once upon a time, a geometric rug found its way onto our doorstep. it was carried in and put in the dining room, where all rolled-up geometric rugs go. it was The Boy’s rug and it would wait for The Boy to come get it. Rug waited and waited. until one day, The Boy came. Rug got excited. it knew it was going to go with The Boy and be his Rug. but The Boy gathered all the other large boxes in the dining room, which had become a holding ground for deliveries, and Rug heard him start his car and drive away. Rug panicked, thinking perhaps he had done something wrong, perhaps he wasn’t wanted. and so he sat, sad and alone, the only delivery left in the dining room, all rolled up and despondent.
until one day when we came home from the island. we walked in, carrying boxes and bins, unloading them in, of course, the dining room. there, leaning up against the cabinet, was Rug. sorrowful, lonely, dejected, left-behind Rug. i looked at the label on Rug and saw that it belonged to The Boy and so i assured Rug that we would bring him home.
like all other weird things we seem to get ourselves involved in, we decided to take the train to deliver Rug to The Boy. we could have driven directly to his door in the big city, but for reasons hard to comprehend, we picked up Rug and carried him onto the train. all three of us disembarked from the train and Rug and i looked at the gps on my phone. a beautiful day, it was only 2 miles to walk to the front door of The Boy’s place. and so, off we went. happily scampering down the sunny sidewalks of the city, a big triangle grin on Rug’s face as he anticipated his new home. we took Rug into a grocery store and rode up and down on an escalator, adventuring together. back on the street, people gawked at us walking with Rug, for it is clearly not often enough that people take rugs for a walk. when at last we got there, The Boy carefully unpackaged Rug and laid him on the floor, next to the new couch and under the new coffee table. we left Rug to uncurl and went to lunch.
in the pouring rain, walking the two miles back to the train, we talked about our next adventure. and we hoped that Rug was adjusting well.
PLEASE read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY
with the exception of the spider webs that formed in-between the metal tying posts and the snakes that took to sunning on the warm old boards of the walkway, it was charming. the old bench at the end of the dock invited us to sit. it stood stubbornly during rougher waters, its weathered patina and rusting pipes.
reverse threading 