Detritus

I've always romanticized clutter of a certain sort. If a high school had the sort of superlatives meant for the slightly offbeat, I'd be voted most likely to die breaking into an abandoned building. I love the idea of a room untouched by time, inadvertently discovered; Like coming across Miss Havisham's wedding feast by chance. I've entertained the thought of renting a run-down apartment or hotel for a photo shoot, or better yet, trespassing into one. One day I hope to win the lottery and buy a particular abandoned Masonic Temple and transform it into something glorious, while keeping its original air of mystery and neglect, of course. I think, at least in part, my undying love for The Virgin Suicides has more to do with the brilliant imagery of the slow demise of the Lisbon house. That will probably always hold true, though I think now will always be a little bit tarnished by my in depth look at the upstairs bathroom in my father's house. As I was getting ready for my sister's baby shower, and desperately in need of makeup, I tore through the bathroom, I suddenly realized that it's probably not normal to have unearthed a dusty collection of Love's perfume sprays, Tinkerbell nail polishes, and a variety of gift baskets from The Body Shop purchased in the early 90's. Suddenly the row of little bottles that seemed so precious, felt weird and made me think of a word that seems so much more emphatic en français: malheureuse. Since my mother's death, my dad has managed to have a cleaning lady come or attempt cooking and vacuuming, but there's a definite air of appearances kept up, and my dusty old dolls or crappy wall patching jobs are more signs of a slow decline than of someone's shitty domestic skills. A house in which the "little things" have been ignored for so long makes me feel like I can relate to the imagery in Eugenides' book in a way that I really wish that I didn't.