Last night I wrote: "Dear Diary, should I sell my blood or tap shoes? "
Ten percent of my body is scrawled with sketchy tattoos and I don't wanna hear I have hepatitis, so I'm avoiding the plasma clinic. And I've still got a lot of hope for the future of confrontational tap dancing, so I'm holding onto the footwear.
With these decisions, today started by dragging a bag of audio treasures to TD's. It's ok. I'm overdue for a sentimental assassination. The collector's impulse doesn't fit anymore. It's saggy.
Hey, how do you hoard the ephemeral?
In less ascetic times I wandered through the antique mall till my eyes locked with a set of four "Love is..." tumblers. Naked babies in frilly aprons, arm in chubby arm, pervy smiles smeared across each glass. I considered taking them home: practical housewares to inevitably shatter when someone makes late night pina coladas. Dislodged by a fruit skewer from the gold-flecked formica counter. A wet pile of ice for the dogs to cut their paws on.
Now I'll cup my hands around the faucet tap. Embrace more basic ways.
Here I am pictured at the Anthropology Museum, keeping a crappy fire, where I didn't have any important realizations about culture.