The Doll Collector - Revised Blog #10 (CRW150)

The Doll Collector


She rushes up the concrete walkway and painted wooden stairs to the stoop,
where she inserts her key in the lock of the old, studious door and enters.
Dropping her bag, scarf and keys in a worn chair beside the entrance, she kicks off
her heels as her gaze fixates on a smaller door directly in front of her.

Rushing over to it, she turns the knob and enters its narrow, winding stairway
full of wonder and magic. It twists up and to the left with light shining as she
pulls a hanging string. Small apothecary drawers fill the entire wall on each side,
all mismatched colors with little gleaming knobs.

The further she climbs, the brighter it becomes as an octagonal window at the
top lets in sparkling light to explore this hidden world along with her. Pulling
open select drawers, she finds the precious items she seeks, collecting them in a
basket, as she hums happily to herself. This seems to be the part she most enjoys;
the gathering of tiny ideas to put together a grand scene to film and edit.

She’s curated all these tiny bits and baubles over the years, creating this
exclusive space for them, tucked away safely, from prying eyes and stray fingers.
She is a collector, and as one collects, it is imperative to have a space to safely
store items of great value, if not to the world, then to the amasser.

This tiny escape, under the stairs, that winds upward and around to the
window, is that space for all her fabulous finds. They are carefully housed and
tucked away here, until needed and then they come out to be grouped together;
photographed and shared with the world.

Like a timeless tradition of her essence acquiring these poured over flea
market and antique store finds, to have them find new life living among her rare
collection of cast-offs. And bring joy to an array of eyes as they encounter novel
photographed storylines.

The life of a doll collector is never easy. It is the endless hunt for new
props, dolls, clothing items, creating from vintage fabrics. Pairing new dolls with
old stuffed animals to produce imaginary storylines that intrigue and capture
hearts and minds.

There tend to be endless ideas flowing through her. So off she goes to her
secret closet under the stairs, pulling dolls that she keeps in drawers from a
bureau. Seeking accessories to create the adventures of Alice, a mermaid and
beloved bears baby’s birth, or glimpses of big eyes wondering who the ‘new guy’ is.

Some ideas are written down for later use, but usually it all comes as fast as
lightening. Then hands will find the right dolls in a drawer and feet will lead the
way to the correct step containing the perfect accessory. Add some music, a special
effect, film oneself running up stairs or hanging a pendant, closing a door in a
picturesque outfit and Wha-la! A story will be born.
SL 4/30/23

Romance (CRW150 Post #9)

Romance

Arms outstretched on bed,
silken nightie lay on rug,
winter light peeking in.

Rich smell of hot brew.
Smiles greet one another,
swallows chirp a welcome.

Childish laughter sails through air,
meal is ready,
sunset hums long goodnight.

It's Never Too Late (CRW150 - #8)

“It is never too late to be what you might have been”, George Elliot, has been on my frig for years. I see it every day and oftentimes I don’t even notice it. But when I stop to drink something, standing alongside my refrigerator, I see this quote and read it again. And I think, ‘Yes”, I can’t go backwards and do things over again the way I could have or should have done them in the first place. But I can move forward in the knowledge that every day is another opportunity to do things differently, to try again and this time, not to fuck it all up. At least with some things.

So, even though I wasn’t sure who even wrote this quote in the first place, it stuck with me all these years and struck a chord inside my mind, to be better and do more. Not because someone else told me to do so, but because I wanted it for myself, for my own life. Because I chose to honor a life I had already been given.

George Eliot wrote this quote in 1884 and it is still as valid as it was then, over one hundred and thirty years ago. We live with so many regrets today, as individuals and as a society. It is nice to think we are not at the bottom of anything and if we are, we can climb up to keep going. I’m all for that. We all hit rock bottom or find ourselves in places doing things, when all we want to do is the thing we’ve always wanted to do; the thing that calls to our very souls. It doesn’t mean hang up everything and leave it all behind, it means to take time for the other things you may want as well. Or go back and finish what you started, enjoy the life you have and don’t give up.

