The week(end) in pictures

The Artist and I went to as many garage sales as was feasible this weekend. We visit one geographic area at a time and this weekend was allocated for none other than the new sleepy town in which I live. What you learn about a town from it's garage sales is astonishing. OK, well, surprising in any case. And what did I learn about my new sleepy town from this weekend's garage sales? I live in a town where someone will not only try to sell a bar of Irish Spring for $.50. not only try to sell half-used bottles of nail polish for $.25, but try to sell a perfectly good box of tampons—ok, maybe opened and ok, maybe used a couple and then cleverly taped the box shut—for an undisclosed price.

I made a pact with myself to make it to the Beltline Railyard this weekend. What's the Beltline Railyard, you might ask? It's 22 acres of railyard that's been abandoned by the railroad company that once owned it and is in some kind of legal limbo with the city who would like very much to purchase it. And what that means to us, is that it is an undeveloped wasteland slowly being reclaimed by nature, smack dab in the middle of the city. And what that means to me, is that it is an interesting place to explore. Now 22 acres is not a lot. You can't really get lost in it. But the only beings I encountered on my entire walk was a confused raccoon and some kids at the adjoining park yelling at me to not graffiti (I wasn't). Because it was dusk and the light was perfect, I snapped, like, a bizillion pictures. What could be more photogenic than rusting metal with pampa grass growing through it, all cast in an orange-y dramatic light? Besides the busted-up shopping carts, the dumped car batteries, and enough railroad ties to line your driveway, the highlights included an old demolition derby car covered in graffiti with a few cement blocks thrown on top for good measure. But the real find of the day was a metal sign, the colors reminiscent of a pepsi can, squashed into a perfectly wonderful hemisphere of sculpture, now adorning the walls of my new apartment.

Which takes us to Sunday. And a walk through the local coastal marsh. As one of my I-have-a-million-different-projects-I-am-working-on experiments, I have taken a vow, an oath, to ask one stranger, one question every day. Today's dialogue went something like this:
me: Is that a catfish?
him: Catfish. 22 inch!
me: Wow. You caught that right here?
him: Yes. Right here. 22 inch!
We were both impressed. (Photo not provided.)

Which brings us to Sunday afternoon. The day the Matthew Barney exhibit closed and the day everyone and their mother (including me) opted to (finally) check it out. I skipped the exhibit itself to stand in line for sixty minutes for the one hundred and forty five minute film that had an entirety of five lines of dialogue. I can't really say it was enjoyable, but then that is not why one goes to see a Matthew Barney film (even if this one features wifey Bjork.) You see a Matthew Barney film so that you have something to talk about. But since I went alone, I had to wait until exiting to call my friend in New York, who it turns out hadn't even seen it. All I can say is that it made me want to each sushi and gave me a headache (although the coffee and empty stomach could, chances are, have more to do with the headache than Bjork's score.)

Which closes my weekend with: the phone conversation. I told Favorite Ex that I was trying to write a creative non-fiction piece for the NYTimes Modern Love column as per The New Friend From Residency's suggestion. I told him that what I was writing about was Ex Numero 4. Not, as I had thought when I began writing, Numero 5. He asked if he was to be included. To which I replied no, I didn't really go back that far.

C'mon, he said, you can cough up a coupla zingers about us.
I can't even think of any.
There's gotta be something.
It's a 1200 word article! And I am writing about break-ups. Ours was nothing!
I want our relationship to be immortalized in print!
Well, you did have that annoying habit whenever you came over of pointing out all the things that you thought belonged to you. Like six years later.
That's perfect. Work it in.

Sorry Favorite Ex, you are another story entirely.