The Consequence of Singing Candlesticks

The crisp pop didn’t stir my sympathy as I callously plucked the young fruit from her intimate bunch, and my conscience was not pricked as I peeled back her supple skin to expose a soft, white center. In fact, it wasn’t until I noticed her formless body, exhausted and darkening at the bottom of my wicker wastebasket, that I felt a sudden sting of remorse—What had I done, and did my satiation warrant this sacrifice?

This is, of course, a vulgar dramatization, reminiscent of the melodramatic metaphors that frequent journals of angst-ridden pubescent lovers [who will remain unnamed]. However, despite the seemingly apparent sexual sublimation of the previous paragraph, any symbolic meaning that the reader might choose to infer would, in fact, be quite contrary to authorial intent (as if the author’s intent still mattered)—the truth is, I frequently experience relatively intense feelings of compassion for inanimate objects, particularly objects that enjoy some sort of natural companion or belong to some kind of community-- i.e. the alluded to banana, socks, contact lenses, grapes, Twizzlers, salt and pepper shakers, etc.

For example, I’ve promised my mowing shoes a casual stroll sometime soon; it’s been a long while since I awarded them any sort of leisure activity. When I think about them—misshapen and grass-stained—sitting side-by-side in the corner of a dark closet, I am saddened by two prospects: first, they might possess a capacity for affection because their function necessitates a relationship of mutual dependence—they’ve learned to rely upon one another for the fulfillment of their purpose; second, I imagine they remember a glorious past in which they held the position of casual shoes and were responsible for transporting me to exotic locations like the theatre or grocery store. Before being condemned to their present life of servitude, they were permitted to lounge about, enjoying the daily activity of the household. However, upon the arrival of a new pair of casual shoes, they were immediately demoted to their present, strictly utilitarian, position. Now they are confined to a closet, hidden away because of their working-class status. While I am the ultimate agent of their demise, I still feel a fair amount of sorrow when I consider them.

I would like to suggest that my now conspicuous compassion for inanimate objects is the inevitable consequence of a truly poetic nature--a Wordsworthian ability to “see into the life of things,” perceiving the organic interconnectedness of all natural phenomena. Or, perhaps, it is not a revival of pantheism but rather the triumph of materialism that my compassion signals. Maybe capitalism has succeeded in its attempt to convince me that my material possessions truly hold some sort of authentic, intrinsic value.

While these are both plausible explanations, the more likely origin of my inordinate compassion is an early exposure to fairy tales like The Gingerbread Man and Disney’s Beauty and the Beast. The frequent appearance of anthropomorphic objects in fairy tales and cartoons has perhaps doomed me to a life of guilt-ridden consumption. But then again, I guess I’d rather be a guilty than a guiltless consumer—so strike up the chorus of singing candlesticks and teapots.