Excuse me while I pontificate a moment and try not to spill my internal melodrama on you.
There has been a focus for me lately.
After the madhouse that was Morphey’s I began to reevaluate my priorities in terms of what it was that I wanted to collect. What it was that my collection would reflect about me , and how I would feel when I looked at it.
I reached a point where the financial burden of my purchases impacted my day to day, and even the old joke about eating ramen for a few months began to wear thin when in fact I found myself doing exactly that. Heh
So I began to slowly set up in my mind a list of items that did not fit the overall “theme” of my collecting habits, and I had to decide if it is rarity , or if it is the love of the toy that won out. Sometimes it is difficult to separate the two in my mind, because there is a definite thrill in finding that particular toy and getting the support and congrats from your peers. Those of us who say that is “superficial” and not part of the proper process, are either far more mature than I will ever be, or simply kidding themselves. Perhaps A little of both.
So what are you willing to sacrifice for the love? I am finding more and more my affection to be on the simplicity and purity of a standard tin walker. Bullmark, Popy, Angel, Takara…it does not really matter which family it comes from. My shelves are the haven for both the popular kids and the misfits. It is not what you look like, but what your made of little zenmai, that gets my heart pumping.
I watch my friends and peers trip over themselves for the Vinyl food group, and I feel the pull. It is a strong desire to jump on board and get the most badass of MFV or Talker I can find. Why wouldn’t I ? They are beautiful and as close to perfection as one could want.
But my tins look at me like I am going on a weekend getaway with a hot friend. They know I will flirt, but always come home to the older but meaningful relationship. They know they don’t have any real reason to get jealous. They know I will always come home at the end, drunk with the smell of polyethylene and zinc on my collar, but never need beer goggles for the screen printed paper thin steel goodness they truly possess.
So I watch the screen hum, the auctions end, the bid not made. Friends send me auctions and I covet and admire with quiet awe over the intensity in which they sell. I wait and plan more carefully, because my bank account has become more finite. A need of focus, and spending time with the toys that bring me only the purest form of joy and sense of balance and contentment.
Distill, wash repeat.