Museum of Roots for Rootless People
Last time I was in Moscow for a few days, in a park on my way to the university I found many wonderful roots, lying in small heaps, invisible to anyone but me. (Oh, they were visible to everyone all right, but no one needed them. For me they were a treasure trove.) What does it mean when a rootless person finds a bunch of roots in a city of her birth? And can it be that my interest in roots is simply a way of compensating for my own rootlessness? This interpretation may seem too literal, yet there is something to it. Aware of my rootlessness, the unconscious says, “So you say you lack roots?” “Yes…”, I say. “Well”, says the unconscious,”Here are roots for you!” The unconscious is like a child, it takes things literally.
An unkempt snake, waking up after a long hibernation, rises to the music of a fakir…
