There are moments when I think that a minimalist life would be right. I feel like jettisoning my possessions. I could paint the walls pure white and live in a Lennonesque mansion of my own mind. I would go back to my record store clerking days style when I would wear Doc Martens, jeans and a thrift store work shirt every day. Then I would bask in some version of the eternal sunshine of a not quite spotless mind.
I could drift away from complexity and vanish into the singularity of brevity. I think deeply about this and then balk and resist. I like my books, records, old Creem magazines, and guitars. I get a kick when I come across the box with my old rock 'n' roll and skateboarding t-shirts. Another box of jumbled up junk that should be thrown away yields up small memories that will make a dead past come alive. It seems I need the surface of my life to be choppy, with my mind racing from thought to thought in a random way, for there to be calm waters beneath.
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