My cluttered cave
I always strive to keep my man cave organized and presentable, but it never works out that way. Each day, new pieces of clutter arrive, settle and cement themselves until I gather my courage and straighten things up again.
Buttons from Mindcamp, my 1983 yearbook that I dragged up from the vault the other night, old cameras, crumpled receipts, assorted magazines surround me.
Just behind my computer is a wooden box I had made years ago, the repository for loose change - I'm guessing most of us have several of those lying about. A collection of cufflinks sits on my windowsill.
My man cave doubles as my closet, and yes there clothes on floor, as much as it pains me to admit it. "I'll pick those up later today," I often say to myself; I seldom do. Books are piled on my shelves, to my right and up above in front of me.
The bulletin board has artifacts going back over 5 years: an ancient Father's Day gift from Dylan or Ben, an interPLAY poster from 2010, a poster from 2008's production of The Zoo Story and even my old Theatre Alberta name tag.
There are fragments of memory from my municipal council years, 15 years at Keyano and myriad trips and experiences. They are co-habitants of this space, along with hundreds of old photographs and pieces of art, some new, many old.
This room contains a million stories; there are clues to anecdotes and chapters everywhere. It would be an interesting creative exercise for a writer to come in here and make something up based on what they see.
I'm going to take the morning, before diving into the studio, to bring some order to the chaos, if only for a few days, before assorted bits and pieces of messiness make their way back in.
Buttons from Mindcamp, my 1983 yearbook that I dragged up from the vault the other night, old cameras, crumpled receipts, assorted magazines surround me.
Just behind my computer is a wooden box I had made years ago, the repository for loose change - I'm guessing most of us have several of those lying about. A collection of cufflinks sits on my windowsill.
My man cave doubles as my closet, and yes there clothes on floor, as much as it pains me to admit it. "I'll pick those up later today," I often say to myself; I seldom do. Books are piled on my shelves, to my right and up above in front of me.
The bulletin board has artifacts going back over 5 years: an ancient Father's Day gift from Dylan or Ben, an interPLAY poster from 2010, a poster from 2008's production of The Zoo Story and even my old Theatre Alberta name tag.
There are fragments of memory from my municipal council years, 15 years at Keyano and myriad trips and experiences. They are co-habitants of this space, along with hundreds of old photographs and pieces of art, some new, many old.
This room contains a million stories; there are clues to anecdotes and chapters everywhere. It would be an interesting creative exercise for a writer to come in here and make something up based on what they see.
I'm going to take the morning, before diving into the studio, to bring some order to the chaos, if only for a few days, before assorted bits and pieces of messiness make their way back in.
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