I tired of tripping over a little rug in our hallway--it was supposed to cover up a gap between carpet and threshhold, but it never stayed put--so I threw it into the front yard yesterday.
Today it rained. I looked out the living room window at the smoky blue rug with pale green and yellow flowers on top of our yellowed grass and it seemed to belong there. It's slightly more attractive than the grass, at least.
Brave little rug! Awkward, sodden and cold. Misunderstood by passersby. Pioneering rug, unafraid to cover new ground.
Tomorrow I'll have to give up and move it, I guess. I forget exactly why I threw it out the door; of course I wasn't really angry at the rug.
Usually when I'm most furious I manage my external reactions more carefully, I think, than when I'm merely at a peak of frustration. Fury is too pure to be expressed by a simple action. But when I recover from it--scarcely remembering what it felt like--I have to wonder if I am weak or demented for having felt it, or for having felt it but done nothing about it.
Both my children watched me throw the rug out the door. I wasn't yelling. Remarkably, even after 10 years of being my child, 1 doesn't display these stupid tantrums, yet. 2 does, experimentally.
My mother would sometimes leave me and my brother in the kitchen, saying, "I have to go outside and scream." Then she would step out to the back porch and scream. I don't remember feeling either chastised or frightened by this, though I'm sure I did the first time it happened.
In what play does a character--at whom the audiece is supposed to laugh--manage her frustrations by breaking china, piece after piece, tidily between the layers of a cloth handkerchief? I forget.
Today it rained. I looked out the living room window at the smoky blue rug with pale green and yellow flowers on top of our yellowed grass and it seemed to belong there. It's slightly more attractive than the grass, at least.
Brave little rug! Awkward, sodden and cold. Misunderstood by passersby. Pioneering rug, unafraid to cover new ground.
Tomorrow I'll have to give up and move it, I guess. I forget exactly why I threw it out the door; of course I wasn't really angry at the rug.
Usually when I'm most furious I manage my external reactions more carefully, I think, than when I'm merely at a peak of frustration. Fury is too pure to be expressed by a simple action. But when I recover from it--scarcely remembering what it felt like--I have to wonder if I am weak or demented for having felt it, or for having felt it but done nothing about it.
Both my children watched me throw the rug out the door. I wasn't yelling. Remarkably, even after 10 years of being my child, 1 doesn't display these stupid tantrums, yet. 2 does, experimentally.
My mother would sometimes leave me and my brother in the kitchen, saying, "I have to go outside and scream." Then she would step out to the back porch and scream. I don't remember feeling either chastised or frightened by this, though I'm sure I did the first time it happened.
In what play does a character--at whom the audiece is supposed to laugh--manage her frustrations by breaking china, piece after piece, tidily between the layers of a cloth handkerchief? I forget.
