Being Furniture

Faye Alexander
Sep 7, 2018 · 3 min read

I’ve been furniture before.

I could mold into a piece of furniture so natural to the room, it would hardly seem anything had changed at all. I’ve been a rug, and a lamp, and a folding chair which only appears for crowded dinner parties. To fit seamlessly into someone else’s life, I taught myself to morph into inanimate objects — like magic.

My youth was spent as glow in the dark stars plastered to a cobalt painted wall. For a short while, I found myself living as a kitchen tile. I’ve been a bedframe, and a work desk, and I’ve been smaller things too.

On a cold December night from a disheveled bed, I glanced up and saw a crack along a yellowed popcorn ceiling above me. It could have been my reflection looking back at me — small, curious, and dark. I wondered if I might eventually burst and take the whole building down with me. But I’ve grown since those dark days as a crack in the ceiling.

No one had ever told me I would become furniture. No one has ever explicitly asked me to perform this metamorphosis either. The request has generally been an unspoken one. I’d only have to look around apartments to see where I might fit. My eyes would travel down down to see my legs replaced with wooden pegs, my forearms upholstered and stitched with twine. My neck was soundless teak, a buttoned mouth, and screaming eyes.

Becoming furniture is a delicate magic to learn. It’s knowing how much space you can take up without becoming intrusive. Learning how much liberty you can take with creaking and moaning. It’s the wisdom of recognizing your utility in someone else’s life. Whether you’re purpose is to be sat on, sipped from, broken in, slammed, played with, danced upon, something to pass around for friends, or hidden under a floorboard in a small tin box.

I’ve been all sorts of interesting things to different people in different spaces. In a room holding all the occupants of every apartment I’ve passed through, an argument would bubble up across the floor. One would say I’d made a decent chair, while another would insist I was a vase. Another would make claim I’d been a woman, but would get confused when recalling the time he’d placed a lamp shade over my 100 watt head.

It is a mysterious thing to have been so many different things dependent on the place, and time, and person. I’ve been all kinds of furniture. Anthropology from an inanimate standpoint allows you an intimate portrait of someone else’s life. Yet of all the things I’ve been and was, I could never keep their shape. If I stayed too long as a microwave, I’d eventually burst and and take the whole building down with me.

In due course, I’d grow tired and my human frame would split the object open. The tenant would be alarmed to find a stranger sitting where a dish rack had just been. “What have you done with my dish rack?” they’d ask, “And who the hell are you?” A blank stare always chased my voice. Then I’d be gone, off to turn into something new, like an ottoman.

Becoming furniture is both voyeurism and detachment. When I consider this unusual magic, it was something I learned for my own benefit. I loved to watch people from an unassuming vantage point. It made it easier to know people. When I consider this unusual magic, it was something I learned at my own detriment. No one can ever truly know a bookshelf or a table. I’d made myself impossible to know and hid myself in shapes.

I taught myself to be furniture.

I don’t seem to know what to become now or what room I should be kept in. I’ve tried doorknobs and window frames — something near an exit — but I can’t seem to change my shape. I only see myself in the mirror looking back at me; pale bright skin and dark eyes. I can’t seem to be anything other than what I am anymore.

.

Welcome to a place where words matter. On Medium, smart voices and original ideas take center stage - with no ads in sight. Watch
Follow all the topics you care about, and we’ll deliver the best stories for you to your homepage and inbox. Explore
Get unlimited access to the best stories on Medium — and support writers while you’re at it. Just $5/month. Upgrade