He put her on the table at first. It was a place she could be seen; observed in a way that made her more than just a thing but a part of the fabric of things. She was a representation. She’d sit next to the lamp his mother left him in the will, yellow light casting down on her in the pale blue room. He never worried if she fell, because she was too beautiful to fall. Besides, the shag carpet would catch her. Fiber fingers would reach up and stop her fall because she was as much of things as they were.
He didn’t like dolls. He’d always been taught to hate such delicate things, but delicate was what appealed to him. She was so different and so profoundly special and having her reminded him that there could be beautiful things in his world. There could be things that weren’t violent and angry and filthy and full of darkness. She was painted white and glowed faintly in the light. He thought perhaps she was one of those Russian style of dolls with more inside, but he was afraid to open her; too afraid to shake her to find out…
Some Thoughts:
- This porcelain doll idea came to me the other day in the place of all thoughts (and all porcelain). I don’t know where I am going with any of it or if it is just what it is. It felt like the best thing to do at this moment of today.
- Because I didn’t have anything else and I did have a moment.
- Presently my class is listening to JJ Abrams talk about the mystery box where he talks about the soul of things. I am working on a piece that doesn’t have a soul. I think I need to find that before I get to the place where I have a stronger sense of how I want things to turn out there.
- Maybe it doesn’t entirely matter how I want things to turn out, because stories have a life an energy of their own and they come from a place that is not of me but filtered through me in my voice and my way of interpreting reality. So in the end the story decides how it is meant to end.
- Sounds a lot like life that way.