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I had a bunch of blog-able topics tumbling about in my head over the last few days, but I haven’t been able to steal the moments it would take  to sketch them out. I’ve found that I really shouldn’t attempt to write when I don’t have a clear objective or a spark of driving inspiration, yet here I am, trying to squeeze a modicum of interest out of the so recently potential-filled portion of my now-exhausted brain. No telling what may result. But that’s why the backspace and delete buttons were created.

On Sunday, I went to a local antique mall to browse through the misbegotten remnants from the past. It was a bit like a treasure hunt, to see if I could find some figurative gold among the dross. I’ve learned that I generally have good taste. Would that I could afford my taste, haha. I mostly go to look or to gather up the minor treasures that no one else would see to have value. An old black and white postcard of Copenhagen. A miniature metal replica of a phonograph  (or gramophone, I’m not sure which). A small brass lapel pin with a mounted opal. These were my treasures. I poured over tin types and old sepia or black and white portraits. I sorted through a box of skeleton keys.  I leaned over display cases and examined book titles. This was my little jaunt through the detritus of the past.

I’ve always had a fascination for the past. I’ve always been interested in how people once lived and what they were like. I have a few photo albums that belonged to my grandmother and her family. I like to be haunted by memories.

I used to ask my mother’s mom about her family tree, her ancestors. She preferred to talk about her brothers and her immediate family when she did talk. I was afraid that her knowledge would be lost. It was. Her memory faded and fragmented until the memories were nothing but fragile moth-eaten paper, turning to dust. And now she is gone as well. I have no grandparents left, though I am not old.

My father is a photographer, capturing images. I write, if only for my self. I record to spark memory, to preserve it and to make sense of it. I write because it makes me feel complete. I can’t imagine not writing. Most of what I write is just scribbling to keep in practice. I love pen and paper. I love to fill a page. I love the scratching sound and watching the words form and trail together along the page. I love learning new words and hidden meanings. It all has depth and resonance for me. The first thing I listen for when I hear music is the lyrics, searching out the words, cadences and meaning. Once I have a sense of it, I can expand to the melody. Strange the way different people’s brains work.

I suppose my affection for books is natural given my other propensities. I love the smell of books. I love the feel of the different types and ages of paper. It’s all such a tactile pleasure.

My thoughts have run out for now. I’ll return when there are more.