Wednesday, March 12, 2008

a three-minute snowfall

Did your neighbor make a welcoming pumpkin pie, or are you staring at an empty fridge, looking for a carton of milk that declines to materialize? Do you know how to find a grocery store? Was it pre-located on Google maps, or did you pack an ice chest, having stocked up one final time at home? Or do you walk to the 7-11 that was next to the bar -- they always have milk?
Regardless of quality or location, apartments always harbor the memory and the presence of their previous occupants, as do houses. The silver foil wallpaper, the parallel mirrors along walls, the blue patterned shower curtain: these archaeological traces of earlier tribes describe the meaning of the mundane to the eager explorer. Closets yield families of cheap hangers from dry cleaners. Closets also yield abandoned phone books, vacuum cleaners, entertainment magazines with centerfolds of dubious quality. Attics are rarely simple expanses of air and dust and cobwebs: gilt picture frames, slightly chipped, rest alongside footstools showing a lifetime of abuse, sheltered in the shadow of drapery rods and window shades and forgotten Christmas lights.

weather early spring indeed
reading??? trying to cram another week into March