My Nana crocheted this rug for my mom in 1986. I think it was a gift in honor of my sister being born. My sister might tell you that it is her rug, but it has lived with me since I found it in the back of her childhood closet when I was helping my mom clear out the house. I have a fierce commitment to its preservation, whatever future purges and redecorations are to come. As I make choices about what to keep, what to throw out, and what to acquire in our bedroom, I will have to consider what is capable of sitting next to such a loud and demanding element. I know it certainly isn't the current situation...
Apr 24, 2011
Apr 14, 2011
The pulsing red lights outside our windows have a fast rhythm. Unglazing my eyeballs, I slowly realize that all is not right. Peter is next to me, he looks as dazed as I feel. There is knocking, Tim's voice, door squeaking, and light from the living room. Tim is wearing his shorts on inside out and we are wearing our blanket. He tells us about the carbon monoxide in the building. The firemen are here and the windows need to be opened. We enter the living room to greet the giant men who make the apartment seem so much smaller. They are on their way out, picking up equipment that looks like heavy iron. They go, leaving behind an instrument that has been propping the door open. Peter runs down the stairs after them, carrying the forgotten doorstop. It is 3 am, and the cold air has begun to convert the poisoned warmness. I return to the bedroom, and see it as a stranger might for the first time. It is a surprise to discover that we really need to redecorate.
The above is what hangs over our bed. It is one of my many nonsensical mashes of nostalgia archived to the wall over the last year. The frame was taken from my old job, possibly bought at a Michael's. It was used in a presentation and would have been thrown out if I hadn't claimed it. It sat by my desk for many months. When I decided I would quit the place, I took it home and started to plan my escape. Within the frame, I have tucked away an old piece of embroidery, a shadowy photograph of an old school project, and a postcard I typeset and printed in a letterpress class at The Center for Book Arts. It all feels so old and out of sync with my current life. I want to strip it down and replace it with something decisive and singular, from the journeys of Peter and I.