
One will most definitely be amazed by the amount of …trash that lies in my canvas haversack. Or is ‘amazed’ too mild a word? Should I say astonished, astounded, stupefied, dumbfounded, flabbergasted, dazed, shocked, or stunned?
When you look
at it, it is just a normal old canvas bag, too faded to look respectful in any
kind of company – except that of the utterly grungy type – and too serviceable
to be ‘pensioned’, despite the truth that the old haversack has, a long time
ago passed its superannuation! Slung across my shoulder, or simply lying upon
my chair or on my bed or anywhere for that matter, I guarantee you that it
would not warrant a second look – it seems totally illogical why anyone would
want to look at it in the first place. Certainly the old haversack has been the
bane of my back many a time when I have had this totally formal suit on and
strutted into office, looking all professional and dapper. All the more when I
have trotted through expensive shopping malls, or some elegant store exhibiting
female fineries, or a huge bookstore, which only the rich and the awfully
educated frequent, or just simply in the solemn silence of a church.
To do it
justice, as a spanking, new purchase, it was an olive green colour, with a simple
cylindrical design and could be pulled tight by means of a cord. There was a
flap over the draw string that had a leather buckle, which jingled when I
walked, like the sound you would hear from a cantering horse. Another smaller
flap over a pocket along the front sported a similar leather buckle; smaller I
have described this pocket, but it is so astounding the many bits and pieces I
could store in there.
Canvas is
always strong, tough and sturdy and though not fashionable or expensive, it is
very durable. For while, while new, it was stiff to the touch, rough and
unyielding, but after a few months of rain and sun, there was a feel so soft
and feathery that not even the finest lace or satin could, in my estimation,
compare with the aging canvas of my haversack. By this time, the dark olive
green colour had vanished, to be replaced by a sickly, yellowish-green hue that
belied the robustness of the material. Along the seams and edges, there were
distinct layers of grime and dirt, the result of letting it rest in any old
place and never being mindful because, after all it was canvas and not some
fancy leather pouch. And the fadedness and the utterly sloppy look made an old
friend tell me once, “love the dress my girl, but the bag is out of place. It’s
time you got another one!”
Therefore,
the reader would have by now begun to wonder why this bit of condemnation not
worth even thinking about let alone writing about would become the muse of a
poor storyteller like myself. So, please allow me to remind the reader of my
first paragraph in this essay and softly urge him or her to peruse those lines
again; to summon before his or her mind’s eye that thread of text, to ring that
bell, before I sally forth into that domain of that secret recess, that world
of miscellaneous nonsense and redundancies which the yellowish canvas safely
hid from public view.
Now what is
so wonderful about the contents of my haversack? Would a thousand eyes peep
over a thousand more shoulders to get a mere glance? Would lips of all shapes,
colours and sizes form perfect ‘O’s’ of consternation by just peeking at the
varied assortment of its contents? Why if you, or even you Sir. or you Madam
were to delve into the dark regions of my haversack and were to pull out a
handful of muddy shells or an orange peel and thus stand stultified, I would
dismiss your astonishment with a careless grin and say, “Oh that…” and proceed
with some explanation to stand in defense of why the said muddy shell or orange
peel were where they were. And I can tell you with conviction that your dismissing
response would be, “Don’t give me that bunk. I’m not a fool! You’re just plain
untidy.”
Well, fools
will doubt even the truth if it knocked them on the head with a hammer, but
that is not the discussion here. So before I move off into a tangent, talking
about fools and their follies, I will harken to the call of my first paragraph.
It is
actually amazing how some people can be such prime junk collectors. I wonder if
the phrase ‘mixed bag’ was coined by someone who owned a haversack like mine! I
could write volumes on my mother’s handbag, and her other two or three other
bags, which contain the most absurd articles that have never felt the warmth of
use or seen the light of day. I could deliver a paper on my Aunt Marie’s
handbag; it is neat and sleek and made from black patent leather, with a magnet
on the flap that is concealed by an abstract metallic design. But when you
opened the flap, unzipped one of its many compartments and tipped it over, like
you see many actresses do in search for that magical hairpin which would assist
the hero to open a locked door, you will wonder at the quaintest articles and
knick-knacks and wonder again how in tarnation did they all fit in there? I
could deliver an essay on the contents of my math teacher’s pocket and its
extremely funny contents, which included a five-inch long piece of white twine
(the purpose of which we could never divine,) but all this will take pages and
time.
It will
therefore suffice to say that I misplaced my closet key somewhere at the bottom
of my haversack and I was thunderstruck at the stuff I pulled out, in an effort
to find it.
Now, I will
draw up a list of what I knew my haversack to contain, and must contain,
because I used these articles every day. I carry these in my bag day in and day
out, from dawn to dusk and thereafter from dusk to dawn because they form part
of my everyday use. It seems logical to do so, so that the reader would clearly
demarcate the trash from the cash.
- A diary covered with a courier flyer, which is gray. The flyer is extremely durable and hence could take the wear and tear that a cover would be subject to. This diary has some of my most personal details that I have scribbled over the past two years. It contains a poem, a short story, some math calculations and…a drawing of what I imagine a cow’s soul looks like. It also contains other important details like addresses, phone numbers and things I needed to get done and many blank sheets for many more poems and short stories and…drawings.
- My identity card is something that I need every day when I enter the office. It is not one of those swanky electronic ones that you swipe at the door to gain access, but just a laminated card with my photograph and name, blood group and date of validity.
- My wallet is rather important because…it is my wallet. It contains my debit card and some larger denominations of currency that I store in there. The coins themselves I normally fling into the smaller pocket in the front, or into the main part of the bag – but usually the smaller pocket because I can access it faster. You will remember that the main portion can be closed off by pulling a cord tight, and this renders it difficult to access anything quickly.
