First Principles
Some people collect sea shells. I particularly enjoy the ones that spiral into a pink cake decoration. They communicate something quite differently when turned to the side of their natural opening. Only when the rush of cultural shame catches up to a bawdy imagination must one speak into them like a pay phone. The joke is a poor cover that fools no one. I have an aunt that collects broaches. She's big on turquoise. Yet jasper signifies a higher respect she has for her company. My partiality is not hid when she breaks out the amethyst. These jeweled bugs can hang from sweaters, blazers, or blouses. The rule seems to be that you are suppose to look without making a production. For some strange reason a direct complement is a misstep in social ballet. If the broach sparkles, you must tell her that she sparkles instead, and it will be well received. A shopkeeper one block down from us collects guns. He has more than the sheriff's department. It's not offensive because they are antiques. All of them operable, but more in the way of show pieces. There is a bit of rudeness that can easily dislodge charming discourse around decorative weapons. Never bring up the lethality of a collector's pistols. Etiquette demands a certain amount of silence around the obvious. Skilled conversationalists may approach the very edge of marksmanship, but then go no further. It is not lost on my awareness that stamps are a popular item, but I am not familiar with persons that go about collecting stamps. Time is obliged to produce a humorous tragedy of accidental utility. It is inevitable. One of their own must have looked high and low for missing postage of iconic value, only to realize the bills were paid in a distracted haze. And what of the institutions that collect us like marbles or playing cards? What is a right answer to the glass casing of our humanity? It is to rock back and forth on shelves of needless organization. Do not be hoarded. Create an accident. Genius is nothing more than stumbling back into original use.
