(no subject)
A few things of note:
My icons and other Tos dealies will be going on my new artsy-fartsy journal, sihna.
HOWEVER!
I will put on here things that I find interesting, as in stories that have nothing to do with fandom.
like this one.
Dolls
I remember my old dolls, the world I had created for them. It was a world in which evil dragons enslaved innocent, elf-like beings who were rescued by a pure, white dragon who would defeat the evil ones in mortal combat. After saving the elf-like beings, the dragon would fly away, to go save another group of innocent people from a wicked pterosaur, which had a hideous, medusa-like flunky waiting for the good dragon.
In reality, the dragons were beanie babies, one of who’s name was Scorch and the other, who’s name has been lost to the annals of time and memory, and the elf-like beings merely Barbie dolls with red or yellow play dough on their plastic ears. The pterosaur was a small, rubber, glow in the dark toy, and the Medusa was a doll I had scribbled over with marker and cut its hair. Their great world stopped at the edge of my bed, and often I had characters go off it in my mini-dramas, only to be saved by someone-either the dragon, or their love interest. Other times, they would just fall off, never to be seen again until I picked them up off the ground and started over.
I loved my dolls. Rejected by my peers, or really just bullied away from them, I spent most of my days inside. I was very lonely, as anyone is that can’t play with others. So, I turned to my dolls, plastic or cloth toys that could never speak out against me, never ridicule me or betray me because I wasn’t cool or fun to be around. They were my true friends, along with books and the television.
But, for being my true friends, my treatment of the dolls was less than respectful. For some of my dolls, I was a hellish child, one who inflicted severe tortures on them. Mainly, it would be on the dolls that were both cloth and plastic: baby dolls with hair on them, or cabbage patch kids with their huge eyes and their sweet smiles that I would inflict the most torture on. Perhaps I was working out my anger and frustration, not being able to be with everyone else, that I would do such horrible acts. I would cut their hair into hideous forms, and strike marker all over their faces, then whine that they were ugly and throw them against the wall. Stuffed animals were a different matter, as I would go out of my way to cuddle them and love them as much as I possibly could.
To get any new doll was an exciting prospect. Since my mother didn’t work-or was unable to-money was tight. It still is. And I would often go over to other houses-mainly the bully’s house, who kept me away from everyone else-and see all of these toys and dolls in her closet. She would always have the best things, but instantly break them and throw them away, only to get another one. As for me, I couldn’t break them and throw them away, not even the ones that I tortured, for I knew if I got rid of them, I wouldn’t be able to get any more for a while. I hated her, and the way she would treat her dolls. Sure, I may have tortured them, but in some small way I still loved them.
On the day that is permanently etched into my mind, I had brought one of my most cherished Barbie dolls, play dough and all. After sneering at the doll, and ripping off it’s colorful and crudely made ears, we began to play in her deluxe Barbie doll house-or mansion. My doll was a servant, and her doll was the lady of the mansion. All the time, the lady ordered her poor servant to go fetch her this and that, and to wait on her hand and foot. My doll rushed to obey, but nothing was good enough for the lady, and she punished my doll gleefully and with extreme prejudice.
My mind, by this time, was already roving back to my dramas, my large plots and schemes, and I was thinking what it would be like to add an evil wizard and a woman adventurer of divine blood into the mix, when suddenly the lady of the mansion let out a huge shriek and gave her idle servant a tongue lashing, among other things. I got up, bored with this play, and told the girl that I was going to leave.
That was a bad idea, as it turned out. The girl jumped up, and demanded that I stay here with her. I said no again, and began to make the decent to the lower levels, where the door was. The girl yanked me back, ripped my doll out of my hand, popped her head off, ran to her room and threw my poor doll’s head out of her upper story window.
My wails alerted my mother and the other adults of the house, and when they came up they saw me hunched over my headless doll and pointing to the girl. She, of course, got off with it rather easily. After some frantic searching in her backyard for the doll’s head, we found it and placed it back on with a flourish. The head always was a little wobbly after that, but it was fine, so long as the doll was complete.
I don’t know when I stopped playing with my dolls, but I think by the time I had hit puberty I realized that dolls weren’t fun to play with anymore, or so I thought. For years afterward, they would sit, collecting dust, forgotten. Only recently was I reminded of them, as I was doing some spring-cleaning in my room. Their vacant, smiling faces looked at me, and it seemed as if no time at all had passed. I played with them again, on my bed, for a good half hour, remembering all my stories and drama and thinking that some of my stories were quite good. And then, after that, I gently placed them back in their box and put it up on the shelf in my closet and closed the closet doors.
