In that slow, deliberate glide into what our friend Cecil Elliott called “the dirt nap”, I find myself with en embarrassment of riches (which is not to say wealth) and no place to put it: It currently includes:

• a considerable accumulation (please note that I did not dignify this with the word “collection”) of art that makes sense to me and me alone;
• a substantial personal library, a very large portion of which may be the finest collection of titles in architecture for several miles around, but who reads books any more?
• fifty-plus years of research material that may never be organized in a state that would make it useful to anyone.

And then there’s The Agincourt Project, which consists of words, thousands of them, posted here in cyberspace and so close to evaporation that I lose sleep; artifacts galore, architectural models, stained glass windows, welded steel sculpture, and the “Community Collection” of art, now numbering well over two hundred pieces of marginal merit but inestimable value to this narrative. I know what will become of me.¹ But what of all this?

¹ The instructions for my own disposal are few: 1) baggy, 2) twist-tie, 3) curbside, 4) Tuesday morning, 5) before 8:30. I don’t qualify for recycling, so don’t use the blue bin.