Is “collector” a job? Not curator, not caretaker – nope, I just want to get paid to lug home crates of crumbling treasures and surround myself with their glow. I said in my recent interview on Paulie Antiques that I want to collect enough antiques to have a museum named for me when I die, and I stand by it. I love the rambling musty charm of old things. I want a life informed by every shard of history I can find.
Josh and I visited Danica at work and snapped these photos. She works in the stuff of my dreams – a crowded consignment shop set back from the rainy chill. I wore what just might be my oldest dress – authentic 1950s, but gorgeous for its age – and stepped into a dozen worlds in one.
I think Josh might actually be Simon Petrikov. That makes me Betty, but I’d rather be Flame Princess. I have a lot of feelings about Adventure Time.
In the spirit of antiquity, I thought I’d share the first paragraphs of a short story I wrote a few months ago. Take up your monocles and unsheath your pocketwatches:
Let me first whet your palate with the mention of Dr. Lucius von Schroeder. It is with a bowed head and a mist in mine eye that I recount his fate. Not I, nor the beings ingrained within this volume, shall pass judgment should you choose to turn your dear faint head away.
Von Schroeder was only a boy. I shouldn’t have nursed his whims so. Then again, bravado had thrilled him since his first beard. It was writ epic in his nature. Who was I to stand in his God (or whomever)-given way?
Von Schroeder craved beginnings and feared their ends terribly. He spoke of new dawns and advances yet unseen with besotted rapture. I don’t think his early days in the seminary had ever really quit him. He spurned the Church too vocally, too frequently, as though expunging whatever kernel of faith yet remained. He swore fidelity to science through and through, but I knew better. One night, when the walls seemed thin as ash and wind whipped our meager quarters, I heard the young man pray.
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