[40] Ma’s Little Bags, Chris Daly

There were so many of them, saved over the years, like letters. With high levels of creativity, originality (few repeats), and craftsmanship. Astonishing, sort of, take a sip to steal oneself for the task. Discipline and lack of same of a lifetime. Remarkable that so much simple but substantial effort was put into such a small item with primarily a simple function. Of course that’s not true. Not simply utilitarian, but also suggestive, each small example a promise from a world now gone. Of course it’s a sucker trip, but at least it was good not to know it then. I salute all of us who have gone before. I salute the work, all of it. Most of the time it was the reason for the purchase of something not saved, or even remembered. It was the miniature pieces of craftsmanship, for which there would likely be no use, though who knew? We do now, we who are still here to the bitter end, so to speak. There are so many, and each is a proof of something and each small joy is a sorrow. I believe that each may also be classified as an article of faith. An embodiment of a certain proud humility. An admission of something, a belief. I’m sorry but I’m not sorry. I’m not a fan of Piaf but I regret the same thing that she does. We are such liars. Only lie-makers could make these. I can’t believe what a fool I’ve been, but here is the proof. The finger-work, the color, the upgrade of material is to hold back the ennui, the pain, the final judgment that one had always suspected. One is not necessarily as dumb as one looks. To that. Once in a while one will stab me right in the heart. I don’t remember and it doesn’t matter. That woman Piaf sets my teeth on edge but I agree that bitterness helps pull one through. Then the show ends and one strikes the set, and all the beautiful little props. That still hold up quite well and without mercy. 

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