I've been getting interested in doll making lately. Random, out of left field. The more I look into it, though, the more I realize I've been making little dollies ever since I was a kid...I used to make them with hairpins wrapped in thread. Sometimes I'd even take those tiny thin hairpins(the sort for wigs?) and bend them in a fish shape, then put natural things like little cut flowers or peach skin over them as clothes and let them dry.
I feel like taking that in a more adult-level direction...cloth body, then a lot of natural objects worked into the clothing, hair, and jewelry. For the past year now, I've been collecting bits of bone and shell, storing them up. I keep finding fur bits I want too, but I have mixed feelings about those...I know that's not as kind, and that a lot of people get very upset. As a former vegetarian, it makes *me* not sit right. I can't seem to find a source for fur, feathers, and the like that is both in my price range, and a hunter or someone else I could count on to kill as ethically as possible. For the moment, that aspect of my sketches will need to wait.
In the works? A Freya doll, hopefully with a gold glass bead and amber Brisingamen, and ideally a feathered cloak. I'm ready to do my first mock-up of the body, so once the craft desk is set up in my new apartment, it will be first on the agenda. I also have sketches for a kitsune girl, and a horned god. All of them, oddly enough, I decided I wanted to leave faceless.
As human beings, we really get the most out of faces, and especially for some sort of Divine or mythical creature, that seems we key into faces most, and if it's "off" or "wrong" it spoils the whole thing.
That said, it makes me wonder whether a doll like this could also be faceless for other reasons...like a veiled, enigmatic LDS Heavenly Mother.
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
Thursday, August 23, 2012
Someone to Hold Her
It was for good reason that older aunts teasingly called the pale girl Snow White. With a high soft voice and naïve blue eyes most people were shocked that she was old enough to drive, much less leave for college. Yet, here she was, new contact lenses and her retainer now nighttime-only, joking with others, trying out weapons at the local medieval combat group. Three weeks and counting with no chaperone was a euphoria of ready smiles and giggles. She was free!
The Boy was 23. He was short but muscled, his glory days the High School wrestling team. He had not served a Mormon mission at 19, but if asked about his grave social error he’d brush back his spiked sandy hair and smile as he explained it was just not something he’d wanted to do. While playing, he went out of his way trying to knock her flat on her back rather then execute a simple tap-out. She would lie on the ground, laughing if she wasn’t too winded, then hold out her hand with a trusting smile. She liked him…she wanted to kiss him and hold him more then just about anyone she had ever met, and it made her feel strange and elated that he seemed to feel the same. Beautiful, even.
There were no stars anymore in the city she came from, so on their first date, he drove her up the canyon before dinner and held her warm while she watched the stars. She had picked out her favorite of her new clothes for college; a pair of black slacks and an icy lavender sweater, simple, but v-necked, soft and just slightly clingy. She had also, very seriously and formally put on a simple black thong she had embarrassedly purchased almost a year before, hiding it somewhere her mother wouldn’t find it. The simple garment had been taken out many times, held, smiled over, and put away again. For the day she was grown up enough to wear it. Tonight, she had…nervously. She wanted no panty lines. Well put-together adults never have panty lines.
On the way back to town, he casually turned the topic to sexual experience…and she lied. Why did she lie?! She had no idea. She didn’t want to be ignorant; one who didn’t know what was going on. Ok, then…um, sure…. she’d given a guy a blow job once (blushing all the way to her hair as she said it). One little lie. A tiny lie because she was afraid that with his experience he would see her as clueless and stupid. How could that hurt?
She had never had iced tea before…it was awfully sweet and tasted odd. Not what she expected at all, and by the end of dinner she felt light and glowing. Her nerves were gone, and she didn’t pull away when he slid his arms around her. She didn’t want to go home. They rented a movie, and went to his apartment. There, she leaned her back into him as they watched, and felt his hand slide under her thin little sweater, against the underwire of her bra. She had her first for-real-no-mistaking-it kiss on that couch, and with the many that followed watched her body awaken, between her legs beginning to warm and throb. The entire room seemed to tilt and shudder as her body took charge, arching and pushing into him. With gentle teasing he got her to stand in front of him, rub against him, her small breasts and alert nipples only shielded by the thin sweater now. Her eyes felt huge and round and her lips parted in a nervous cross between a smile and the beginning of panting longing. Everything was sensation.
And all sensation came to a lurching halt as he tried to slide her hand down his pants. She felt it and froze, shocked blue eyes locked on his victorious brown ones. Oh, god, what was she doing? That had to have been his penis…why was it like that?! This was bad, this was very bad, and she should not be here. She pulled away, heart racing, smiling her most adorable and ingratiating smile, saying something about how it was late. Where was her bra? She needed to go home now…please…please…I need to go home right now…her voice high and panicked under the pleasant tone. Tears blinked away before they would make her mascara run.
It was a blur when he tried to coax her back, a blur when he pushed her down. A blur when he held her shoulders and face, and said no, she was not going home.
It was too late.
Her eyes were hollow when he slid his cock into her mouth, his hands tangled in her waist-length brown hair. Her body obeyed his instructions. The Girl was miles away.
