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Antique shops were like history museums only privately owned. They each had their own character unlike manicured museums. People's furniture of bygone eras. There was a classical style to it. Mostly all dark stained wood, red or green velvet, white blue-stripe pottery, silvery metal basins. I didn't talk and I didn't ask questions. "Just looking" - eye-light. Could not say, I have no money. Could not say I am nothing - a no-man. To no is to know. I am not a buyer. I am a connoisseur. I love looking. I am a tourist. Who can own it all, and for what anyway ?
I was uncommitted. Hadn't made up my mind yet. Not that much interests me as a profession. I didn't know who these people were. We hadn't been properly introduced. Somebodies private home now in a public display case and for sale. How many stories there ? And for what-naught. Will I buy and make it memorial. Or is it just a work of art not to be privately owned ? "I bought this land and that's my tree." A foreign concept to me; to own a living thing like it was a bath basin. If I own it - it dies - a zombie turned to shown, to be no more than a furnishing, for a cemetery soul, sold to own.
So what then did I have now ? I got all Can'ts. Have to trade Can'ts for Cans. The less Can'ts the more Cans. The more Cans the less Can'ts. Simple arithmetic. Add, subtract, multiply and divide, wholes and fractions. That was arithmetic. There was no algebra way-back before high-school. There are Cans and Can'ts.
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