Here I fling my bling, like an immodest peacock. But why keep all this artsy stuff in boxes that will be hauled away by a garbage truck after I die.
That happened to the neighbor who lived in the apartment above mine, a quiet woman in her nineties who had accumulated an admirable library. Two days after she passed I found her books in the building’s dumpster. Decades of caring for those paper friends, carrying them in boxes on her many moves across three continents… for naught.
On top of that pile was an old edition of Henry James’s tales. “I have a similar edition sitting on my shelf,” I thought. I know everybody dies sometime (duh), but that book—orphaned from its owner and now covered in leftover pizza sauce—was a reminder of what happens to your possessions after you stop breathing.
This site can be deleted, but at least it won’t be tossed in a dumpster. And, if you want to explore, this is where words and images love each other and work together.