The other day I fetched up at a used bookstore. Actually, simply calling it a used bookstore doesn’t quite cover it: They had old books, sure, but also CDs, movies, video games, and vinyl records. Being confronted with all these previously-owned objects was daunting. Never mind all of the lives that they’ve been a part of, or the unknown and unknowable turn of events that brought each of them to their current resting place on a dusty shelf–that didn’t bother me. No, instead each spine I browsed was a stark reminder of my own situation: I have a lot of crap in my house. And none of it is worth anything.
Best efforts to the contrary, I’ll be dead someday. And all of my DVDs, CDs, and books–an overwhelming, valueless collection–represents a huge mess that somebody else is going to have to clean up after I’m gone. I suppose a lot of that stuff will go into the garbage, but perhaps some of it will wind up sitting around a dusty bookstore, waiting for someone to come along who just absolutely has to have a copy of Ed McMahon’s Barside Companion.
The good news is that, except for a couple of people, no one is ever going to see my mountain of garbage in one piece. Individually, my objects aren’t all that damning. How bad is a single appalling lapse of taste, really? As a collection however–well that’s something different. Something that says, “This was a man who did not have his priorities straight.”