On one hand, I'm a classic pack-rat. Anyone who has visited my flat will attest that there is one hell of a lot of junk around here. Much of it is of my own making. There are boxes and boxes of writings, published and unpublished, all along the range from good to terrible, from the past 40 years or so of my life.
Lately, as I have realized just how relentless the process of aging actually is, I've started to wonder whether I should destroy much of this stuff. Part of me thinks I should dump it into a pit in the backyard, just like all those ancient bottles I recovered from the 1880s, safely ensconced in ash from the fireplaces that were dumped into the old privy here once modern plumbing was introduced in the Mission in the 1890s.
I could wrap this written trash in plastic bags, which probably would survive a few decades (?) until someone dug them up and determined they were "exotic" remnants of the pre-digital age.
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Above is our first effort at wax art. We call this one "turtle."
(He will not be saved in our next cleanup.)
-30-
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