I find them all over
, things I need to hold on
words in clips and phrases
, books by the dozen,
pictures and songs
. I can't help storing them, I
can't help saving them
as though I will one day
make sense of them, recombine them as my own
is what my life is like, blips and fragments of
, dangling bits
of stimulus that spark all
sorts of currents.
I can't help it.
On the shelf at home, I have a bowl full of
plastic goodies. And an
array of textured glass vases next to it, purchased
over different occasions. A sketch book, full of
humble attempts and self-portraits, erasers, 10 or so
pencils with different tips; various stages
of softness and points. Papers.
I need these things.
Piles of the papers: notebooks, cards. Scribbles
and printings and torn out of magazines, words and
words and words. Pictures from catalogs, clippings
galore, happy people, healthy people, pensive, pretty.
You can call me a pack rat, I won't mind.
But I don't think that's what it is. I don't know what
I plan on doing with them, but they appeal to something
inside of me. These are the things that make me wish I
could draw, wish I could sing, wish I could use
photographs to capture emotion. Wish I knew about
interior decorating and colors and evocative and
the words, at least I can use them in some
fashion, cutting and pasting, reworking them in my mind,
This is my life. Ain't it pretty?