During a walk, you find a Chinese happiness cookie. Will you open them? (No, I won’t.) I found a small heart-shaped box in the pocket of the designer jacket I was wearing. I opened it to find a three-word fortune that meant, “It’s complicated.” Is the note from the Rock Stars Forever box another piece of my history from Pop or is it merely some random object in my possession? Who knows. (Seriously, this will not stop me from opening the box and peering inside.)
For the most part, I keep these bits of history with me. Mostly, I store these kinds of things in my studio. The front door doesn’t have a lock. I bought the mailbox to represent my own independence. So my “me” piece is my mailbox. My “poker face” is my grey sweater that has been in use since 2005, bought in Beverly Hills, my ears. They are pierced on top so they lay neatly like a shackle around the base of my neck.
With all of the telling and all of the keeping, the surprises keep coming. Like a daffodil in spring, the fall flowers and décor feel like fresh starts. So, do I throw my stuff out? Do I put a lock on my mailbox?
I doubt it. The memories live inside, and my stuff is with me, and I can open all the boxes as I please. If I want to save my whole soul in a miniature butterfly box (I don’t), so be it. For now, I think it’s best that I keep most of the stuff in my life in my life.
And who knows. Maybe one day I’ll be able to give a gift of these things to my own children. I’m sure they will be as fascinated as I am by all the things I have and know and have done and left behind.