Who Do I Think I Am??

This one's about the collector.

THE PROMPT: "Are you a collector? If all things were possible, what would be your most interesting or outrageous collectible?"

Good afternoon, kind people. An interesting prompt from the great white north's Brother Nature . I'm sure I can add a little something to it.

The blanket statement would be easy to make; all people are collectors at some point. Some collect paychecks, some collect cars, and some are just collecting the next what-if.

Back in the day (which was sometime in the eighties), I collected. Boyish stuffs, mostly; bottle caps, stamps, baseball cards. Items I figured one day might have more real value to them than just the immeasurable value that would come from opening that pack of Topps cards, removing the stale, pink stick of gum suck to the back of the last card, and hoping for a Mike Schmidt or a Pete Rose or at the very least any New York Met.

I'm even sure I made a collect call or two back then. Probably just to do it. It didn't matter that it was from my home phone...you know, the one with the long cord and the rotary dial. This was long before cell phones and free long distance and even the 10-10-<insert number here> craze that phone companies loved to go overboard advertizing.

But at some point, I had to give that up. I wanted a collection of something that had more merit. Something tangible; something that provided some sort of real gratification. I wanted to be a part of a society, where I didn't have to answer questions like "Why did you do that?" or "What's that for?", or even the hows, whens and whys of "How'd last night go?". I collected. I became. The closets and dressers were full of the look the young adult male could succeed in. I acquired a vehicle that transported me to the masses. I was enamored with everything the radio told me I should like and listen to. My dough was freshly spread for the cookie-cutting machinations. And I fit right in.

With that, there is little worry and less to lose. It's safe. And it's when you think you've seen, done, and learned it all that you realize you're not even close to any of those things. It's in the transition from the life of valuables to a life of value that is the hardest and most rewarding of anything worth giving life to.

The male uniform collection went to the Goodwill and Amvets. Unplugged and smashed was the radio. Friends were told I'd be moving along, if I told them anything, because I wasn't going to be part of a crowd...I was the crowd itself now. If I flipped off the masses, those who smiled back were kept as genuine. One can only go through life for so long collecting, until you realize there's a few rare pieces out there that only the most adamant of collectors will find at any given cost. Most settle for the biggest incomplete collection, silently knowing the holes will never be filled but trying anyway to patch them. The fastest car, the biggest tv, the loudest gun, the strongest liquor. The shine distracting the lesser eyes over what's not there.

I decided rather than to chase pieces of a set of something I'd never find, I'd take bits of futures, presents and pasts. There was no longer a point in collecting, for what I had now was a collection, and it wasn't something you could easily replace from a pawn shop. It was a life collected of value instead of valuable collectables. It wasn't to be heard over the speakers of my boomin' stereo, or purposed for reality tv, or dressed in the latest fly gear. The only interest rate was what I cared about it, and the only question I needed to answer was "What next?". When you've collected a whole set of something, you're done. When the collection is you, you've just begun, and there's no checklist that tells you what you can or can't keep. All I have now is me.

The reminders of what my adult self valued as collectable are still present, because that's all I collect now...what I can still pull from memories. The brilliant fashions, the soundtrack of beats, the authors who strung sentences together that allowed me to live in a life of their creation, the bottles adorned with and filled of humorous and delectible art, the characters creating moments to be relived in better times. These are the things I collect now. I'm lucky to have them. They don't fit in a box and I don't allow them to take up more space than I have, for I know what's on my mind is heavy enough to have to transport when you don't have the room to add more life to what you've already accumulated. I only keep what I can carry these days, and I make sure that it's just what I can't do without. For while it's safer sometimes to have it all and know it, it's easier to know that what little you have is worth more than everything that can be pulled away from you at a moments' notice. It's not what you collect, but how you contain it.

MUSICAL BREAK!!

I've always appreciated the poetry of this song. There's always been points in my life that I find myself going back to it, possibly to remind myself, which is ironic in that the message of the song is, in fact, the opposite.

World Container

There's a world container with your name on it
and a billion ways to go berserk
when the country quits on you
it must be dinner
and the Himmler on this one is, there's no dessert
(he's the one who couldn't imagine
all the people living life in peace, yoo hoo oo oo oo)
Good news! You get to vanish
go to Cleveland, be an indie smash
the good news is now you're smaller
the bad news is you can be smaller than that
Go suck some souls, be a reader, get used
laugh at a funeral or two
laugh and laugh til all the chameleons turn black
laugh and laugh til you're told, 'Please don't come back'
then fake incredulous, say, 'I just can't believe!
How'd it get this late so early?'
say, 'Ain't life a grand' and 'I'm in awe of y'all'
then drop into your haunted bunk
go to your touchless times
out where the water's drying
go past the 'No Attractions Past This Point' sign
what you'll find there are all flaws in progress
where all songs are one song and that song is, Don't Forget
yea, all songs are one song and that song is, Don't Forget

Yea, I've faked incredulous, said, 'I just can't believe.
How'd it get this late so early'
said, 'Ain't life a grand' and 'I'm in awe of y'all'
I've dropped into my haunted bunk
been to the touchless times,
out where the water's drying
been past the 'No Attractions Past This Point' sign
what we have here are all flaws in progress
where all songs are one song and that song is, Don't Forget
where all songs are one song and that song is, Don't Forget
where all songs are one song and that song is, Don't Forget

VITAL STATS:

Over two days I managed to read the memoir You Can't Catch Death by Ianthe Brautigan, the daughter of Richard. I've always admired his works since an old friend introduced them to me. I get sucked into his works not only because they're a quick read, but the beauty in the simplicity is understated. He was a genius; ahead of his time for awhile, until time (and other vices) caught up with him. To read his daughter's account is more than just the standard "pulling back of the curtain"...it's deeper and more complex, yet it feels eerily real. If someone were to write a biography of me someday, I think some of the parallels are set within the bindings of that book.

In other news, another Saturday night shall be spent at home, cleaning and either streaming the rest of the Notre Dame football game or nineties grunge on my phone. I know you're jealous. I may even spread some of that out until Sunday...I'll have no access to a computer and maybe limited internet access at best, so I'll be spreading out my enjoyment for as long as I can.

And that's as far as I can take you today. Everybody be good...peace, love, and GOODNIGHT NOW!!