Chintz drapes, cottage gardens, and being at home

When I was a child I would lie in bed in the morning, and looking at the chintz drapes covering my bedroom window I could see faces in the drape’s patterns. Even as a child I took these faces for granted and knew they were a creation of my own imagination. And this is what we do as children, we enter a land of make believe, we create a narrative of the imagination, and it is an activity that seems as natural to a child as sleep. Only much later do we realize that things such as this are also an entrance to the soul, and this includes an assortment of imaginal work, it includes dreams and being creative, for me, for no reason at all, I began writing poetry. An active imagination also includes archetypes and symbolism, in this case the symbolism of windows is important, think of window symbolism in Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights. A window is like a picture frame surrounding the outside world; it is a moment caught in space and time, a moment celebrating life; it is an entrance to the soul.

My friend, George Johnston, was a member of the William Morris Society of Canada, and one day he told me he was scheduled to address the Society on some aspect of William Morris's philosophy and art; it was Morris who raised the art and design of chintz to a new level of sophistication. Anyone interested in W.B. Yeats might enjoy reading The Yeats Sisters: A Biography of Susan and Elizabeth Yeats (1996) by Joan Hardwick. In addition to learning more about the sisters of probably the greatest poet of the Twentieth Century, Susan and Elizabeth Yeats made a living in London working for William Morris and his daughter, May Morris, but it was not a pleasant experience. When one thinks of chintz fabric, or of wallpaper, one thinks of Morris's designs. Chintz fits in with cottage gardens and cottages, the arts and crafts movement, and it is part of the ambience of cosiness, making one's home welcoming and warm, a place that is a sanctuary from the outside world, a place of refuge where one can think one’s own thoughts and let one’s imagination go where it will. There is a healing quality to this, healing that is found in an environment not far removed from nature, it is healing that is possible for our inner being.                                          

Looking at the chintz drapes that I recently put up in a room in our home, I now see the psychic (as in “psyche”, the soul) quality of this fabric, the drapes seem to continue inside the room what exists only a few feet outside, they are a transition between the outside and the inside of one’s home. Chintz drapes embrace the outside world, they are an extension of the outside world, the garden, flowers, shrubs, and trees, the sky, clouds, rain, snow, and birds inhabiting the sky. There is a conservative repetition of certain patterns and motifs in these drapes, including flowers, vines, and greenery. Household furnishings—carpets, easy chairs, table lamps, bridge lamps, bookshelves, books, visual art on the walls, the colour of the walls, and drapes—all assume a oneness, and the garden is an extension of the rooms in one’s home to the natural world outside, the two becoming one. In order to discover what it means to be fully human, one’s environment needs to be a reflection of one’s inner being, and know that it can be a life lived sanely in an increasingly disturbed world. There is nothing modern about chintz or a cottage garden or being home, they breathe security and comfort.

             

                   

                   

Photos above taken 22 May 2025

"Ozymandias" by Percy Bysshe Shelley

Percy Bysshe Shelley

I met a traveller from an antique land,

Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,

Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,

And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,

The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;

And on the pedestal, these words appear:

My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;

Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare

The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

"Desolation Row" by Bob Dylan

 

1965

They’re selling postcards of the hanging
They’re painting the passports brown
The beauty parlor is filled with sailors
The circus is in town
Here comes the blind commissioner
They’ve got him in a trance
One hand is tied to the tight-rope walker
The other is in his pants
And the riot squad they’re restless
They need somewhere to go
As Lady and I look out tonight
From Desolation Row

Cinderella, she seems so easy
“It takes one to know one,” she smiles
And puts her hands in her back pockets
Bette Davis style
And in comes Romeo, he’s moaning
“You Belong to Me I Believe”
And someone says, “You’re in the wrong place my friend
You better leave”
And the only sound that’s left
After the ambulances go
Is Cinderella sweeping up
On Desolation Row

Now the moon is almost hidden
The stars are beginning to hide
The fortune-telling lady
Has even taken all her things inside
All except for Cain and Abel
And the hunchback of Notre Dame
Everybody is making love
Or else expecting rain
And the Good Samaritan, he’s dressing
He’s getting ready for the show
He’s going to the carnival tonight
On Desolation Row

Now Ophelia, she’s ’neath the window
For her I feel so afraid
On her twenty-second birthday
She already is an old maid
To her, death is quite romantic
She wears an iron vest
Her profession’s her religion
Her sin is her lifelessness
And though her eyes are fixed upon
Noah’s great rainbow
She spends her time peeking
Into Desolation Row

Einstein, disguised as Robin Hood
With his memories in a trunk
Passed this way an hour ago
With his friend, a jealous monk
He looked so immaculately frightful
As he bummed a cigarette
Then he went off sniffing drainpipes
And reciting the alphabet
Now you would not think to look at him
But he was famous long ago
For playing the electric violin
On Desolation Row

Dr. Filth, he keeps his world
Inside of a leather cup
But all his sexless patients
They’re trying to blow it up
Now his nurse, some local loser
She’s in charge of the cyanide hole
And she also keeps the cards that read
“Have Mercy on His Soul”
They all play on pennywhistles
You can hear them blow
If you lean your head out far enough
From Desolation Row