Some of us actually get to accomplish what we set out to do in life and we love doing it. But, lets face it, most of us do not. We are working to earn a living to support ourselves and our families. And along the way, our hopes and dreams got lost. There just wasn’t enough money or a way to make them work, so they were abandoned. But that doesn’t mean they should stay that way, it just means we have to try harder to find a way to make them come true. And to become what fulfills us, to be what we wee mean to always be, because it is never to late. I feel that sometimes taking chances, stepping out of our security and risking our comfort and complacency, can be daunting, but an important segway gaining the support, knowledge and opportunities we need to accomplish new goals.

I was a single mom for over twenty-three years and had the opportunity to finally go back to school and believe me, it was exciting. Along the way, I also developed new skills as I helped my kids and their community of co-op education. This grew into job opportunities in theater that helped me build two separate resumes over the years as I worked with outstanding actors and directors here in the valley. So, you just never know what will come your way when you least expect it and when you are open to new possibilities.

I am still exploring the person I was always meant to be, as I enjoy writing and art.

Pauley (CRW150 - Post #7)

Kathy Cannless and I were walking back from the barber shop, sucking on jolly rancher sticks, when I spotted our classmate.
“There’s Pauley”, I said gesturing with my green candy.
Kathy looked up from her book and nodded, “Oh yeah, hey Pauley”.
Pauley waved and ran up to us, his red hair flapping in the wind.
“He looks like a pirate ship flag, coming in for a landing!”, I chuckled.
Kathy looked up again from her book, “Oh yeah, he does!”
Pauley stops in front of us, eyeing our faces and candy filled grins, “Whatcha laughing about?”
“Oh nothing”, I start to say before Kathy starts talking over me.
“Your hair, flying in the wind”.
“What about it?”, asks Pauley, looking from Kathy to me and back to Kathy.
“Well, Sheena said it…”
“No, I didn’t”, I try to silence Kathy.
Kathy takes her candy out of her mouth and looks directly at me, “Yes, you did”.
“What did Sheena say about my hair?”, asks Pauley looking straight at Kathy.
“Kathy, don’t!”, I plead as I push towards her.
Pauley puts his hand on my shoulder and asks again, “Kathy, tell me about my hair, please?”
Kathy looks serious for a brief moment and then giggles. “She said it looked like the flag on a pirate ship!”, and sticks her candy back into her mouth.
Pauley turns to face me as I try to wriggle free from his hand holding my shoulder.
“Arrgh, Matey, I outta make ye walk the plank for that kinda talk!”
I scream in delight and begin laughing so hard I drop my candy in the grass! Pauley bends over, picks it up, wipes it off and sticks it in his mouth. “Yo ho! A pirate’s life for me!”
“Pauley!” We both gasp at him. Kathy’s laughing and I’m astonished!

Turn Back the Clock and Begin Again (CRW150 - #6)

I really haven’t any brains, you know. And I might have to go into settings to change that… if only I could find my settings. But thus far, it has been a fruitless endeavor. I’m really not sure why, except for the absenteeism brain problem. That seems to be the root of all my issues these days.

You see it all started when I was talking to the saguaro, who was then whispering to the Ocotillo, when the Prickly pear interrupted. Prickly pears are known to be, um, kinda prickly and rude. Next thing you know the saguaro and the Ocotillo have turned away and I am left in an argument with the damnable prickly pear, who’s name is Russ, by the way. It seems that Russ thought I had insulted his violet flower, behind his back. What?! I didn’t even know Russ was even in bloom. Maybe that’s why he was overly sensitive and maybe misheard incorrectly.

Well, one thing leads to another and before ya know it, Russ had slapped my cup of TEECHINO out of my hand! The nerve of that guy! Plus, Pricklys leave little pointy spines behind and the side of my hand was full of them, where he’d made contact. So, I began yelping in pain, stood up, hit my head on an overgrown flowering lantana bush and fell directly into its folds, losing my brain out my biggest ear. Holy Case for Christ!

