I just wrote, but did not post, two fairly personal entries.
Everything I'm inclined to write about feels like navel-gazing. I'm in a navel-gazing frame of mind I guess.
I am sitting on the floor in a puddle of sunshine in the room of my house we call the "red floor room." (Because I painted the crappy wooden floor a nice terra-cotta-y red a year or so ago after ripping up the dingy carpet.) The room contains an unusual persian rug -- I think a Kazak -- with an asymmetrical pattern -- a traditional border with flowers and symmetrical geometric symbols, but the field of the rug itself depicts a landscape scene. It has a river winding through it, and gardens and mountains on the shoreline, a village and, wierdly enough, some dancing women. There is a sailboat in the river, also what looks like a floating church and a train, some ducks, and some more women swimming. There are four women in the sailboat. There are twenty-one women in total on the rug. The only man visible in the picture is a little Owen Meany sort of character -- a small, armless boy beside two dancing women at least a head taller than him. Someone at a rug store once told me that sometimes rugmakers weave into rugs scenes of the afterlife -- a paradise of flowers and water and women. It's a strange rug. I've never seen one like it. It makes me laugh. I bought it here.
My housemate was once part of this groovy group of women who did a series of weekly meetings with a soul reader. She would tell them what their soul guides were trying to say to them about a variety of things. One woman was talking about a man in her life. The soul reader said, "You're waiting for him to catch you, but he can't catch you. He has no arms." Housemate and I have since used that as shorthand for a variety of emotional deficiencies in men who might have the best intentions but just aren't ready. He can't catch you -- he has no arms.
I was sitting here looking at the rug and seeing all of these strong women -- swimming, dancing, sailing women, and this puny little guy with no arms. He can't catch any of them. In whose world is this a depiction of paradise?
You've reminded me of Frost with this.
"Bond and Free"
http://www.bartleby.com/119/10.html
Posted by: TPB, Esq. | February 16, 2004 at 01:15 PM
The oriental rugs link to spongbongo is excellent. Thanks for the suggestion.
Posted by: WAB | February 17, 2004 at 01:04 AM
The afterlife is not necessarily paradise...
Posted by: Z | February 26, 2004 at 03:29 AM
Not necessarily paradise, and also, perhaps paradise is a place where you don't need catching.
Or, you know, they could be lesbians.
Posted by: PG | June 23, 2005 at 11:19 PM