The order is peremptory: collect them all. I collect concrete and abstract things, caps, paintings, successes, defeats.
I am my collection and she is part of me. To surround me with beauty, feel better, more protected.
By necessity, to leave a mark. Some collections end up in the museum, and there they can no longer touch. Kind of a pity. Archiving to give an order, look for a meaning when a sense maybe does not exist, keeping my daily existence under control, making room for something else.
Organize, remember, find, save.
There is everything in the State Archives, I wonder how it all fits in there. The smell of wood, paper, ink, dust.
The worse crimes against humanity were rebuilt when the perpetrators filed everything: why did they do it?
I make shopping lists, lists of things to do, what I like, books, records, people, places. Written or mental lists. Then I delete the things I’ve done.
I collect pieces (of me) and I make collages, small and more or less beautiful maps of what I see and hear, everything which goes through my hands and my head.
I leave traces, I create something useless (or not).
I’m like that, more or less. We all are a bit like that more or less.
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