the winnowing, existentially — Parenthetical Recluse

*(being a segment from MacroParentheticals0117, continued and expanded…)

In spite of what recent postings and sharings might lead you to believe, I've started a process of winnowing my comics collection, wheat from etc etc: this first phase consists of parting with a lot of the chaff that made up the bulk of my early collecting days – four shortboxes so far, most likely bound bound for a donation to a new LCS to let them do with as they please – while keeping those that appeal based on a.) my perception of the narrative and historical importance; b.) a compelling emotional attachment; and c.) whether or not I like the creators' / creative team's work – similar to how I decide to keep the books on the shelves or donate them to a library or used bookstore.

(The second phase will be selling individual issues, should the desire ever arise – AMAZING SPIDER-MAN 252, 361, off the top of my head, but that’s a ways away – if I ever get to that point.)

Regardless of whether selling actually happens, my goal here is, as with the winnowing, similarly two-fold: one, a move towards trying to get full series – my now-complete O'Neil SHADOW run (I've also got a complete run (and then some) of the Howard Chakyin BLOOD AND JUDGEMENT mini (LOVE) and Andy Helfer / Sienkiewicz / Baker 19 issue ongoing) and O'Neil's similarly heading-towards-completion THE QUESTION (which I also have in Omnibus format – so, so good) – and important (to me) standalones: Ditko Spideys (those being especially emotionally relevant); early Daredevils (yellow suit FTW); Jack Kirby Fourth Worlds (probably not the whole thing, but I do have the doorstop Omnibus and I'm in love with the Kirby unleashed madness that pours off of every panel); Golden Age Dick Tracy; and more, TBD.

And second, probably as a result of having spent too much time (a fast-paced three weeks between death and apartment exodus this time last year) among my mother's things after her fucking off from this mortal coil and realizing that, among the QVC and Christmas decor, there was zilch that I wanted to keep (beyond the antique furniture she didn’t throw out behind my back) or to which I had any emotional attachment, I've become cognizant of what I leave behind: other than my wife and my niece, it's not like I have kids or anyone, really, save a few friends and the progeny of those few friends (and even then that’s just two, one local and another on the other ocean), to whom I can leave The Collection or the rest of my shit – and want to make sure that it’s got a home before something finally kills me: Swedish Death Cleaning is – when you have no children or other heirs (other than your wife, a set of oct-and non- agenarians, and dogchildren), a last name that isn’t your own, and a legacy which consists primarily of the possession of a pretty fucking awesome collection of things (if I do say so myself) and the writing of weird shit that no one reads (which is also fine, grumble grumble) – nothing if not existentially perplexing.

To end on a slightly less morbid and ballooning existential-and-creative-crisis note: everything I share at this tag is a photograph from my own collection – all comics art, everything: The Collection has reached a point where I am my own source of digital fascination for myself (and possibly for you) which is not an unenviable place to be.

That went on a lot longer than I planned so now it’s back to writing more weird shit while being surrounded by a bunch of really cool shit which is what I’ll probably do until I too, like all of us, fuck off this mortal coil: it’s not like any of us get out alive.