Across the street they’ve nailed the curtains
They’re getting ready for the feast
The Phantom of the Opera
A perfect image of a priest
They’re spoon feeding Casanova
To get him to feel more assured
Then they’ll kill him with self-confidence
After poisoning him with words
And the Phantom’s shouting to skinny girls
“Get Outa Here If You Don’t Know
Casanova is just being punished for going
To Desolation Row”

Now at midnight all the agents
And the superhuman crew
Come out and round up everyone
That knows more than they do
Then they bring them to the factory
Where the heart-attack machine
Is strapped across their shoulders
And then the kerosene
Is brought down from the castles
By insurance men who go
Check to see that nobody is escaping
To Desolation Row

Praise be to Nero’s Neptune
The Titanic sails at dawn
And everybody’s shouting
“Which Side Are You On?”
And Ezra Pound and T. S. Eliot
Fighting in the captain’s tower
While calypso singers laugh at them
And fishermen hold flowers
Between the windows of the sea
Where lovely mermaids flow
And nobody has to think too much
About Desolation Row

Yes, I received your letter yesterday
(About the time the doorknob broke)
When you asked how I was doing
Was that some kind of joke?
All these people that you mention
Yes, I know them, they’re quite lame
I had to rearrange their faces
And give them all another name
Right now I can’t read too good
Don’t send me no more letters no
Not unless you mail them
From Desolation Row

"The Window" by Diana di Prima

 

you are my bread

and the hairline

noise

of my bones

you are almost

the sea

you are not stone

or molten sound

I think

you have no hands

this kind of bird flies backward

and this love

breaks on a windowpane

where no light talks

this is not time

for crossing tongues

(the sand here

never shifts)

I think

tomorrow

turned you with his toe

and you will

shine

and shine

unspent and underground

"I Pity the Poor Immigrant" by Bob Dylan

 

Allan Line, immigrants arriving in Montreal, around 1910

I pity the poor immigrant
Who wishes he would've stayed home
Who uses all his power to do evil
But in the end is always left so alone
That man whom with his fingers cheats
And who lies with every breath
Who passionately hates his life
And likewise, fears his death

I pity the poor immigrant
Whose strength is spent in vain
Whose heaven is like ironsides
Whose tears are like rain
Who eats but is not satisfied
Who hears but does not see
Who falls in love with wealth itself
And turns his back on me

I pity the poor immigrant
Who tramples through the mud
Who fills his mouth with laughing
And who builds his town with blood
Whose visions in the final end
Must shatter like the glass
I pity the poor immigrant
When his gladness comes to pass

"England in 1819" by Percy Bysshe Shelley

 

An old, mad, blind, despised, and dying King;

Princes, the dregs of their dull race, who flow

Through public scorn,—mud from a muddy spring;

Rulers who neither see nor feel nor know,

But leechlike to their fainting country cling

Till they drop, blind in blood, without a blow.

A people starved and stabbed in th' untilled field;

An army, whom liberticide and prey

Makes as a two-edged sword to all who wield;

Golden and sanguine laws which tempt and slay;

Religion Christless, Godless—a book sealed;

A senate, Time’s worst statute, unrepealed—

Are graves from which a glorious Phantom may

Burst, to illumine our tempestuous day.

What Means Something

Images of Justin Trudeau; Justin in blackface, around 2000 (left); Justin on his last day as prime minister in 2025, taking with him a chair as a souvenir (right). Perhaps sticking out his tongue means something to him. 

 

My lament is not based on philosophy but on tradition. If one cannot be sure about the answer to the most important questions, then tradition is the best basis for the practical. 

                        --Lament for a Nation (1965), George Grant 

What do we believe, what gives life meaning, what means something? We are searching for meaning in the material world because all around us tradition and values are questioned or considered obsolete. Society is now firmly divided between liberals and conservatives. Liberals tend to smugness in their claiming to know what is right and what is wrong about everything, while many conservatives (in North America) tend to lie low avoiding having to deal with liberal intolerance, heckling, tongue sticking out, and the usually unacknowledged liberal bias. Liberals assume their superior intelligence, even their moral superiority; conservatives are usually in hiding, lying to pollsters and their liberal friends, and tolerating the latest attack on their intelligence and integrity. Most of the media, including the CBC and the BBC, have a fairly obvious liberal bias.  

What Justin Trudeau, our former prime minister, promoted, it all failed: whether in housing, immigration, education, medical care, social reform, the military, the national debt and deficit, legalized euthanasia, legalized marijuana, it all failed, it’s all worse; I think of John Cage's famous statement, “don’t try to improve the world, you’ll only make it worse.” What Justin Trudeau did was never thought out as to its consequences and how it would seriously affect the country in a negative way; no wonder his approval rating was about 15% before he was forced into resigning. 

Justin never considered that there is really only one thing people want and that is freedom, everything else comes second; freedom is not provided by increased government involvement with people's lives. Freedom refers to the individual and the individual's rights, including freedom of thought, freedom of speech, freedom of religion, freedom of assembly, freedom of movement, freedom to be  left alone, and freedom to own property. What Justin  brought with him was increased government involvement in people's lives, not freedom, not individual responsibility. And he wanted to impose online censorship; we were expected to pay for what Justin legislated and give up our free speech. 

Edited: 19 May 2025