People ask me why I don’t marry

I tell them, “I am holding out for a deaf & dumb orphan.”

 

Actually, it’s more like this.

 

 

 

I need a place…

I need a place to put stuff.  Circumstances conspire. I witness people behaving well, or badly. I find things, lose things, choose among options. I read good stuff. Or I re-read good stuff. Or I hear an excellent lyric. I see something that says it all. Or I make a mess, some of which is salvageable, even promising.

Sh*t happens. I need to write it down or paste it somewhere.  Pictures. Found objects: sounds, footage, bits of art. I need a place to keep this stuff. My mind is not as limber as (I once thought) it once was. Not as sticky. Or the shelves are shorter. Or something. Anyway, I need to collect this stuff somehow, somewhere, in a way that won’t get away from me.

If I don’t collect this stuff, I’ll lose it. But also, I like collections in their own right.  I like the order that asserts itself. I like the way that grouping a passle of disparate objects forces them all to turn their common credential to the sunlight, like matching badges pinned to the undersides of their lapels. I like the patterns generated by juxtaposing instances that seemed initially to have absolutely nothing in common except my attention.  I can even make entirely new moments by tossing the detritus of elapsed moments together in a big …collecting place.  

I spend a lot of time online, so I figure I might as well collect stuff here.