Cleaning up the office, getting rid of a lot of old crap, because come the new carpets and floors and stuff, we'll be repainting my space here and since everything has to be moved out to do those things, might as well make it a little easier.
You accrue a lot of knick-knacks when you have an office at home, fanboy toys, mementos of the good old days, but one day you look up and realize that either the memories weren't so good, or in some cases, are gone. Why did I put that doohickey there?
When you have chotskies everywhere that don't get any attention save being dusted, better they go into a box and into the attic. Or away altogether.
So the brick.
Forty-four years ago this month, I had the notion that breaking bricks with my hands was a good idea. I was, as you can see from what is written on the brick, twenty-one, and invincible.
So took my bearded self out into the back yard, not far from the alligator pear tree (that's avocado for those of you who don't know the term.) I set up a stack of bricks, laid one across them, and with my spouse working the Polaroid instant camera, did my best imitation of a "karate chop" and broke the sucker. There is the moment of destruction.
The brick, not my hand.
I did that for a few years, until somebody slipped a firebrick in on me, and that was the end of that trick for me.
The brick will stay on the shelf, next to the mugger's knife from the visit to NYC in 1982, but a whole lot of other clutter is going elsewhere ...