Stuff

Stuff

I collect stuff, probably far too much stuff.

It's not like I'm a hoarder or anything like that. I prefer to call myself a "collector." If I like a certain kind of object, I tend to get more than one variety.

Like guitars. I have about ten different guitars. I've been collecting them since I was 15 years old.

Fender San Marino

Some were more expensive than others. Some I bought new, and some I bought used. At the moment, my favourite is a relatively inexpensive Fender San Marino, an acoustic guitar that is no longer made by Fender for what the company called their "California Series." I bought it as a used model at a guitar store, about two years ago. I like it because it has a bright sound to it and features the classic Fender head, not like most acoustic guitars, which have a square head.

And cameras. I have about fifteen cameras. I'm a sucker for the latest Nikon, and I never sell or give away my old ones. I still have four old film cameras, ones that I never use anymore, and I guess they're not worth much to anyone but me. I cherish them. I still have an original Nikon F and a Pentax Spotmatic that I got when I decided that I wanted to be like the guy in the movie Blow Up. I took hundreds of photos with those cameras, and they are definitely a part of who I was and who I am. Now, I use a variety of digital cameras, both Nikon and Canon cameras.

I also have over a thousand T-shirts, most of them emblazoned with the monikers of different music groups or individual musicians. My son once said to me, "If you wore a different T-shirt every day for the rest of your life, you wouldn't get through your entire collection." He may be right. Just my collection of Bob Dylan T-shirts number almost a hundred. I know, I know, it sounds excessive, but hey, some of those T-shirts were bought from concerts as far away as Barcelona. Wear them? I'd no sooner wear them than cut off my arm. Pack them up and trot them off to Goodwill? Not a chance.

Vinyl records, CD's, and books — oh, you don't even want to know.

Lately, it's been fountain pens. About a month ago, I stumbled upon a couple of great fountain pens in my old desk drawer, pens that I used when I was working. One is a Cross and the other is a Waterman. Both are rather expensive, as pens go these days, but I doubt they were expensive when I bought them. Both work perfectly. Now, my fascination with fountain pens has overpowered my better sense, and I am buying pens of various colours and models from here and there. At last count, my collection has gone from two to eight, ranging in price from $6 to over $50.

Then, just the other day, I was telling a friend about my new inky obsession, and he asked me, "How many pens can you use at one time?"

His point was pretty clear. Have one good pen, and use it all the time. Makes sense, I suppose, but, but ... hmmm ...

So, I have been thinking about what we have and what we can do without.

Some people are minimalists. You go to their homes, and there is virtually nothing clogging up the floor space, walls that are mostly barren of paintings or prints or even mirrors, and little, if anything, perched on their bookshelves. Theirs is a spartan life, but clean and somehow remarkably tidy.

My life is a conglomeration of things of which I refuse to relinquish ownership.

It's true that we need only one pen with which to write, one guitar to make great music, one camera to take photographs, and maybe only about a dozen T-shirts to wear in between washdays. I do understand that much, but for me, so many of the things in my eclectic museum of an existence are connected to moments of time, memories which I refuse to release from my life.

It's funny. I have never had much of a problem of letting people move in and out of my life. Lost loves are just that — lost. I never feel any great disappointment or need to reconnect with people who have decided that I am no longer "necessary" to the pulse of their daily existence. However, should the hooded dark ones come by in the middle of the night and steal my favourite painting by an artist whom I met in Paris, or any of the other "things" that I cherish so much, well, I suspect that I would be devastated.

Now, that seems backwards, I guess. I mean, isn't there a rule somewhere that says we should cherish humanity and let all our worldly goods fall by the wayside? Well, maybe that's the problem. There I am, scrounging along the wayside looking for the great stuff everyone else is casting aside.

So it goes ...

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