PELT CLOAK: This is an artifact that I have made. I made it for a class several ago: it is a cape or cloak consisting of the skins of stuffed animals, all sewn together into one large fabric. What I had to say about it was that it is a representation of childish innocence in the face of morbid enmeshment. That means things, but is overly technical. First, one should note that it is creepy. I went to Goodwill (I’d have used my own but they’ve been thrown away) and bought a bunch of hopefully-once-loved stuffed animals, and cut them up. I separated the back of them from the front of them. It features several bears, a seal, a monkey, and a rabbit. The rabbit is crucial for me. I took their insides and used the synthetic fluff to fill up a full bodysuit that came to resemble a life-sized doll, but that’s something else. Then I took needle and thread and sewed the skins together into this large and heavy cloak. It is soft, it is quite soft to the touch. Some of the stuffed animals are much softer than others. I didn’t wash them before I made the cloak, I think about that often. It’s a little unnerving. I’m afraid to smell it because it might smell like the intimate lives of people, perhaps people with whom I do not want to be intimate, understand? Is that so wrong? At one point I sprayed it with a scent I love, clary sage or something like that, it’s called Dream Extract. It runs out easily because/and it is absolutely uncannily warm. Wearing the cloak is a comfort, actually, it hangs really nicely around the body and feels like a childhood blanket. So it has this sense of comforting innocence, sure, or at least memory of a time when stuffed animals were of paramount importance, but it also consists of many of them (supposedly) dead, without their stuffing at all, without their full bodies, assimilated and enmeshed in with others, we must assume uncomfortably. Too close for comfort. The cloak was shown in the AD&A museum and received a Faculty Award of Distinction, which is an odd but gratifying thing to earn for something so personal and sweetly disturbing. I had it on a mannequin but put it on different people––they seemed to feel secured within it. Which is the point, somewhat. It might make careful swoosh sounds while it’s being draped around a figure, but I wouldn’t count on it. It isn’t a loud object… find an image of it in the gallery section…
DRILL: This drill belongs to Mary. It is a sort of chartreuse lime color, and also dark gray. If you press the small pale button just under the snout, the screwdriver head will turn counter clockwise. This, lefty-loosey, is the way to unscrew a nail from its spot. The default setting is usually clockwise, or––if you will––righty-tighty. This will press up and embed the nail, swirling, into the material it’s up against. I don’t own a drill, personally. It has a thick black cord, and its handle has a sort of grip material on it. I hope to own one myself one day. It’s got a body like a glue gun. The tip is either Phillips or not. I only know Phillips; it’s the one that looks like a cross or x or plus sign. The screwdriver makes a quite intense whirring noise when it’s doing its work. When it’s struggling it’ll be more Errrrrn, but as its pace quickens up and the nail’s starting to spin right out, it’ll make more of a Riiiiiin noise. Which reminds me of my friend Eirin. The sound of the drill. It’s somewhat of a nice little machine, it isn’t overly bulky or hulked out. It almost has a charming beginner’s quality. The drill was used quite recently to take off a door from its hinges. It worked. We then put the door back on its hinges. It works again, but now it is slightly more difficult to close. The drill is a power tool. I have socks that say “I love power tools,” but to be quite truthful, I don’t own even one. I do have a soft, foamy spot inside me for this particular drill––it’s not too loud, it’s very effective, and it’s certainly fun to use. Click clack. Reverse return. Electric drill. Bully of nails, or rather homer of nails, or perhaps killer of nails. Securer of nails. Twister, to be sure. Spinny drilly with its pointed tip and precise rotation. I love power tools.
LYSOL WIPES: So, we’ve bought these Lysol Wipes, the ingredients of which I could never tell you without checking. Basically they’re these small paper towel-like pieces of thin, disposable fabric, pre-soaked in some sort of disinfectant solution, and piled atop each other in order to easily be pulled out of the cylindrical container one by one. Their scent is meant to be lemon-lime, and sure enough has the abrasive chemical odor of all lemon-lime scented cleaning products, you know the one. It corrodes the nose but only in a way that’s also sort of cleansing, of course, too. The Lysol Wipes supposedly kill cold and flu viruses, 99.9% of viruses and bacteria. That’s absolutely incredible if it’s true. And sure, I’ll take it: the designer used a very standardized font colored in red, in all capitals, so it’s sure to be a plausible claim. I won’t be the one to deny that, I have no evidence. So we sweep the cloths over counters and chairs and tables (but not too often), and we expect ourselves to have these clean surfaces once we pass into the next room or onto the next small task. No way right here to truly tell, but they look clean, and smell like the fabled cleanliness of lemon-lime product. It makes me a little nauseous. But true, it’s comforting, in a way, to see those old Lysol Wipes. They’ve been around for a long time, they clean tables earnestly and have been doing so for years and years. I remember them in classrooms and theater classes. I remember them being used especially often once the pandemic began. I used them to clean up the chairs and tables in the elementary school where I used to work as a teacher’s aide. They smell like the attempt to construct security and ensure an order to things. Trying, at least. They smell like you’re supposed to trust whoever bought them, because certainly that can be nothing less than a good deed. Lysol Wipes leave a scent on your hands, though: that’s what I dislike most about them. After using, your fingers may be left confused and dryish, smelling slightly of chemical citrus. You can wash your hands afterward, but what if the water is less clean than the Lysol? That would be upsetting indeed.