The Method Rugmaker

The rugmaker was making a rug with a bug on it and therefore researched bugs.  It was not enough that she drew them, dead and alive, from books and the ambient dirt, or read about them, in encyclopedias and children's books, she had to become one too.  This went on for a year.  She scuttled from bedroom to the room with the loom.  She startled.  She froze.  Her freezing, just like an insect's, was a kind of watching.  Under her loose clothing she flailed her many sets of legs.  She was consummately silent, and solitary, a shadow, a kind of dart.  She was an emporium, a magnificent theatre, furred by galleries, barely perceptible[1] as a puff of energy flitting through the arches at the far side of the marketplace, across the dry square, itself almost blocked by the shoulders of the men crowding the foreground.   Who was she that they would notice her, or her rug with a bug?  They, who were righteously preoccupied with the sale and purchase of their own rugs, on which they had woven great big vaginas, which they never pretended to be. 

---

[1] Were she perceptible, it would be as a vast crinoline, swaying north south.  Or a riverboat.   Or an angle lamp with the sole purpose of stitching eyes to fingers and wool, dissolving every frame.