I believe a steady consideration of these magazines is psychological Russian roulette. They can blow huge holes in your self-esteem if you let them.
I believe this. Wholly.
Yet, this is my dining room table underneath a small gathering of what's on my bookshelf.
I believe this. Wholly.
Yet, this is my dining room table underneath a small gathering of what's on my bookshelf.
Knowing what I know, believing what I believe, why do I have so many of them?
I have magazines because they are beautiful. Period. They don't have to do anything else, but they do, at least for me they do. They inspire.
Even so, "no object is so beautiful that, under certain conditions, it will not look ugly."
Thank you Oscar Wilde.
In the case of my home, the ugly is found in the growing pile up reaching a near reality tv hoarding manifestation. Good for me" or "bad for me" has clarified into, "get rid of them". I've started culling them one page at a time. It's an exercise in self-discipline. I will never use the recipe for honey comb that I started to tear out of an Oprah magazine. I have people for that, the candy, not the tearing.
No comments:
Post a Comment
I love to know what you think, "for the Sake of Blessed Connection and Exquisite Controversy"