My Turkish Rug Writing Assignment

In my creative writing class on Monday we started the session with 15 minutes of writing about a favorite possession. I wrote the following, and liked it so am posting it unedited:

The rug I carried home from Turkey is wool on wool and tightly woven. I don’t remember the knots per inch but I’m told it has some significance.

The base color is red; not fire engine red but just as bright – with a deeper, richer tone. The geometric patterns at the outer perimeter are set off with navy blue and the gentlest cream color peeking through adding highlights. The cream is also flecked throughout. The top and bottom edges have a subtle grey fringe.

The border at both ends is a checkerboard pattern that’s mostly red and blue with a pinkish square added here and there as part of the pattern. The side edges are bound with a thin blue stripe. The center has a large, spread out pattern that repeats and undulates as patterns inside a pattern.

Throughout there’s a combination of geometric and floral. That’s what drew me to this rug over the hundreds of others we were shown. The red says traditional, as do the floral patterns. The geometric shapes bring a more modern feel though they are clearly tide to an ancient art.

I love the feel of it under my bare feet – lush, solid and sturdy.

The underside has the appearance of a finely woven tapestry. It would be beautiful as a wall hanging in a large space. I find reassurance in the precise attention each double knot has been given. It’s like a hidden treasure. The beauty of it is always there but is kept turned away from the public eye.

But anytime I like I can flip over a corner and marvel at the masterpiece of the young girls’ hands.

Words

I love the way words roll off my pen when I write in my journal during "freewriting" as they call it. Just set the pen free and let it march out in front of my thoughts.

Writing at the computer allows for faster input. But it's always a little more formal and staid. The quick ability to re-write, focusing on correct spelling and passable grammar, keeps me reigned in.

I'm always amazed at the reward that comes from sitting down to write. The conscious effort to address the blank page rouses the Gods to come to my rescue. They carry me on their soft wings to the reassuring safety of their mighty words.

Take this one, they urge. Play around with that one a bit. I dare you to show me what can be done with this little phrase.

My pen - or finger tips - dance to their challenge. As we tango my spirit rises up within me and frees me from myself. I joyously play, rolling phrases and tossing up questions. No need for answers in this game.

I want to write more. Fear asserts itself time after time. I must fight back. Beat down the temptation to submit to inertia, uncertainty. Forge ahead in sunshine and through storms.

These words are not mine. But they are me.

Theroux's Trek

Joan and I are planning to go to Africa. I’m interested in seeing wide open spaces filled with wild animals, the safari scenes from Out of Africa being my ideal.

As I like to travel twice, the first time being research and getting to know a place, I set out to find what was not included on the travel safari websites. Looking for some behind the scenes views, the ones my isolationist tour group would be leaving off our itinerary, I wanted at least a little flavor of what I would miss.

I bit down on a full-flavored taste in Paul Theroux’s Dark Star Safari, his walkabout off the grid between Cairo and Cape Town.

Egypt has never been on my must see list. Theroux confirmed my hesitation. Though the Nile sounds beguiling, a populated desert leaves little to be desired. Sand in my shoes at the beach is unpleasant, but sand covering my body every time I go out for a cup of coffee would turn me into a recluse. And I don’t think Cairo has Fresh Direct.

Though the trek was harrowing, he seemed primarily happy at each leg. It fulfilled his goal of being completely unreachable. I can understand the joy of that. Saying, “Here’s my itinerary, call me only in an emergency” allows for some measure of getting away, but having no number at all must be completely liberating.

He meandered south via riverboat, bus, dugout canoe, train, cargo boat, cattle truck and the like. All were far from plush and some were close to life-threatening. He survived them all. Sleeping arrangements included desert planes, tents to protect from prowling hyena, bug infested motels and wooden train benches.

By the time he’d reached South Africa he’d seen very few animals, choosing to by-pass the game reserves in Kenya and tourist-ridden Serengeti. Not wanting to be completely deprived of all that Africa has to offer, he settled into a Game Lodge near Kruger National Park at the tail end of his journey and understood why people pay huge tabs for the pleasure of sitting on a porch in the middle of bush country.

That’s where I want to be, relishing the view of the vast plains after a fulfilling game drive, focusing only on my most basic animal needs – good food and a safe place to sleep and unencumbered by every modern convenience.

Being Granny

What's more fun than hanging out at the pool with three of my favorite people: Shelaine, daughter; Elliott, grandson; and Kylee, sister. There's nothing better!

That precious smile, coupled with googling sounds and purposeful kicks and stretching, directed straight at me, is the closest there is to heaven on earth. Heaven right there, poolside.

Elliott giggled while wearing my big brimmed black sun hat. I understood in that instant what impelled me to buy it. It must have been a premonition. When faced with the $5 price tag I knew it was for me though I wasn't completely convinced I would wear a pseudo-Hamptons summer benefit hat. But I did know I had to have it enough to pack it up and take it across the Atlantic.

Impulsively I grabbed it as I headed out the door on Saturday. It was to be my only scheduled day near water for the duration of the summer. What could it hurt, there would be plenty of room in the car.

Little did I know it would be our best photo prop of the weekend. We'll have a lifetime of memories: Kylee wearing black hat holding Elliott in pool; Elliott with black hat; Granny holding Elliott wearing black hat.

I must prompt Shelaine to email it to me. One's destined for my desktop and I know just the one. And I may just get to posting some here.

Won't I have fun showing them off to Elliott's first love interest!

Imagination

Shelaine's the one who's blessed with imagination. I don't have it. When she was little she loved to dwell in la la land, much to my envy and dismay. If only I had the ability to imagine a little!

I tend to imagine things that could happen in real life but probably won't. Often these are centered around bizzare things I might do.

Last night at the New York Liberty v. Los Angeles Sparks game at Madison Square Garden I imagined myself running on to the court in the middle of play. I pictured myself making it undetected down the few steps to the courtside seats where Teresa Weatherspoon was sitting. Then I'd quickly run on to the court. But my imagination didn't take me to what I might do once I got out there: steal the ball, make a basket, disrupt play, perhaps. No, my imagination fast forwarded to me getting dragged off the court and being rejected from my season seat for the remainder of the season.

That wouldn't be such a terrible penalty for this season as I've watched one too many games where the difference of a few points has meant gloom rather than glory. But there will be other seasons. And my imagination doles out long-term sentences for its mischief.

My more typical imagining comes in the form of free-falls: diving into the orchestra pit at the Met from my seat in the highest balcony box; falling onto the subway tracks just as the train is coming; leaping off the stern of the cruise ship in the middle of the Aegean and getting sucked down in the swirl of the propeller wakes.

These are always followed with questions: "Will they stop the opera? Will I land between the viola and the tuba or on top of them? Will I have time to stow myself between the rails? Will my butt stick up too far and get caught in the mechanism? Will anyone notice I've dissappeared? Where does one float off to in this blackest of nights with nothing on the horizon?"

These imagined consequences keep my grounded. Holding on lest my concentration break for one brief second.

My brother was hit by a train. He was the imaginative one. A free-spirit, not dull and responsible like me.

I picture the after affect. He stands there triumphant having stopped a freight train speeding through the flatest stretch of Arizona with nothing more than his bare hand. And I am left broken in half.

My painfully strict imagination serves me well.