At some time in the distant past a tsunami of paper broke over my house, filled it to the rafters, and then receded, leaving behind pools that filled every nook and cranny. Pools of bank statements, canceled checks, tax forms, pay stubs, insurance policies, disclaimers, declarations, bills and "This Is Not A Bill" notices. Owner's manuals, installation guides, guarantees. Magazines.
I commence, today, to rake out the muck. Some of the magazines will be boxed and offered, free, at the neighborhood yard sale next Saturday, just in case some fool comes along who doesn't think he owns enough magazines, or who thinks he'll have time to read them all someday--the fantasy that has kept me from dumping a collection of "American Scholar" quarterlies that dates back fifteen years. "Architectural Digest"--a gift subscription from my mother--will fill a box, every issue of "Doubletake" will fill another, and "American Indian" a third. Come one, come all.
