I was about twelve when I walked into an alcove that branched off into three arteries leading you to various parts of the house. It was a Labyrinth that homed a rounder goblin than David Bowie. This strange man had a vague connection to my mother, so we visited. We walked into the home of someone whom I know to be a compulsive hoarder.
He could not get to his bedroom for the extent of clutter. He had garbage collecting dust. He had fifty copper jello molds nailed to the wall above the sink. He had Swastika hat pins. He had 19th century vibrators designed to cure a lady of hysteria.
His son could only make periodic day visits because there was no room for the boy’s bed. When my mother brought along an antiques appraiser, this good goblin man could part with not a single item. He would meditate on the object in his hand and then seem to ingest all of its psychic love. He’d return, unable give up the little thoughtless friend in his palm.
A&E is a freak show for the modern melodramatic age.
I find that I’ve hit a point in my life when I can walk up to the sawed tree trunk of my own life and count the rings by events and transitions. I can place a finger on songs, news, deaths, births, and remember how my eyes focused on things, what my interests were, who I was. I can remember myself as found. I was flowing like the blood of Princess Diana.
Ranger Bagel
