RED STAINS OUT OF CARPET : OUT OF CARPET
RED STAINS OUT OF CARPET : CARPET BLOWER DRYER
Red Stains Out Of Carpet
- Signifies rising from, as "out of a ducal coronet an eagle."
- motivated by; "idleness is the trait of being idle out of a reluctance to work"
- Refers to the horse's maternal parentage. For example: Discovery is out of Ariadne.
- (stain) color with a liquid dye or tint; "Stain this table a beautiful walnut color"; "people knew how to stain glass a beautiful blue in the middle ages"
- A colored patch or dirty mark that is difficult to remove
- (stain) a soiled or discolored appearance; "the wine left a dark stain"
- (stain) (microscopy) a dye or other coloring material that is used in microscopy to make structures visible
- A thing that damages or brings disgrace to someone or something's reputation
- A patch of brighter or deeper color that suffuses something
- form a carpet-like cover (over)
- rug: floor covering consisting of a piece of thick heavy fabric (usually with nap or pile)
- cover completely, as if with a carpet; "flowers carpeted the meadows"
- A large rug, typically an oriental one
- A thick or soft expanse or layer of something
- A floor or stair covering made from thick woven fabric, typically shaped to fit a particular room
- (of a person or their face or complexion) Flushed or rosy, esp. with embarrassment, anger, or a healthy glow
- crimson: characterized by violence or bloodshed; "writes of crimson deeds and barbaric days"- Andrea Parke; "fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing"- Thomas Gray; "convulsed with red rage"- Hudson Strode
- (of a person's eyes) Bloodshot or having pink rims, esp. with tiredness or crying
- a tributary of the Mississippi River that flows eastward from Texas along the southern boundary of Oklahoma and through Louisiana
- Of a color at the end of the spectrum next to orange and opposite violet, as of blood, fire, or rubies
- red color or pigment; the chromatic color resembling the hue of blood
Beautiful Losers - Leonard Cohen
His knowledge of ancient Greece was based entirely on a poem by Edgar Allen Poe, a few homosexual encounters with restaurateurs (he ate free at almost every soda fountain in the city), and a plaster reproduction of the Akropolis which, for some reason, he had coated with red nail polish. He had meant to use colorless nail polish merely as a preservative, but naturally he succumbed to his flamboyant disposition at the drug-store counter when confronted with that fortress of bright samples which ranged the cardboard ramparts like so many Canadian Mounties. He chose a color named Tibetan Desire, which amused him since it was, he claimed, such a contradiction in terms. The entire night he consecrated to the staining of his plaster model. I sat beside him as he worked. He was humming snatches from "The Great Pretender", a song which was to change the popular music of our day. I could not take my eyes from the tiny brush which he wielded so happily. White to vicious red, one column after another, a transfusion of blood into the powdery ruined figures of the little monument. F. was saying: I'm wearing my heart like a crown. So they disappeared, the leprous metopes and triglyphs and other wiggly names signifying purity, pale temple and destroyed altar disappeared under the scarlet glaze. F. said: Here, my friend, you finish the caryatids. So I took the brush, thus Cliton after Themistocles. F. sang: Ohohohoho, I'm the great pretender, my need is such I pretend too much, and so on - an obvious song under the circumstances but not inappropriate. F. often said: Never overlook the obvious. We were happy! Why should I resist the exclamation? I had not been so happy since before puberty. How close I came, earlier in this paragraph, to betraying that happy night! No, I will not! When we had covered every inch of the old plaster bone F. placed it on a card table in front of a window. The sun was just coming up over the sawtooth roof of the factory next door. The window was rosy and our handicraft, not yet dry, gleamed like a huge ruby, a fantastic jewel! It seemed like the intricate cradle of all the few noble perishable sentiments I had managed to preserve, and somewhere safe I could leave them. F. had stretched out on the carpet, stomach down, chin in hands supported by wrists and elbows, gazing up at the red akropolis and the soft morning beyond. He beckoned me to lie beside him. Look at it from here, he said, squint your eyes a bit. I did as he sested, narrowed my eyes, and - it burst into a cool lovely fire, sending out rays in all directions (except downward, since that was where the card table was). Don't weep, F. said, and we began to talk.
- That's the way it must have looked to them, some early morning when they looked up at it.
- The ancient Athenians, I whispered.
- No, F. said, the old Indians, the Red Men.
- Did they have such a thing, did they build an akropolis? I asked him, for I seemed to have forgotten everything I knew, lost it in stroke after stoke of the small brush, and I was ready to believe anything. Tell me, F., did the Indians have such a thing?
- I don't know.
- Then what are you talking about? Are you trying to make a damn fool of me?
- Lie down, take it easy. Discipline yourself. Aren't you happy?
- Why have you allowed yourself to be robbed?
- F., you spoil everything. We were having such a nice morning.
- Why have you allowed youself to be robbed?
- Why do you always try to humiliate me? I asked him so solemnly that I scared myself. He stood up, covered the model with a plastic Remington typewriter cover. He did this so gently, with a kind of pain, that for the first time I saw that F. suffered, but from what I could not tell.
- We almost began a perfect conversation, F. said as he turned on the six o'clock news.
One foot on the platform
Sixteen days ago I had enough of shooting and processing a film every day and I slipped back into my fall-back position of shooting myself. It had been more than three months since I had last done a self portrait, the longest I've gone without doing one since I started the daily not-a-self-portrait-every-day fiasco nine hundred and twenty seven days ago. For seventeen days I've been doing nothing but self portraits and the thing is, there is no plan, no preparing ideas in advance, I'm not going anywhere with this. Most days I lie in bed in the morning and think and as I think sometimes an idea will wander through my attention. Other times when this doesn't happen, I just walk about the flat and pick something up and I am lucky that I have a fair selection of props.
For today's shot, I remembered seeing a role of black electrical tape last night and thinking that this would be a less messy option than face paint for a day when I had to head out late morning. As I lay in bed thinking about electrical tape (yep, I did just write that), the image of an empty graphic box sested itself to me and so, plan made, I got up, breakfasted and got on with the shot.
Last week, a well-intentioned if under-thunk neighbour of my Mum's covered her snow-clad ramp in grit, following a misunderstanding with my Mum. He used a lot of grit. At lunch time today, under a very low and brightly blazing sun, with a deck scrubber and using around thirty buckets of water, I completely removed it. It took nearly two hours. My Mum will now be able to get in and out without staining her carpets red oxide. I then ate lunch and explained a few computer things, before walking home through the darkened city. And I realised, as I did so, that I have been home alone far too much recently, that I've spent too little time where people are, because being out where people were today made me feel slightly uncomfortable and that is a sign. I also found that I had little to chat to my Mum about and that is another sign. I'm going to have to crank up the effort again and get some things in my diary. I can't be having with turning mental. Again.
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