tmbt: myrtle dreams of light
It’s a bridge lamp. It’s a semi-rusted, hand-made wrought iron frame for a little spot of light. It is not terribly fancy, no Tiffany-style ornamentalism. It is a simply-worked, post-Modern Victorian wonder. It is a hollow shell with curling, intricately designed legs, and it is begging to be filled with wires and set aglow. It is a bridge would-be lamp on a long journey shortened today, a journey to find its light.
I spied it months ago at a local antique shop. I go there to look through the old letter press tiles, the wanna-be-Macoy pottery, the myriad glass and amber strands. I once found a hand-carved pewter pagan pendant sort of singing to me from one of the cases years ago and have visited often ever since taking that piece home. Not until about two months ago had anything sang to me the way that piece had, but there standing behind a lot of more ornate, gleaming lamps stood old Myrtle, her neck tall and straight, her one arm curling to hold the socket, the socket waiting patiently for the wires, more patient still for a bulb. I kept an eye on her and finally drove down to scoop her up.
Now she sits in the electrician’s shop being fitted for threads to hold the buzz of light, the song of life. And she will get a charming new shade, or perhaps a glass globe, and she will be ready for the party here in this sweet little apartment on Robin Hood Lane. She is Myrtle. She is a work of art. She is a bridge lamp. And she is the most beautiful thing I saw today.
Image by jaipen.