A Topography of Free

Objects spill out, then recede. At this point, 311 recommends transferring unwanted free items to the garbage for collection. What’s mine is yours, unfortunately. People take what they need and leave a mess, is that it? It was a fucking mess to begin with. Shoutout to the mini-cottage people too, who by implementing rigorous protocols, and with the best of neighbourly intentions, gentrify the cardboard box. Please don’t bring this back, I never want to see it again. The idea is this: diminish your own heap, stoke another’s.

Dear tenants,

It has recently been brought to our attention that garbage is being left throughout the building; this includes materials with a note stating “Free to Take” or similar. When garbage collection service stopped at the property you were reminded that at no time is garbage to be left anywhere outside of your unit unless it is in a landlord authorized bin waiting for immediate pick up.

The building is certainly not a dumping ground and any persons found to be leaving garbage outside of their unit will be charged for garbage removal. Furthermore, if a tenant continues to leave garbage around the building, it is grounds for eviction.

Free things are not allowed in some places. Like mandated garbage disposal, there are rules to be implemented and standards to be upheld. Exceptionally strange in the case of my studio building, considering that for the majority of tenants, the cycle of free material is an unspoken language inherent to producing art. Or, improving your life in some way or another. Regardless of context, it defies how things work. (The awkward, sincere threat of immediate eviction as a punishment for setting out a free stool is obviously harsh as well as disproportionately ironic considering the amount of trash that would be left outside unit bounds as a result of such a hasty measure). Keep your stuff inside and out of sight, remain eternally tethered to that which you possess.

Full hamper of my life contains:

Brand new mould
Platinum mask
Silicone master
Surgical star
A boxed gallon
A lower unit
Robust dollars
Hauling back totes

from every store in the universe

It’s a loose Monday in a tight world, sometime before noon. Late August and hot. I embark on a nine-minute walk. First up, refrigerants warm in the blazing heat. Cooling the curb perhaps. Next, looking like they’re on the move horizontally, a pair of knee-high leather boots, soles glued flat to a patch of lawn. Three miniature plastic clothes hangers for children. Insignificant and boring, but I haven’t seen it before. The chill mom with the skateboarding daughters and the white Tacoma truck saunters past in the opposite direction, smoking a joint. I get a free inhale of weed, whether I like it or not (it’s free, so I like it). Moving on. Oh, what’s this? A handful of addresses down, there are two more freefloating kids’ hangers. Someone has picked them up only to discard them again before making it home. They’re not far from their curb of origin, unless I have it backwards. Maybe they’ve returned home. Same goes for the cup of plastic toy whales that found its way around the corner over the course of my work shift. Whose problem are they now?

I did that with a mirror once, ditching it on someone else’s lawn when it got too heavy. I guess that’s illegal dumping. My mom had a rule about street trash: “Kick it three times and pick it up.” I only kicked that mirror twice but got seven years of bad luck. Another time, at the bulk food store, I went off on my own and reached into the big bin of pretzels, squirrelling a few away in my cheeks until it was safe to chew and swallow unnoticed. Free samples, so I claimed. My mom took this thief by the hand back to the store to confess and apologize. The sales associate didn’t care, she was part of the revolution.

I’m blushing and it’s too uncomfortable to stand here any longer. I survey a few offerings across the street, but I decide to keep going and circle back. On the way, I come up on an empty photo album, the most common of street freebies after shoe racks. It’s actually kinda nice, in lonely-seeming but relatively pleasant comparison to the melancholy rush of scattered findings up ahead. It’s not research, but rather a potential score. I don’t even know what you are. Free Budget rental van with keys in the ignition. Jumped the curb and driverless. I scan, look over my shoulder, process the hesitation. In rare instances, a full turnaround is appropriate. At least three wine-and-beer-bottle clusters today. They’re not free though, they’re trash with a specific value. Junc spelled with a “c” and I can’t even argue. Humidifier on your left, DVD player to your right. How Many Ways Can You Cut a Pie? 47 Beavers Just the Facts More Pies! Fort Life Pete Seeger’s Story Songs Spiders The Frown Hansel and Gretel (x2) Leave the aisles clear.

We pull over at the side of the road to pick up a hitchhiker, who turns out to be a mailbox. It works out at first since he’s heading in the same direction. Tensions mount after a while though; he’s got letters that need to be returned to sender. We accommodate, inconveniently, by zigzagging an impromptu route, making at least 13 stops. When we eventually let him out in Dunsford, he says:

Distressed Metals, like little flags in a slow-motion wind. Rare to find letters. I fucking hate the way spell-check editorializes my shit. I can assist you in removing that function. Some days I feel like a DebtGoose foraging in floating debris…. Free tours of the inside of my apartment. I’ll leave the door unlocked, come right in.

With a calamitous lurch, the roads flood with houses. Porches collide at the toe tip. The architectural prominence of front steps and railings prevents a full merger, which turns the sidewalk into a dam. Windows are pushed so close together it looks as though they might kiss. Moats form in the narrow spaces between homes, and through newly dense channels flows a steady stream of free things. The roads are no more. The curb is no more. Public space is no more. Private units butt up against each other. Leaving home isn’t necessary because everything one needs drifts by. There’s nowhere to go anyway. Sanctioned to our homes, we are rendered immovable like the lead inside a wooden pencil. Surplus is our lifeblood, our cities’ clogged veins throb with it. The new mutual-aid network is an endless loop of accumulation, an all-you-can-consume buffet. People along the channels depend entirely on its faux generosity ecosystem. This isn’t to say one can’t travel, as free vehicles do come along every so often. But people are desperate to spend money. They are tired of free! They beg to be charged! They want to buy! “Name your price!” they scream collectively. In the night, lone rebels ride the city’s conveyor-belt ravine, scouring with labelling guns, illegally price-tagging free merchandise while trying not to get caught, inspecting the residues of bungling consumers. Allotting value is the new graffiti. At high tide the trenches are full with Mating, 1 Divas Live, Unearthing Siberian Gold, Become a Business Consultant, baby food jars, tire, sandals, Hello Kitty backpack, placemat, diffuser, mitre box, brown lamp, fake flowers in a bag, scanner, candle holder, coaster, perfume, composter, choker, ladder, marble, teapot, wok, fish sauce, Bubble Magic, grill, music stand, shower curtain, frying pan, two yellow hard hats, Crock-Pot recipes, cutting board, New Dieters, stained blouse, bubble wrap.

Why don’t I just take what I want to prove my point? You can take whatever you want, especially if it’s to prove a point. Nothing I do starts from scratch. A perfect fence on a lawn. You ask yourself if it’s free or fallen. Up for grabs or placidly positioned on the grass as the after-product of an unsuccessful trust exercise? The possibility of a free fence is delectably ambiguous and the most provocative to decipher. Reach your arms and rods out long, take what you like.

The slick weasel’s curb is the shoreline, where weeds accumulate like regrets. On a day like this one, a rotting carp washes up, its tail bobbing in sync with the waves’ pace. No sign on it, but surely it’s free. The sun sets as the sound of an organ carries across the lake. I refill the hummingbird feeder. Overhead, seagulls head for the dump.