Some people collect moments. Others collect memories. Me? I collect those too—but I also collect stamps, Keith Haring, platypuses, magnets, pins, and autographs. So, when asked the question, “Do you have any collections?” my answer is not just a yes. It is a proud, joyful, sometimes emotional declaration of identity, history, and the quiet rebellion of holding on to what matters.

Collections, after all, are not simply objects we accumulate. They are markers. They are time capsules. They are tactile proof that we were here, that we felt something, that we lived.

Let me take you through mine.

A Stamp on Every Season

My stamp collection begins—and continues—with love for United States stamps. I do not specialize in a particular era or theme. If it has adhesive on the back and a story on the front, I want it. I am captivated by the artistry, the miniature storytelling, the way a single square inch can carry the essence of a president, a movement, a flower, or a dream.

Among my most treasured pieces is the Flying Jenny stamp. Yes, that one—well, sort of. I own the standard version, not the famously inverted misprint. But even without the rare error, the Jenny has always fascinated me. There is something poetic about a biplane caught mid-flight in such a tiny frame. I imagine all the envelopes it has graced. All the love letters, war correspondence, utility bills, and birthday cards it has helped deliver. I think of how many hands touched each one. That is the magic of stamps. They are never just paper. They are passage.

Each addition to my stamp book is a way of connecting to history, to a sense of place, to something lasting. In a disposable age, collecting stamps feels like resistance—and reverence.

Keith Haring: The Collection That Loves Me Back

If my stamps are about capturing time, my Keith Haring collection is about honoring connection.

Keith was not just a name I admired from afar. He was a friend. And because of that, this collection is not just about appreciation. It is about love. About legacy. About holding onto something alive long after the artist’s hands have gone still.

I collect everything Haring: books, rare prints, T-shirts, original artwork, pins, magnets, mugs, sketch pads, postcards, even repurposed items bearing his vibrant, urgent visual language. I have pieces that make me laugh, pieces that make me think, and pieces that bring tears because I remember when he made them, or what he said about them, or how they lit up a room.

To many, Keith is the iconic artist of the 1980s—bold, queer, defiant, full of color and chaos. To me, he is also the one who made time for a young seeker with too many questions and not enough courage. He answered anyway. He painted through the pain. He showed up. And I have carried him with me ever since.

When people ask about my most prized collection, I do not hesitate. It is this one. Because Keith did not just create art. He created courage. And collecting him is how I honor that gift.

Platypus Pride

Now for the unexpected entry: platypuses.

Yes, really.

It started small—just a stuffed toy someone gave me because I once joked that the platypus was the weirdest animal on the planet. But it snowballed. Suddenly, there were mugs and socks and figurines and pillows and stickers. Friends started bringing me platypus-themed items from their travels. I started noticing how oddly inspiring these little creatures are.

The platypus is unapologetically strange. It does not try to fit in. It just is—a mammal that lays eggs, a beaver-duck hybrid with venomous spurs, and a gait so awkward it practically invented the word “waddle.” But there is power in that. The platypus reminds me—and maybe others—that it is okay to be an anomaly. That being “other” is not a flaw. It is a feature.

So yes, I collect platypus things. I collect them to celebrate difference. To remind myself that I do not have to be legible to be loved. That I do not have to fit into categories to be whole.

Magnets, Pins, and People

Some people collect snow globes or postcards when they travel. Me? I go for magnets and pins.

My magnet collection is mostly Keith Haring-themed. I see them every time I walk into the kitchen or open the fridge. They are more than decor. They are reminders of messages Keith believed in: love, unity, resistance, joy. It is like carrying pieces of protest and celebration into my everyday routines.

My pins are a different kind of diary. They mark who I have met and where I have been. Some are from conferences. Others were handed to me after speeches. A few are from artists, activists, or just good people I crossed paths with. I have pins from cities I fell in love with and places I could not wait to leave. I have pins from heartbreaks, from triumphs, from days I thought would destroy me but did not.

Each pin is a dot on the map of my becoming.

Autographs and Awe

I do not hoard autographs. I treasure them.

Three in particular hold permanent residence in my heart: Eartha Kitt, Keith Haring, and Lady Gaga.

Eartha Kitt signed a program after a performance that left me speechless. Her voice, her stance, her unapologetic truth-telling—it was all there in the ink. That signature is more than a name. It is a relic of resilience.

Keith’s autograph, of course, is layered with memory. I still remember the way he doodled alongside it. He never just signed. He left marks that moved.

Lady Gaga’s came during an interaction that was as raw as it was brief. She looked me in the eyes. She said something kind. She made me feel like I mattered. That signature hangs framed where I can see it when I need a reminder that fame does not always harden hearts.

These are not just autographs. They are affirmations. Moments where presence and pen converged to say, “You were here. You mattered. This happened.”

Why It Matters

So, do I have any collections?

Yes. I have many. And each one is a mirror of something deeper.

My stamps are about connection to history and curiosity.
My Keith Haring items are about love, memory, and art as protest.
My platypus collection is a joyful ode to the beautiful misfits.
My magnets and pins are living maps of experience and encounter.
My autographs are milestones of inspiration and admiration.

Collecting, for me, is not escapism. It is a way of grounding. It is how I curate meaning in a world that often moves too fast. It is how I build continuity when time frays at the edges.

There is a strange comfort in having tangible evidence that something mattered to me. That someone mattered. That I matter.

And You?

Now, I want to turn the question around: Do you have any collections?

They do not need to be elaborate. Maybe it is ticket stubs or matchbooks. Maybe it is sea glass, or rubber ducks, or quotes scribbled in notebooks. Whatever it is—if you collect something, I would love to hear about it.

Drop a comment below. Tell me about the thing you cannot stop yourself from picking up. Share a photo. Share a story. Let this blog post be a kind of collective collection—of collections.

Because sometimes, the things we gather say more about us than the words we speak. Sometimes, they are how we remember, how we grieve, how we hope.

And sometimes, they are how we say: This is who I am.

So again—do you have any collections?

Let us trade stories. I will show you my platypus if you show me your thing.