As I lay limp and wounded, in the yellow and purple hues of the tangled mass of lantana overgrowth, I think I also smacked my left eye because I kept seeing “The Wolves of Winter” approaching me cautiously as their skins covered companion lowered his bow to look me over. But I don’t think this is what Ken Payne had in mind for this statue or maybe I just need to fight my way out of this lantana filled nightmare.

Back on solid ground, I feel fuzzy headed and my left ear is wet, but it doesn’t dawn on me yet that I’m missing a major part of my anatomy. I just feel the pain in my hand and all the funny smelling leaves on my clothes, look down and see my nametag; “Lee Strobel” on my shirt. Guess I forgot to take that off when I got home from working at the HAND SANITIZER Shop.

Darting a quick look to make sure I’m not being followed by Russ, I call my friend, Pablo and ask for a ride to my chiropractor.
“Yes, I know, Pablo, But I think getting in to see my chiropractor will really help me”.
Now, if I could just figure out where I put my phone, as I look at the hand I seem to be talking to.
See what I mean? Losing your mind is one thing, losing your brain is an entirely different situation and really not that much fun either.

Great American Quotes - (CRW150 -Post #5)

“Whoever is happy will make others happy too. He who has courage and faith will never perish in misery!” -Anne Frank, The Diary of a Young Girl
Anne Frank wrote this famous quote of hers between 1942-1944, in her diary or on sheets of paper, while she was in hiding with her family in Nazi occupied Germany. She was a young teenage girl, between the ages of 13 to 15 years old when she wrote it and wanted to see the world, become a writer and grow up to do great things with her life.

Things she never got to do because she was a Jewish girl, living in subjugated Germany, under Hitler’s reign of terror. This was a time and place where all Jews were to be exterminated, like cockroaches sprayed with insecticide. A horrifying nightmare, for those who harbored or helped a Jewish friend, neighbor or colleague and would be sent to the gas chambers for their indiscretions.

But young Anne, even in constant fear of being caught and taken away to a concentration camp and separated from her family, never lost hope. She knew there was good in people and wanted to believe that if you have happiness inside of you, this would spread outward to others and buoy them as well. Happiness could catch on and sustain you even in the darkest of times. You could not let fear rule you and must keep that faith, until the very end.

Because Anne was young and relatively inexperienced with worldly troubles, up to this point, she could view life in a singular lens that offered happiness and the goodness of others as a true certainty in individuals. ‘Pressing on’ despite all seems like such a noble cause, until you are actually ‘in the trenches’ and have to put your words into action. (Logos)

Anne didn’t live long enough to bring us to the ‘other side’ with her, so we have to evaluate her character on what she left behind; her writings. And the world she existed in; the museum, online tours of her actual home, her book, the continual findings of pages she has written, even more than seventy years after her death. (Ethos) www.annefrank.org.

There are two takeaways here, one is empathetic for her plight and therefore in awe of what actually occurred to not only Anne and her family but to over six million murdered Jews, not including those non-Jews. The other is that the Holocaust didn’t actually happen and therefore photos and other documents were forged. (Pathos)

However, if you were to believe the second hypothesis, you would also have to swallow quite a lot more, like all those survivors walking around with ugly number tattoos all over their arms. And the similar stories cropping up all over Germany and then spreading like wildfire after the allies went in and began disassembling Hitler’s regime and freeing those still alive in the more than one thousand concentration camps. Take a deeper dive at https://hmh.org/about/25-facts-about-holocaust/ (Kairos)

And despite all this, I feel that young Anne was onto something after all, that happiness can actually be attained and shared. That it should be embraced as a treasured gift and that no matter what our lot in life, we need to strive for courage and faith, even in the face of misery. Because dying without these attributes leaves us nothing but hollow shells, who haven’t even tried to be or do anything noteworthy in our foolishly misspent lives.

