When I was a child I had quite the active imagination. Basically anything could become a toy and provide me with hours of enjoyment. To that end, I had vast stores of near-nicknacks, some more obviously suited for the creative child than others. My collection of discarded department-store shirt clips would likely fall into that latter category. Now that I have grown up, however, I am supposed to revel in real things.
Not so, I say.
A look at my bookshelf shows evidence of my disregard, displaying a paperback collection, half missing covers. These non-books, officially by virtue of their presence in the dumpsters from which I get them, do not exist in the economic sense and I cannot derive any commodity value from them. Effectively biblia non grata, their present situation on my shelves is an impossibility as each and every one of them has been reported to The Publisher as destroyed. Yet they are no less tangible than their existent (and more fortunate) cousins still in the booksellers' stacks.
Likewise among my CD collection are a correspondingly great many albums lacking adequate reality credentials, some missing UPC codes, and others, other common packaging. These I noticed as I was trying to inventory my collection the other day (26/07/2002). Many of them sound just fine, in light of their ethereal nature, and others would do well to truly not exist, let alone waste space on my racks. But again, some of them are really quite good.
The conclusion that I draw, in light of my possession and enjoyment of these non-existent items, is that I must be afflicted with some sort of grown-up, economic imagination, having no longer mere toys in my mind but enjoying playthings which apparently do not exist. Truly an odd thing, isn't it?
And, speaking of afflictions, is anyone interested in some paperback books, all missing their covers, and some missing a good plot or some other redeeming reason to be on my shelves? I can't very well sell them, since they don't exist.