Weeknotes: January 6-10, 2025
Monday January 6
Outside the giant home decor superstore shreds of yellow caution tape flap like pennants, suggesting unknown drama. Scant cars punctuate the desolate parking lot. Grim is the word that comes to mind. In Chris Frantz's Talking Heads memoir (which I've stuck with, and am now enjoying) he recalls how Johnny Ramone used that word over and over to describe their shared 1977 tour of Europe ("Oh shit, man, this is gonna be grim").
I don't go to this store very often. It's one of those wastelands of excess that makes me feel edgy and cynical. It's like a blander Pier 1 without any curation, a shelter for the world’s decorative vases and wicker plant stands to live out their days in a heady fug of candle store aroma. I'm in the market for new bathroom rugs that will pair well with the tricky seafoam walls and faux driftwood floor covering I inherited when I rented the house. Last winter I spontaneously bought a complete set of grass green rugs and matching towels which I pretended to like for a couple days before recognizing I'd turned my bathroom into a 1980s Holiday Inn. January is when I'm most inclined to tackle these problems. Aren't we all working on our interiors this time of year?
Weeknotes: March 18-22, 2024
Waiting in the line at the bank. Snow flurries outside, another winter after a confused series of false springs. There are a handful of customers ahead of me and each of the three available tellers is occupied with a time-consuming transaction. To my left a young guy is either depositing or withdrawing his savings bonds. "This is a very grandparent thing to do, especially these days" comments the manager. The guy is wearing white New Balance sneakers, the kind with giant chunky orthopedic soles. He's already dressed like his grandpa. To my right a woman pulls her brother's death certificate out of her purse, hoping to close his account and withdraw the remaining balance. It's apparently too large a sum for the bank to handle this afternoon and she'll have to come back next Wednesday. Directly in front of me a woman in a corduroy fedora is silently involved in some unknown, but laborous business with her teller. A man wearing one of those black brimmed Stevie Ray Vaughn hats with silver bangles around it is sitting masked in one of the waiting room chairs. An electronic doorbell ding-dongs every time someone walks in or out.