Parting Glances: In one ear . . . .

I've been intrigued by a musically enterprising young guy — late twenties — a loner — who hangs out in my neighborhood.
He's reasonably tidy, but because of unspecified social adjustment problems says he can't hold a job, and as a result sleeps in various shelters for 90 day interludes. He invites his soul by wandering the streets, oddly musically enriched.
What's got my attention is his total absorption when listening to music in the CD/DVD corner of one of our larger book stores. I know I shouldn't play I spy, but it's fascinating to see his total bliss while he listens to earphone music.
He smiles ecstatically and radiates a joy that totally lights up his face. His body vibrates with pleasure. (He's too broke to be doing drugs.)
I find it all rather curious because, despite the promo — Listen to Any CD in the Store — each selection he plays lasts 15 teasing seconds. (I've timed it.) Apparently this guy's got the system beat by somehow switching selections back and forth. How he works it all beats me. But his half hours are happy.
As far as my own CD and DVD purchases go, I'm a victim of frustration. Of late I've been so darned annoyed trying to open these blankety-blank disc packages — "security sealed" on three sides — that I swear I'll never buy another. I've broken several finger nails seeking product access. [Note: Make appointment with Royal Oak, LGBTQ-etc., bona fide, Good Housekeeping-licensed nail technician.]
I own over 300 CD/DVDs. I know because I'm in the process of moving after 23 years of relatively stable Cultural Center living. If there's one thing that I've learned while packing up for Total Male Climacteric Change #6508 it's that we don't own our possessions. Make no mistake. They own us. Big time.
So far I've accumulated 30 cartons of books (many never read), over 15 boxes of clothes (much unlaundered), and 500 pieces of my art, originals and reproductions (most unsold). If nothing else, packing's been a revelation — and an embarrassment.
I'm rediscovering my desultory taste in authors (heavy on nonfiction; history; bios) and music (Classical; New Age; Barbara Cook). I'm actually getting to see some of my early art "for the first time," a tricky proposition at best.
The fact is I'm lazy. I have five months until my rental lease is up (the apartment building is going condo), but I keep putting off the Great Assault on the Trenches, telling myself that the way to go about it is — like seduction — a nip here, a tuck there. Toss away whatever you feel you absolutely don't need. [My H.S. senior year book, with me looking unabashedly virginal.]
Biogenetic scientists — genome mappers — have discovered that there's a gene that causes compulsory collecting. I've got it. (Apparently Mother Nature decreed evolutionary survival by gathering tons of tubers to eat and scores of clam shells to barter — but who needs to collect the "Annotated Compendium to 'War and Peace, With Geographic and Patronymics in English, Russian, and French"?)
Like the fabled Man Who Came to Dinner, our possessions have squatter's rights. "How dare you even think of parting with me! I've been with you since you came out. And, oh my, the secrets we've shared. I may be trash to some, but, honey, I'm not garage sale material by any means. And don't you forget it!"
I won't.
Truth is: Life's made up of curiously attuned collectibles — no matter how you play them — or how briefly.