Chicago Rummage

In an effort to stave off regret I spent the weekend in an idyll of shopping self-delusion. Inseparable from the bland horror of dippy trinkets is the fear that my own taste should never be trusted--by anyone, but most particularly by me. However, once the white flag of public defeat is waved, there’s no going back; you’re frozen in the corner, dunce cap in place, white flag and elephant at your feet.

Here is what I bought:
A bronze, black-hole-heavy statue of a crouching man, mounted on plastic, once a sports trophy but now missing its bat, racquet or club; a pointlessly oversized half-matted photograph of an Egyptian board game; a beaded gray-red caterpillar-like bracelet, peculiarly segmented and furry; and one or two other items I haven’t yet had the fortitude to unpack.

Ideally, all purchases should be accomplished secretly, all mistakes corrected imperceptibly, so the lunatic’s reputation for reason remains, via fraud, intact.

On the Rebound

There is no end to the insults of fumbled shopping. Like any other dream of menacing stairwells or unmarked doors, the act of losing out on a desired object leaves the would-be acquirer in a fog of unfinished narrative.
It’s impossible to make up for what was missed by finding a mirror image of it since the idea of a mirror image is too hopeful, too exact. But--if the lost object turns out to have a vaguely-resembling sister or descendant, could getting the echo lessen the blow? Can almost-as-good make up for what was lost?

No.

If you lose out, as I did, on a folio of terrific fashion sketches from the ‘50s, does it make sense to look for folios sort of like it in order to buy what will never be more than a shadow? In the case of the fashion sketches, I bought others that close up looked more like the ham-handed products of a party sketch artist than like anything from the pages of Vogue. And yet--the impulse persists to shut the gate, even after your favorite horse has been lassoed by a swindler.