From Oct 10, 2007

wrote this in my idea book:

Nice day between rain showers, rode the bike to get the mail, in my clogs-bad idea. Tucked my pant leg into my brown cotton sock so as not to get my—custom-made in India—jeans stuck in my chain. The road was moist and I have no mud guards on the bike so I rode along the high center of the road where the gravel accumulates.

Blahg

It's safe to say that I have the grays these days. No blogging today as I have nothing to say.

Rug

Was thinking about my mother today, as I often do. During her brief time here on earth she was a weaver. I have several of her rugs around my place. There is one in front of the press, I step back and forth on it as I roll the cylinder up and back. There is another by the back door, I step onto it coming in and going out of the house. The third is at the foot of my bed. They act as an ever present reminder of her. Her hands touched all the fibers, and I feel somehow that her energy is intense in these pieces, warp over weft. I've let a fourth rug get a bit gross. One of the dogs must have laid on it for a time and it got put away, but not carefully, in the damp shed. I hung it out this summer on the far end of the clothesline and there it has stayed. Do I need to point out that it is now November.

I feel a bit guilty about it but I know rationally she has no idea I am leaving the rug out and potentially ruining it. But still it feels like a waste, all that creative energy caught up in the fibers, just floating out into space.