In the Age of Objects: A Primer

We had a knife. A pot. Shoes. We had spoons, and needles, and glasses that shattered when we dropped them on hard floors. In the age of objects we worked out ideas with winches and rope. Levers and chocks. Muscles were trained to remember their jobs. Ideas moved down an arm to pens or hammers. Often an object, say a hook, was lashed to a thought, say hunger, by a fine, invisible thread. A fish at the other end was part of the thinking that went on, but wasn’t itself an object.

We had feathers. But birds owned the feathers which sometimes dropped off and we could collect them. Some feathers we were not meant to keep unless we knew, and our fathers and mothers, and theirs, and theirs, knew the feathers were not objects and wore them in a way birds recognized, because the feathers were a gift.

In the age of objects so many things stored energy and light: a saddle burnished by oil and sweat; wooden spoons singed velvety black. We had candles in the age of objects. Early on, made from the bodies of animals: tallow and beeswax. Then soybeans and palm trees. Now, mostly petroleum. But we had bees. So many bees. If you put your ear to a bee box you could hear the singing and feel the warmth they generated. You could take a portion of their honey and wax and they’d make more. First you’d ask, and then proceed. After they agreed. And only after you thanked them.

You thanked them by not taking everything.