My icons and other Tos dealies will be going on my new artsy-fartsy journal, sihna.
HOWEVER!
I will put on here things that I find interesting, as in stories that have nothing to do with fandom.
like this one.
Dolls
I remember my old dolls, the world I had created for them. It was a world in which evil dragons enslaved innocent, elf-like beings who were rescued by a pure, white dragon who would defeat the evil ones in mortal combat. After saving the elf-like beings, the dragon would fly away, to go save another group of innocent people from a wicked pterosaur, which had a hideous, medusa-like flunky waiting for the good dragon.
In reality, the dragons were beanie babies, one of who’s name was Scorch and the other, who’s name has been lost to the annals of time and memory, and the elf-like beings merely Barbie dolls with red or yellow play dough on their plastic ears. The pterosaur was a small, rubber, glow in the dark toy, and the Medusa was a doll I had scribbled over with marker and cut its hair. Their great world stopped at the edge of my bed, and often I had characters go off it in my mini-dramas, only to be saved by someone-either the dragon, or their love interest. Other times, they would just fall off, never to be seen again until I picked them up off the ground and started over.
I loved my dolls. Rejected by my peers, or really just bullied away from them, I spent most of my days inside. I was very lonely, as anyone is that can’t play with others. So, I turned to my dolls, plastic or cloth toys that could never speak out against me, never ridicule me or betray me because I wasn’t cool or fun to be around. They were my true friends, along with books and the television.
But, for being my true friends, my treatment of the dolls was less than respectful. For some of my dolls, I was a hellish child, one who inflicted severe tortures on them. Mainly, it would be on the dolls that were both cloth and plastic: baby dolls with hair on them, or cabbage patch kids with their huge eyes and their sweet smiles that I would inflict the most torture on. Perhaps I was working out my anger and frustration, not being able to be with everyone else, that I would do such horrible acts. I would cut their hair into hideous forms, and strike marker all over their faces, then whine that they were ugly and throw them against the wall. Stuffed animals were a different matter, as I would go out of my way to cuddle them and love them as much as I possibly could.
To get any new doll was an exciting prospect. Since my mother didn’t work-or was unable to-money was tight. It still is. And I would often go over to other houses-mainly the bully’s house, who kept me away from everyone else-and see all of these toys and dolls in her closet. She would always have the best things, but instantly break them and throw them away, only to get another one. As for me, I couldn’t break them and throw them away, not even the ones that I tortured, for I knew if I got rid of them, I wouldn’t be able to get any more for a while. I hated her, and the way she would treat her dolls. Sure, I may have tortured them, but in some small way I still loved them.
On the day that is permanently etched into my mind, I had brought one of my most cherished Barbie dolls, play dough and all. After sneering at the doll, and ripping off it’s colorful and crudely made ears, we began to play in her deluxe Barbie doll house-or mansion. My doll was a servant, and her doll was the lady of the mansion. All the time, the lady ordered her poor servant to go fetch her this and that, and to wait on her hand and foot. My doll rushed to obey, but nothing was good enough for the lady, and she punished my doll gleefully and with extreme prejudice.
My mind, by this time, was already roving back to my dramas, my large plots and schemes, and I was thinking what it would be like to add an evil wizard and a woman adventurer of divine blood into the mix, when suddenly the lady of the mansion let out a huge shriek and gave her idle servant a tongue lashing, among other things. I got up, bored with this play, and told the girl that I was going to leave.
That was a bad idea, as it turned out. The girl jumped up, and demanded that I stay here with her. I said no again, and began to make the decent to the lower levels, where the door was. The girl yanked me back, ripped my doll out of my hand, popped her head off, ran to her room and threw my poor doll’s head out of her upper story window.
My wails alerted my mother and the other adults of the house, and when they came up they saw me hunched over my headless doll and pointing to the girl. She, of course, got off with it rather easily. After some frantic searching in her backyard for the doll’s head, we found it and placed it back on with a flourish. The head always was a little wobbly after that, but it was fine, so long as the doll was complete.
I don’t know when I stopped playing with my dolls, but I think by the time I had hit puberty I realized that dolls weren’t fun to play with anymore, or so I thought. For years afterward, they would sit, collecting dust, forgotten. Only recently was I reminded of them, as I was doing some spring-cleaning in my room. Their vacant, smiling faces looked at me, and it seemed as if no time at all had passed. I played with them again, on my bed, for a good half hour, remembering all my stories and drama and thinking that some of my stories were quite good. And then, after that, I gently placed them back in their box and put it up on the shelf in my closet and closed the closet doors.