Our president took to Twitter last night to compare the size of his button to the size of the button on the North Korean dictator’s desk. Comparing button size seems like Gertrude Stein-thing from a previous gilded age. Whatever.
The button on my desk is this button:
I’ve lived in different countries for extended periods, moved around the country quite a bit, run from one home with just what I could throw in a van (read about it here), and this button has followed me. I have never consciously packed / unpacked it or moved it or thought about it much (except that I like trains and always have liked trains in a little-boy kind of way). It is just so much childhood flotsam that turns up in desk drawers wherever I am; an unwitting talisman and fellow traveler through time; a hopeful Amtrak Turbo(!) 1973 button; a visitor and companion; a little button from boyhood that has gathered a kind of personal-historical depth just by sitting in drawers for decades.
If I push it, nothing special happens. Nothing is destroyed except a few minutes of thought for this strange object.