentional, but people really do anything they can to keep from sitting in that chair at her house. Same with his spot on the pew at church. =\