Brown Paper Packages
Tied Up With String

I have an obsession with beautiful things. It’s not a fetish, per se, as that’s usually reserved for sexual contexts, and that is not the space I currently reside. In my case, it’s more of a passion bordering on an obsession with an intense desire not just to possess these things but to become them. Fortunately for me, it’s both fanciful and fleeting. I’m not going to go broke buying shit I don’t need or can’t afford, but I do lust after them from time to time.

Occasionally, when it’s something I can rationalize because it’s not too expensive, I go ahead and purchase it. But I am more likely to try to hide it from my wife, who will just shake her head that I’m so frivolous. She’s a practical gal and doesn’t understand the need for such things.

Years ago, I heard a bit about hoarders and how they had an emotional connection with each and every object they collected and could even tell you a story about each one. It wasn’t random, and it wasn’t unintentional. It was illogical and irrational and possibly even delusional, but it wasn’t without purpose or meaning. These objects, often silly and useless, meant something to them.

This, I understand.

Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens
Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens
Brown paper packages tied up with strings
These are a few of my favorite things

“What the hell do I need with a goddamn catcher’s mitt at fifty-fucking-five years old?” I asked myself.

I have a particular affinity for things made from natural elements such as leather, wool, linen, hemp, wood, iron, silver, and copper. I have a palette. It’s mostly earth tones and then little hints of wild pigment such as indigo or mandarin. I like tools and gear, practical items that have been elevated to art. The Japanese, in particular, are very good about this, I have found, as are the Scandinavians.

Just looking around my office space, there is a Stetson cowboy hat that I bought while working in Texas. There is a single wooden oar in the corner that I bought for reasons that passeth understanding. There is a dragonfly made out of bronze sitting on top of one of the speakers on my desk. A knife I bought in Norway that I find too beautiful, not to mention impractical, to use on a regular basis. The Soviet naval dress cap, the canvas plumber’s bag full of recording equipment, and the armoire full of photography gear I’ve long since stopped using. It’s more like a curio shop than an office.

This is the flotsam and jetsam of a life of travel and exploration to be sure, but there’s more to it than that. It’s some abstract reflection of the life I would have liked to lead if I’d been as successful as I thought I would be in my youth. I gave up on the dream of making a fortune once I realized I had to sell my soul in order to get it. Unfortunately, I kept my taste for champagne and nice thing

***

When I was in my teens, my mother and I would go window shopping. I had an early fascination with good design, curated collections of curiosities, and exceptionally produced retail. We had no money, so purchases were limited to affordable luxuries. I couldn’t afford the handmade bespoke boots, but I might buy the brightly colored leather laces to spruce up my old Doc Martens.

I have what my father called the gift of discernment, or what other people call taste. I know instinctively what things should look like—how they should sound. What will resonate with people. I knew it before I did it professionally.

I’m constantly redecorating restaurants and redesigning menus in my head. I’m not always even doing it consciously. I notice when things are crowded or spatially incongruous, whether the design is interior or typographic.

I discovered a fashion designer with a single store in Texas somewhere today. The clothes were works of art, and the shop was an old house that had been converted into what I can only describe as a film set. The whole place was a set. I didn’t want to shop there. I wanted to live there. I wanted it to be mine, but I wanted to have done it myself.

I was jealous. Just a little bit. I don’t live in Texas or design women’s clothing (although I definitely think I could), but still, I’m a little annoyed that someone would do something so tasteful, classy, and creative and not give me all the credit. The nerve, really.

***

I would like to be the sort of person who has the need for gear, but I have no interest in most activities that require such a thing. It’s like wanting to be a cowboy but having no interest in shoveling manure or digging fence posts. You just want the hat and the saddle—maybe the six-shooter.

I love knives but generally have little use for them other than opening Amazon boxes. I can hardly justify $700 for a beautiful Filson model when my $80 Leatherman works just fine. The fact that I don’t just use a key or a butter knife is why we’re talking. I think of the Leatherman as a baseline utilitarian model. It does the job.

I like accessories. I like gizmos and doohickeys. I like tools and gadgets and gear. I don’t need most of it, but I have it. I’m not a hoarder, per se, but I do have packrat tendencies. I don’t keep trash, but I do place questionable value on inanimate objects that might not otherwise be there.

I love gear, but I’m really not interested in the pursuit of activities requiring gear. Many of my prized possessions no longer serve a purpose because they were designed to be used while traveling, and I don’t seem to go anywhere anymore.

***

I don’t always have an outlet for my obsessions, so it comes out in accessories, bags, and assorted clothing. You can see it all throughout my Pinterest boards. All the things I wish I owned if I only I was someone else with a different body living in a different climate in some other part of the world, in some other era.

I have a seemingly unquenchable thirst for scarves and buy them continually, even though it drives my wife a little nuts. There are a bunch I don’t wear and should probably get rid of, but I’m not a minimalist, and I don’t see who they’re hurting. It’s not like we can’t get around the house because my scarves are impeding our movement. Plus, they’re all unisex in that both my wife and I share all the scarves. For you women, they are my shoes.

