I’m heading through my garage in a plan to pack for a move. Crawling through memories of comedy and life, trying to organize such, so that when I look at the boxes again in four months, I have a better clue and a more modern memory as to the “where” and “what” of all that’s in there.
Truth is, I might be a pseudo hoarder, a minor league pack rat—although some close to me might think there’s a problem, every now and again I am able to rid myself of some of the things of this life I’ve had and carry, things that don’t matter to my brain so much anymore. I’m fairly sure that I’d be kicked out of the hoarder’s union for even thinking of that possibility. Still, I also realize at this decade of existence, there’s gonna be last look at many many things that I may actually rid myself of because I just don’t remember their value and consequence they once had as reminders of my life lived. They do not anchor me to my memories, they are more like missing puzzle pieces.
I used to be able to call this collection of paper “comedy research” but this week, it’s obvious that my genesis for comedy material is big bunch of literal material: notepads, books, clippings, scrawled-on napkins, and even a few matchbooks.
And I like it, and it’s not going in the shredder. Not because it won’t fit, (although it might take a few hours) but more because I’m just not ready to give up on finding that one last joke nugget in this paper mine that’s all mine. You can have your current events and topical bits, and I’ll laugh at those, but for me, I’m gonna let these past thoughts marinate a while longer in the Bruner humor stew.
I’m sure glad that my new house isn’t smaller, because I need room for all these bits and pieces.