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I honest-to-God know someone like this. No eBay, no glass tchotchkes, but many details (such as the sleeping arrangements) are eerily familiar.
My mother knows another one. In his car, there's just enough space for his body.
My grandma had leanings this way. When we cleaned out her house at her death, we found an incredible number of stunningly useless items. Y'know, some things are just useless (junk mail, perhaps) but some are mind-boggling in their uselessness (half of a bicycle, rusted into one fused modern-art-ish shape). But her case was peanuts compared to some of these. She could invite guests in. She slept on her bed. Her clothing was stored in closets she could physically reach.
I've thought about this a bunch because I too keep stuff I probably shouldn't. I'm bothered by the knowledge that whatever object it is I'm holding in my hands would have value to someone, somewhere. (O'course I can't necessarily find that someone.) So this is a theme that bounces around in my head. If I had fewer commitments outside the house, if I lived alone and owed no one the courtesy of picking up after myself in at least the common areas, would I head a lot farther in that direction?
Today the aspect that comes to mind is the idea that this kind of thing is so invisible. I could have next-door neighbors who will, in a week, be found dead of suffocation because the newspaper stacks fell over... and I'd never know it ahead of time. If it's that far advanced they won't let me in the front door, of course, and they present the same Sane, Well-Groomed, Perfectly In Control public face that most of us put on every day. What hides behind all those faces? I know what's behind mine, and I've seen glimpses of a few other people, but most of the intense living variety of fears and hopes and troubles and dreams is hidden most of the time.
NaNo beckons. I wonder if I'll make my little thief main-character a hoarder?
My mother knows another one. In his car, there's just enough space for his body.
My grandma had leanings this way. When we cleaned out her house at her death, we found an incredible number of stunningly useless items. Y'know, some things are just useless (junk mail, perhaps) but some are mind-boggling in their uselessness (half of a bicycle, rusted into one fused modern-art-ish shape). But her case was peanuts compared to some of these. She could invite guests in. She slept on her bed. Her clothing was stored in closets she could physically reach.
I've thought about this a bunch because I too keep stuff I probably shouldn't. I'm bothered by the knowledge that whatever object it is I'm holding in my hands would have value to someone, somewhere. (O'course I can't necessarily find that someone.) So this is a theme that bounces around in my head. If I had fewer commitments outside the house, if I lived alone and owed no one the courtesy of picking up after myself in at least the common areas, would I head a lot farther in that direction?
Today the aspect that comes to mind is the idea that this kind of thing is so invisible. I could have next-door neighbors who will, in a week, be found dead of suffocation because the newspaper stacks fell over... and I'd never know it ahead of time. If it's that far advanced they won't let me in the front door, of course, and they present the same Sane, Well-Groomed, Perfectly In Control public face that most of us put on every day. What hides behind all those faces? I know what's behind mine, and I've seen glimpses of a few other people, but most of the intense living variety of fears and hopes and troubles and dreams is hidden most of the time.
NaNo beckons. I wonder if I'll make my little thief main-character a hoarder?
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