That’s it!
So I am able, by means of that
meager inventory, list what I would consider the ideal contents of my
haversack. Of course a reader of great wealth might regard diamonds and gold as
ideal, but wealth I have not and I think that has already been established by
the some of my possessions listed. Never mind what the one with wealth should
think. When I mean ideal, it is in relation to the articles that that were
actually cluttered in there, and which, though added not even a miserable half
a pound to the weight, certainly took me all the time in the world to locate
one little closet key.
I will rob the reader of the
suspense and be a complete spoilsport. My mother always used to say, “never
read the last page of a book. What’s the point?”
The point? The point is I would
hate to read a book which ended tragically. It seems such a waste for both the
writer and the reader to go through an entire work, to only find that there are
only tears and sadness at the end. I remember a time when my mother chucked a
book aside because it did not begin
well! And I think it was one of the best books of that genre ever written. No
amount of persuasion on my part could induce my mother to read that book, and
all because according to her, it did not begin well. So, I don’t think that it
would spoil any of the fun if I said that amid all the commotion and
assortments in my haversack, at the end of it all, after picking out each bit
of ‘tripe’ and laughing at it and laying it around me, like the spoils of
victory, I found that elusive closet key!
Lists are
made of important things. Lists are made so that important things are
remembered, used, stored or acted upon in a timely manner. There are some lists
that are made of unimportant things so that one will remember not to spend time,
on them or as a reminder to steer clear of them. So they are actually
important. Therefore, I can mathematically conclude that lists are made of
important things. However, I will not subject the reader to a list of the
unimportant stuff that I conjured up from the dungeons of my bag. In other
words, I will not make a list.
Therefore I
shall begin, in simple prose, to lay before you the wonders in my old, canvas
haversack.
At first,
when I delved into my bag, I grasped the biggest object it contained and that
was the already listed diary. I laid it upon my bed (I was sitting upon the
floor) and then drew out my wallet, which was laid accordingly upon that
important pedestal – my bed. Then I began my magic trick. From my bag I drew
out two envelopes and a sheet of paper folded along its length. Within one
envelope were a few dried seeds of a long forgotten plant that I probably
wanted to set in the garden. I cannot remember where I found them, although the
image that hits my mind is St. Anthony’s School which had a beautiful creeper
of red flowers behind the patron’s statue. The envelope is dirty, especially
along the folds and is dog-eared, as is the other one. This other contained
nothing but an address and phone number written upon it. The neatly folded
foolscap is an old resume of mine, dating back to 31st August 1999
and has along the folds a neat, and intricate pattern of dirt and dust. At the
first sight of it, the viewer would probably be disgusted, but a closer
inspection reveals an intricate web of an abstract pattern that tells the tale
of weeks and months in a rucksack, dancing upon shells and sliding on pebbles.
I will only say that if you opened the paper rashly, it will fall apart. I have
three crisp copies of my resume and all of them within six feet of this bag, so
I will discard this one. I ain’t getting’ no job with this kind of resume.
Then from
those dark interiors I pulled out a handful of the shells I had mentioned
before, some woefully destroyed and some whole. These I had picked up from the
shores of a lake I had visited with my friend over six months ago and had
thought them beautiful enough for my mother’s garden. Mingled with the shells
were a few pebbles, foraged from that same spot and for the same purpose. I
then picked out a black, spongy headset muff that was worn and torn and utterly
useless, most so because it didn’t have a partner. There were six ATM receipts
for transactions made over the last three months and one piece of a small
orange peel that was dried and crisp. The remainder of it lay at the bottom of
my bag in a mass of powder mingled with the sand from the shells and pebbles.
Following closely was some small change and these I lay by my wallet. There was
also a currency note, worn so terribly by the pebbles and the shells and the
diary and wallet that it had a clear tear along its center.
Then I
turned my bag over and emptied out all the dust and sand it contained and it
fell like rain upon the floor. Now out from the small front pocket I pulled out
the lanyard of my ID and as I yanked it out, there came forth a floppy disk,
paper money, more ATM receipts, some bills, a piece of folded paper, some
visiting cards, two chocolate wraps, some cotton wool, a roll of telephone
wire, some cotton thread and one empty tube of glue. Also emptying out with my
ID card were some coloured bits of cloth, two pens, a black bottle of nail
polish that fell to the floor and broke right at the neck. The cotton wool and
the scraps of coloured pieces of cloth helped clear the mess, but there was
that divine odour of turpentine that prevailed that I could not quite get
enough of. At the bottom of this…tiny compartment were a dozen or so coins and
a few other notes that did not attach themselves to the ‘dog tag’ as it was
yanked out. There were other assortments of pebbles and stones and bits of
polished glass for a fish tank. There was even a wooden propeller that my
brother had made years ago!
I peered at
all of these things and laughed as my mother, who had been watching all of this
commented with a grin, “and when is the rabbit to come out?” My laugh was short lived. So far, the
contents that I conjured up were ridiculous articles and of very little worth.
How should I have known that something so deadly and lethal would also find
comfortable residence in my bag? I scrambled back with a gasp, which sounded
like “marmmee!” and flung the bag away from me.
“What’s in
there?” asked my mother startled at being summoned so loudly. “Surely not that
bunny?” She peered in herself, while I had some difficulty in forming the
words, “black worm…black snake…I think!”
I hate
worms. I hate caterpillars. I don’t mind snakes from a distance, but generally
I hate anything that’s ‘creepy-crawly.’
“Snake!” she exclaimed. “Snake? Now don’t be stupid. How can a snake get in here? You have the heights…you mean this?” and out from the pocket she drew a long, black and shiny shoelace that now looked just as menacing as a bunny – which I’m sure, had it been safely stashed in there wouldn’t have surprised her at all...or me for that matter.
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