Her body kept things running when she woke up the next morning. It used the bathroom, stumbled into the kitchen, made appropriate apologetic noises to her roommate for being out past school curfew, and reached for the bowl of fruit. She came back half-way through the banana she was holding. Banana, bile, pasta, and that strange sickly sweet iced tea came back with her memory as she raced to the bathroom. She called her best friend, crying, and then ruthlessly scrubbed her traitorous body under a steaming hot shower. Her friend was going to a football game, and so pulled strings for her to go, too. It was awful what had happened! She should not be alone right now. So she smiled and cheered and made small-talk with strangers, and dissolved into a lump on her bed when she got home, staring at the wall until night fell.
She saw her Bishop on Sunday before church. This one was a businessman of some sort, called to take care of a student ward. The sort who smiled benevolently from the pulpit, and told the students that he hoped they’d think of him as a second father. She had never met him face-to-face before. He asked about what had happened, and lingered, probing, when she blushed and stammered trying to explain the moment where she began to feel so alive…she had no words to explain arousal. He was less interested in what had happened after, and barely made a few scratches with his pen when she gave him the boy’s name. After that, though, he straightened, tugging at his navy suit coat. She did realize the seriousness of the situation, didn’t she? He didn’t think a church court was needed…this time. She should be cautious, though. She wiped her eyes again as he solemnly explained that he as her Bishop just didn’t feel that she was repentant enough. As such, she should not take the sacrament for a month, and then they would discuss the whole thing again. Perhaps by that point, The Spirit would have inspired her to be in a more penitent place.
It was only the third Sunday in her new ward. Numb and blank, she barely noticed the increase of boys talking to her after Sacrament Meeting that day, the first day of her rebuke. It was so nice everyone was being so friendly and welcoming, especially to someone like her. If they only knew, they wouldn’t be so nice.
After church, she sat on the couch, and stared at the phone. She should call her parents. Her mother, who would hover if she just talked to a boy for too long, and her father, who had drilled her on basic self-defense, and sworn that if she had anyone mistreat her, he would be on the first plane up to beat the shit out of whoever had laid a hand on his little girl. They had taught her that her heart was like a garden, and that she needed to wait to give the key to that garden to just the right man. That it was better to return home in a pine box with your virtue, then alive without it. Their first question would be, “Why? Why didn’t you fight back?!” The Ward potluck came back up at that thought.
She kept gagging, even after pasta salad and casseroles were all long gone, and felt fittingly, enjoyably empty. It was her fault. It was all her fault. She had worn immodest clothing. She had lied about her experience. She had asked for a tea drink that broke the Word of Wisdom. And She. Hadn’t. Wanted. To. Go. Home. All that telling anyone would do was hurt others. Her parents would yell at her, what little trust they had shattered because she couldn’t do something as simple as fighting back. Her friend could only do so much…it had cost her $50 and some serious strings pulled to get her into that football game. She couldn’t do that all the time. And the bishop…if she told him more he’d put her in a church court. Her father helped run those in her old stake, and she could picture herself sitting, alone, in front of a group of middle-aged men who asked her whatever questions they felt were best to determine the nature of her sin. She just wished she didn’t feel so alone. Just one person, anyone, to hold her and tell her it would be ok.
As she came back out of the bathroom, her roommate handed her the phone. It was The Boy. He hadn’t heard from her since last night, and was worried about her…was she ok? Not…worried…or anything? He was sorry if he’d been a bit rough. She was just so damn pretty. Was she doing anything tonight? No, she wasn’t. He was picking her up on his motorcycle in an hour.
She felt oddly calm as she changed into jeans. At least, tonight there would be someone there to hold her. That was all she needed.
Saturday, May 19, 2012
Sacred Silence
The moment you declare a set of ideas to be immune from criticism, satire, derision, or contempt, freedom of thought becomes impossible. --Salman Rushdi
Sunday, April 29, 2012
How About I Be Me
I have a confession to make; I am young enough that Sinead O'Connor's new album is the first of her work that I have sat down and listened to, start to finish. I'm not sure I could have stumbled onto something more timely for my life right now...isn't it unnerving when something like that happens?
This album feels like a journey to me. At my fourth listening last night I'm still getting these little "ah-hah" moments from the way the songs were put together, the word choices, and the humor mixed in with the sadness.
I've been at "4th and Vine". Getting married at 18, the plan of having six children who constantly sang their joy and love isn't too far off. Neither is the stark contrast between this opening dream and the brutal reality Of "Reason With Me". V.I.P. and Queen of Denmark are both rough and funny, breaking up the more serious points in the album even while adding their own critique to the mix.
The most difficult track for me to listen to, though, is "Take Off Your Shoes". It's no surprise for O'Connor to voiced anger at the Catholic Church. She does so, however, without specifying the issue at hand...speaking from what she has said she imagined the Holy Ghost might say. The result is quietly terrifying, a poignant expression of the pain caused by the disconnect between words and actions in organized religion.
I would reccomend this album, but would suggest approaching with care by anyone who has suffered abuse in the name of faith. While powerful and healing for me, it was also triggering.
It would seem that O'Connor has unfortunately canceled her tour for the album, due to her battle with bipolar disorder. That had to have been a tough choice to make, and (for what it's worth from a small no one in America) I applaud her for it. With you in spirit, Sinead O'Connor. You take care.
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