Reach for the stars, my friends!
Shosy ^_^

The Moses of Her Day (Post 4 - CRW150)

Harriet Tubman, or Moses as she was oft referred to, was a slight woman, whom one would never suspect of being the instigator or ‘Conductor’ of the “Underground Railroad’.
Tubman, was born in either the year 1820 or 22 in Maryland as a slave, but throughout her ninety-one years she not only managed to accomplish a lot, but ended up dying a free woman.

Tubman was christened Araminta “Minty’ Ross and was one of nine children. Harriet was rented out to a neighbor at age five and then at age twelve, she was hit in the head with an approximate two-pound weight, due to her interjecting herself in the beating of another slave. This injury was left untreated and began her lifelong association with headaches, seizures and narcolepsy.

But Tubman strove to be freed from slavery and to free others along with her, mainly family members. By age twenty-seven, she succeeded in gaining her freedom via the ‘Underground Railroad’, and then went back time and time again to assist others in gaining their own freedom from oppressing slavery.

Assisting her along the way were other abolitionists such as Frederick Douglass, Thomas Garrett and Martha Coffin Wright, who went on to continue this and other work on behalf of slaves and women’s suffrage. It was rumored that Tubman helped over 200 slaves gain passage to freedom, so there was a $40, 000 bounty on her. However, reality may be estimated to be more like 70 plus and a $300 reward from her mistress for the capture of Tubman and her two brothers.

Harriet married twice, changing her name to Harriet, after her mother the first time and was several occupations over her lifetime; a Nurse, Cook, Laundress, Spy, Scout and established a home for the elderly. All in all, Harriet Tubman, was a force to be reckoned with as she helped to transform our world in to a better place.
Thanks for Reading - Let's all be inspired for the month of February ^_^! Take care, Sho

WG; ‘Discovering Your Continent’ (CRW150 Blog Post #3)

Doors, I love doors.
I come across one now, as it sits almost hidden in a field of sunflowers.
But I notice a faint outline and wander closer.
I touch it and it feels like the textured surface of a sunflower, yet with softened petals overlaying the surface.
I look down to my left and see a golden bee looking upward towards the sky, transfixed, not moving and realize this must be the door’s handle.
I gently touch it – it feels smooth like polished porcelain and it immediately springs open allowing me to enter.

When I place my foot over the threshold, I notice the air smells sharp, like fresh lavender and the light is a bit dimmer, more of a rosy hue. There are big dragonfly-like insects buzzing around and hummingbirds in slow motion stopping to look at me.
Fuzzy ferns seem to sprout and trail from almost every surface along with a myriad of colorful fluted flowers, with bee faces peeking out of them to watch me slowly walk by on a thick carpet of bright purple grass.
Gravity has seemed to lift in this tepid place as slow motion takes ahold, leaving every movement bigger and longer. But you seem to be able to take in everything all at once, not missing a single detail or nuance.

I can hear roaring like a grizzly close by, but it doesn’t seem to frighten me for some reason.
A ‘whapping’ noise comes from overhead, causing a shadow to appear along with it. I look up, shading my eyes out of instinct, although there doesn’t seem to be a need to here, and slowly begin to see a very large, long billed bird-like creature. It is making its way across the pinkened sky towards a hole in a mound of sorts. There are some letters over the top of the mound that seem to read ‘Th Futur’. Hmm, maybe they don’t like ‘E’s here.

Then the grizzly roaring gets closer and the firefly creatures all turn towards it, causing me to do the same. As we stand there waiting, I can feel the ground tremble a bit. Suddenly, a hairy creature advances from the mist to stand before me. I look up at this somewhat tall creature and ask, “Yeti?”.
To which he replies, “Just Yed”.
“Oh”, I answer “Yed”.
“And you are?” asks Yed.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I’m Shosy. Nice to meet you, Yed”.
“You too, Shosy”, replies Yed.

