I broke open my old book box today and was surprised at how many books I have collected over the years. From MobyDick to- what if I’m a literary gangsta?- Poetry collection by Tony Muchoma to Carcass for hounds by Meja Mwangi. Diaries and journals dating back to 1997 my own bound sublime Innocence poetry collection from 2007, and a stripped pullover. The diaries are a bit worthless to me now. Between ’97 and ’03 I made my entries in a made up language which I can’t be bothered to decode now. ’03 to ’05 was in French, I can’t be bothered to decode either now.
Maybe I should write a will. But talking about a will now may convict me if I turned up dead next week, they would say I had been suicidal. But I have realized I actually have some wealth. Quite a bit too. On average a novel in a second hand shop costs up to $2.50.
There is also the unpublished manuscripts which could sell after my demise. Two cats, more than five good clothes, a USB drive, 2 nice plates and a really nice purse my friend gave me. I’m worth about that much.
There is a time that my dictionary was my most valuable possession. It went up in flames in 2010. If you ask me now, I’m not sure what is that extraordinary something. I think I could get up and go and not worry that I didn’t bring my camera. Is that a good or bad thing? It depends. There was a time moving required so much planning and bags. I was attached to old clothes and drift wood collected from sea shores, I guess now I’m more attached to people. I drag along people across the boundaries I traverse.
It’s easier to bring people along. The smiles and laughs and experiences shared are lighter to carry than rocks from Mt.Longonot or sweaters that mean something.
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