My Collection

I am a collector of things.

There are physical collections of things like the golf balls that adorn my bookshelf (non of which have been found on a golf course or anywhere near, for that matter).

Then there are collections that are more metaphysical or conceptual. There is a collection of moments of true peace I revisit in times of stress, the collection of wounds I pull out when I need to write something and the collection of characters that are always there to keep me company.

The last one is perhaps my favourite collection.

I started it when I was younger when I was first getting started as a writer. I was convinced that one day I would be able to use this collection in something I was writing. The collection continued to grow and grow. People I met whose stories or personalities struck me so that I felt that they had fallen out of a story somewhere and just gotten caught in this reality of ours.

The first was a jeweller. He was a rough-looking sort, his face all sharp angles and hard lines. He wore black tank-top leather pants and matching biker boots. His long black hair was pulled back in a ponytail to keep it out of his face as he worked putting crystals into his creations. There he sat perched on a large guided thrown surrounded by jewels working on the most delicate tiara I have ever seen. When he noticed us in the shop, he set it aside, crossed his legs and leaned back on his throne before asking how he could help.

Such a character sent my imagination whirling. The juxtaposition of this hard-looking man and his delicate creations left me wondering about the story behind it. Who was this man, and what world had he come from? What life had he led?

I left his shop thoroughly convinced that one day I would find out, one day I would write his story or write him into one of mine.

While that has yet to happen, it did start off my collection.

In later years, he was joined by the musician who rode the rails and took gigs when he needed cash or food. We met in the park during a dawn dog walk, and he gave me a guitar lesson.

There is also the woman with the deep southern drawl who must have copied her makeup from Devine. She told a pre-teen me that I was pretty enough to work at Hooters.

They travel with me in my mind, keeping me company and reminding me that it’s not a crime to live as my authentic self. If you are kind to people and willing to listen, we all have stories. We are each the main character of our own lives.

I have often found myself drawn to places where the odd and the eccentric gather. I’m desperate to add to my collection. Because these characters remind me that I am not alone. I am sure that there are people out there who tell stories of encountering a girl named Blue. I am something to recount, a character.

But as I grow older and my collection grows, I find that they also have started to gather dust in the recesses of my mind.

I don’t want to cheapen their stories. I don’t want to share them with people who might look down on them. I want to treat them with respect as a fellow character. So I hoard them away and keep them to myself. The details of their stories, the brightness of our encounter, the moments and lessons they shared with me. They are some of my most precious possessions because they have helped me through the darkest times and kept me company when I felt alone in this world.

My eccentrics.

My authentics.

My collection of characters.