Wondering what to say or do next, Yed and I just begin to walk together naturally, as if we’ve known one another for a long time. It’s an easy camaraderie and we simply ‘go with the flow’, walking and talking a bit here and there. I ask Yed about himself and the place I’m now at and he, in return asks me about myself and how I got here. Apparently, out of all the flowers in this land, there are no sunflowers, so Yed has never seen one.
But then again, I’ve never met a Yeti up close and personal, nor walked around in apparent slow motion either.
So, I suppose we learn something new every day.
I promise next time I visit, I’ll bring Yed a sunflower.

SL
1/31/23

The Novelty (Post 2 – CRW150)

There are many things that tag along on a daily basis, struggling to irritate me. I could list them for you, just to give you a run-down. But instead, I’ll simply allude to them and see if you can put your fingers on my meanings, how does that sound? After all, why be so straight forward, when it would be much more fun to puzzle it out a bit. You know, use our noggins.

Endless scraps of papers, taking up room in folders, scrunched at the bottom of bags with no where to go. The writing disappears over time, like faded thoughts of energies well spent. So, what to do with them? Personally, if you know what I’m speaking of, I have a burn day. It’s so satisfying to watch it all go up in smoke!

Then there are continuous electronic trails, leading to everyone jumping on board the runaway conveyance to have their say. After one or two, I’m out, taking the passage going in the opposite direction.
And while it’s sparkling eye candy to peek through all those thoughts and pics on a regular basis, I’d much rather sit and create for a while, to let my mind wander and enjoy the space on the outside of a screen.

However, life in general can be bothersome; debts that need more funds no matter how much you constantly feed them, cars that need expensive new rubber to carry them around on, a patch that’s not supposed to be green yet it’s now overflowing! Call the landscaper and rub off those bills into his gloves.

Don’t forget to renew remedies, so you don’t get ill, and nourish those whiskery mouths before they trample the house apart. These aren’t really hassles but rather responsibilities that can sometimes be a bit of a burden because you are always rushing around like a dervish!

But, for some reason, if we didn’t have little or big things in life to bother us, would we appreciate the calm, peaceful times at all? Would we be able to wander barefoot through slowly dying embers of the firepit just to dare one another? Or scratch a piggy hiney and feel satisfaction? Or lay in a bathtub with no water, just to hear ourselves breathe?
I think not.
I think these are all novelties of my weird, random world, where I endure the inconvenience of miscellaneous displeasures. And I’d not trade it for anyone else’s.

I Am A Writer

I Am A Writer (Post 1 CRW150)

Yes, I can finally acknowledge that I am a writer (mainly a poet, but also a composer of lyrical images put together by strings of words or verses). Do you know I actually read my very first prose poem today and it was enlightening, imaginative, intriguing and exhilarating. To see a poem written in another form, as a paragraph and in a kind of narrative format, was the visual I needed. I can hardly wait to replicate this process in my own writing.

You may not know this about me, but I am a visual person, as well as a tactile individual. I lost my sight a few years ago, for a few months and while it was a learning experience for me personally, I still drew. One of my sons told me my art was actually better when I was blind, to which I found fascinating. I think it may have been either my color choices or my subject matter at the time but not sure which.

Yet to see a poem, in a ‘new’ format (to me) is stimulating. I try to push boundaries all the time with my writing; my poems do not rhyme, I rap in them at times, cuss at certain times, I push words across the page instead of starting [left margin, add several fonts per piece, mix two poems in one…the list goes on. You cannot let your writing grow stagnant, it must grow and change as we do as individuals.

And, I contend my poetry is therapy for my weary soul. It helps eliminate the urinal displeasures from my discontented urethra. And much of it I keep to myself because it simply is not for human consumption. But then there can be Pixie Dust or a rocking chair involved and it may make someone smile, which is a nice feeling.

Contests can and have been won or at the very least honorable mentions have surfaced, but the way you make someone feel is what writing is all about. So, maybe my therapy writing has helped a few along the way as I’ve struggled a bit here and there in my quest for visualizing and feeling my way through the dark.
Because that’s what writers do and I’m a writer.