We once had a house cleaner many years ago who actually commented to my wife, “Boy, your husband sure has a lot of shoes.” And it’s true. I did. I still do, but I’m pretty controlled these days. I have multiple pairs of boots, all of which—okay, most of which—I wear regularly. One or two leftover dress shoes I rarely wear. One pair of running shoes that don’t see NEARLY enough usage. Flip flops, slippers, and slides for fucking around the house. Mostly I wear flip-flops when it’s warm and boots when it’s not. It still adds up.

My current bag situation is relatively under control but I have spent some time over the past few weeks searching for a better beach bag. I have not been successful, which is probably just as well. My wife calls me Mr. Bundles, a reference to the laundryman that Miss Hannigan in “Annie” has the hots for. She finds this endlessly amusing. But to me, bags are both practical and functional, as well as potential works of art.

I was in the second grade and living in Edmond, Oklahoma, where I was the starting catcher for the Giants. I’d recovered from a bout of mono that winter and was beginning my second season in the league. My rookie season had been marred by an unfortunate beaning by my own teammate, throwing me off my game at the plate. His errant throw had left an angry purple bruise on my thigh that lasted for weeks. By the end of my first season, I had become frightened of being hit by the ball. But now I had a year under my belt—the grizzled veteran surrounded by a bunch of fresh-faced rookies.

I remember a game early in the season—it might have even been our first game—where, for whatever reason, I was late to the game. Some sort of family obligation I couldn’t get out of. We arrived, and my team was up to bat, so the coach promptly substituted me and sent me to the plate. In my mind, he was putting me in for strategic value, his ringer for the evening. I had to come through. Delusions of grandeur.

I took the first pitch outside, low and away. The second pitch floated towards me as if in slow motion and big as a beach ball. I closed my eyes and swung as hard as I could. Connecting with the ball in the heart of the bat is a unique feeling. It’s effortless, perfect, and powerful. The ball sailed into the outfield, surprising the kids picking dandelions as I ran to first, and then to second. The ball was making its way into the infield, but it was chaos. I continued running until I reached home base and was immediately mobbed by my teammates. That’s how I remember it.

It’s possible my mom clapped, and that was it.

A week later, I left my brand new catcher’s mitt in the dugout at school during recess. It was an accident. I was distracted. I went back later, time and again, looking for it to no avail. I put up a flyer, asking for its safe return, but we heard nothing. I never did see that glove again, and my father refused to buy me another one since I had failed to take care of that one. He wasn’t wrong, but I have been a little salty about it ever since.

I will say this: I’m very protective about my things. I rarely lose things, relying on repetition and consistency with putting things where they belong and keeping everything in its proper storage area. I don’t lose or break glasses. They’re either on my face or in a case. I never misplace my phone or my keys, and I know where I left everything visually, right up until someone else moves them.

Losing that glove had a lasting impact.

What are little boys made of?
Snakes, snails
And puppy-dogs’ tails
That’s what little boys are made of

***

There is something admittedly selfish and dark about being obsessive about possessions. It’s not greed or dragon hoarding—at least it isn’t for me. I don’t care if someone else has the same thing. I have no animosity towards anyone who shares my taste. But I also have no intention of sharing my precious things. The reason being is that I don’t want my things damaged or worn. I want them pristine, or at least worn by me. I would honestly rather buy one for you than let you borrow mine. I’m not selfish. I’m actually quite generous. I just like my things the way I like my things.

I have loaned things in the past, and either they don’t come back or they come back broken or damaged. It’s the kind of thing that can ruin a friendship. So, I simply stopped doing it. I don’t loan camera gear or surfboards, no books or movies. I don’t even like loaning people my car, and it hasn’t been new in quite some time.

This is another thing my wife doesn’t understand. She would give the children the shirt off her back in the middle of a crowded street if they asked. I, on the other hand, would ask them, “What’s wrong with your shirt?” She has, at times, given things of mine away, thinking they weren’t important, but she was wrong. I wish I didn’t care about things, but then my things wouldn’t be worth anything, and that doesn’t seem good either.

***

I feel like the world would be a dimmer, duller, less interesting place to be if it weren’t for things that bring us joy. I’m not suggesting they have to be valuable—just something that gives us a little spark. Wasn’t that the central point of everyone’s purge during lockdown when Marie Kondo advised everyone to get rid of everything that didn’t bring you joy?

We might have to work on our definition of joy. Many of the things that I possess, but do not use, bring me irrational joy that I cannot explain or defend. Why do I need the notary stamp on my bookshelf? I’m not even going to get into the fact that I’m a public notary with no intention of publicizing the fact that I can notarize your documents for the maximum charge allowed by the state of New Jersey of $7. I just liked the idea of it. It makes no sense. I don’t need the flasks, the rifle scope, or the sable fur hat. Let’s not even get into the books.

I will say this. When I die, my grandkids are going to have a ball going through my shit. I have lots of great drawers full of treasures. Boxes and bags filled with gadgets and trinkets. Watches and knives. Journals and books. Rolls of twine and leather.

And one day, hopefully, many years from now, someone will get their hands on my old catcher’s mitt, and they’ll find the joy in it, along with the rest of my earthly possessions. They won’t know the stories that go with each object or keepsake, but maybe they’ll discover the many words I wrote and remember the stories I told them, and they’ll appreciate them because I did.

Maybe that’s all there is.