Granite & Slate. Slate & Granite. This pair.
Certain rooms in my house ooze of these ubiquitous late 90s material. And I have grown to loathe them for they do not belong in my house or in my life.
Not all slab granite resembles endless layers of potato bug vomit and bile abstractly choreographed on a blackened dance floor of sleek hard rock. Not all granite has the calculated intelligence to camouflage a half-gallon puddle of liquid so acutely that I inevitably set a newspaper, magazine, or freshly laundered item exactly there, upon it. No, not all granite is created equal.
As for you, slate. You are so very earthy and neutral. You are considerate enough to look exactly the same before and after I scrub filth from your porous surface, yet you remain so painfully dull and lifeless. Where did you come from and how did you get in my house? Specifically, how did you get in my entry, kitchen, laundry room, three bathrooms, mud room and, yes, on my front porch? When we first met, you blended so expertly into your surroundings that I never, not once, stopped to consider that you have no place in a historic home. How ever did you escape your big box suburban sea of innocuous cul de sac, where people not only accept you, they covet you? Are you slate of a masochistic variety because why would you willingly sentence yourself to a life of humiliation here in my little abode?
What have I done to deserve this sublime duality of pedestrian decor? I blame myself for turning a hurried, blind eye to these surfaces before it was too late and I found myself trapped by their perfect balance of banality.
★
No comments:
Post a Comment