I’ve wanted to make some curtains for windows in my apartment out of some vintage Indian saris I’ve been stockpiling for a long time. I liked the look and idea of a window scarf or scarf valance but needed to be able to hang a window scarf / valance without a curtain rod or wall sconces since I am not allowed to hang rods over my windows or drill holes in the walls of my apartment.
I wanted it to kinda look like this only without a rod or sconces. Source
I decided to try to hang the saris by clipping metal drapery rings onto two inch nails and looping the saris through the holes in the rings.
There is a part of me that will always love pests like pigeons or houseflies or starlings. It’s the part of me that thinks the maligned often have their own value, their own stories to tell when we get to know them.
After all, I once was that person in school. I was teased, as so many kids were teased, as being without value to my peers.
So when I see a maligned animal species that people have assigned as being without value to them (often through very little thought or speculation), I see myself in it.
Besides, there is something respectable, even heroic, in the scrappy survivor.
It was a normal day of camp. The first day actually. Half a dozen third and forth graders were bent over a picture of my mother in her serious Twiggy years as a teenager.
Their task was to invent a character portrait for the woman in the photo, and they were doing a typical job of it.
Already they had decided:
- She had one neon green eye and one neon gray eye which both glowed in the dark as she slept in her red velvet bedroom.
- She was a professional murderer who invited people over to tea only to stab them when they were not looking.
- She ate chocolate covered crickets, blood crickets, and human finger cheese.
This is when things got weird. They also decided:
- She lived in a decrepit, old mansion haunted by a friendly ghost named Hari Cari and an evil, haunted doll named Annabelle.
That is when things changed, though we did not know it at first.
Earlier this summer, the kids in one of the creative writing camps I teach through The Cabin Idaho (a Boise-based literary center) came up with an imaginary troll named Evil Knievel that haunts the tiny, hobbit-looking supply closet in one of the classrooms there.
It’s a total hobbit hole, only rectangular.
Naturally, after the kids had invented it, they wanted to feed it.
So they started drawing pictures of food and slipping them under the door for the troll.
My family is weird, and so my childhood was weird too. It’s the kind of childhood where you might stay up all night raking leaves to spell out an expletive or something gross across the yard for your parents to see when they get up in the morning.
We were the weird kids on our block. The kids the other kids would not cross the street to talk to.