So I'll tell you about this thing. Yesterday I was looking to shave a little off the ends of a coupla boards---a little more than sandpaper would do---and I remembered this fairly hefty raspy file I used to know & use, and, I think, possess myself. An old one. I like old hand tools a lot, all sentimental about the now-dead people who used them, and there being something about the mysteries of what other jobs they were used for, when & where & how & by whom. So I went down to the basement to see if I could dig up that tool, which belonged to my folks at some point, and probably to one of their folks, and maybe even others before that. Which means I'm looking for those of my parents' tools that were passed down to me.
Thinking that, I suddenly couldn't escape the metaphor of it all. Thus I was thinking of these items as symbolic of behavioral and intellectual tools in my figurative toolkit for life, and of the "box in the basement" shmizla proposed as an answer to my metaphor query the other day (ha, btw, O). (There are other ghosts in my basement, too, of course.) My hardware stuff isn't organized & is in various places, but the more obscure is in the basement, mostly still in boxes.
Once years ago my father made me a little toolkit, which I kept in my '75 Chevy Nova, "Butch" (dubbed thus by Gnorman Prentiss), but it was stolen, box and all, and I was sad to have even those third-string family screwdrivers gone from my world. I did get more tools from him (Dad, not Gnorman), and, after my mother died, from the remaining household stuff, and it turns out I still have quite a few, including some odd ones that may be pretty old. I couldn't find the big file, though.
What I was surprised to find was that I have a considerable number of tools I acquired myself, living on my own after the Denz & before the H-bomb---between cohabitations. Many more than I'd have guessed. It gave me quite a boost to dig through them, looking for the elusive rasp. They reminded me of little projects in the physical world I once attended to with them, and satisfaction thereabout.
Metaphors, of course, are the opposite of the physical world. Or if not the opposite, part of its antithesis, or residing within that opposite. Such as they reside at all.
This afternoon, while I can't do my inside-the-head--based job through its inside-a-computer medium, and thinking about tools literal and figurative, I want nothing more than to run out and form & shape & carve & construct & arrange & rearrange & move & play with & take apart & put together & just generally muck with physical things. At home are things to be dealt with. Literal things. Hedges and boards and faucets and tweak-hungry appliances and a troubled fence and broken gate and a garage of mysteries and a basement of explosives and even a few more pieces of still-unsecured shoe molding. Like it's been building up in me for a long time, I find myself about to burst with the long-lost kinetic desire to interact with things, with physical space, with molecular reality.
Sounds like time to go swimming again. Maybe to do some Legoing at peteralway's. And I can think of a few other things, too. Presuming this wellspring of lust for the literally substantial lasts a while.
I hope it does.