Behind the dark bug-eye sunglasses lurked a face, young or old, I don’t know. But there was a deep world-weary sigh every time she heard the price of a lamp or a pan or a book at the yard sale.
It was if life itself had betrayed her once more. “How? How? How could this lamp I so desire be $15?” her sigh seemed to say.
“Would you take seven?” is what she actually said. Read the rest of this entry »
A cynic, wrote Oscar Wilde in “Lord Darlington,” is “a man who knows the price of everything and the value of nothing.”
Which brings us to item No. 2 on our list of things to do as we move to Belize: “Sell everything.”
Here’s the problem, Oscar, we know the value of everything and the price of nothing. So that makes us, what? Stricken with emotional rigor mortis, I think.
But here’s what we are discovering: Stuff is memory. Stuff is identity. Stuff is emotional. Stuff is expression. Stuff is defining. Stuff is functional. Stuff is connective tissue. Stuff is comfort. Stuff is self. Stuff is continuity. Stuff is nostalgia.