Here we go again. *sigh*
I’m going to have to kill one of my dearest friends. She’s passed on a fever of a craze to me and it’s because of her that I can’t quit obsessing. One of my dearest friends at Pretty In Plastic::Still Plays With Dolls is the main Dollmaker, and she has passed on to me the love of ball jointed dolls.
This is why I have accumulated such a large Photobucket album of my favorite dollies. Some of them, I cannot recall where they come from. Some are from Milkblast’s dolly blog. Others I just found online. So forgive me if I have accidentally plundered your dolly pics. I just am a big fan.
Let it be said, I do not have a lot of money. I have this obsession with seriously gorgeous jewelry. I don’t buy any, obviously… But I content myself with looking. Here are some of my favorites.
And then there’s shoes. Oh my GOD!!! SHOES!!!
Then, there’s dresses and corsets… Eeep.
As you can see, I’m a poor girl with extremely expensive taste, but at least I’m able to see reality… I don’t expect great things out of other people. I’ll spoil myself once I get the chance and everything else is squared away… Watch… I’m going to sparkle…
We have added to our little family – a little Siamese mix girl. She’s adorable. Pictures to come.
I am simple and I am plain. I am also wayward and reckless, and sometimes I cry because I feel put upon to be a certain type of person. Most times I just keep silent, and become depressed when it gets to be too much; then I wish I had words to loose upon the Earth, no matter how petty, how volatile, or how childish. I am a usually calm, worn-down representative of imperfection. The shelter I seek is not what it seems. I do not run to a place where I can drink alcohol in excess, or to a place where some sort of powdery, crystal tinted substance gleams in a tiny line down the table. My shelter is between the covers of a book or a notebook. My shelter is the rock of my life, my husband. My shelter is my faith in the Goddess. I am not a crazed, addicted shadow of myself… Rather I am a mirror image which constantly changes. I am conflict, confusion, contest, contentment, and controversy. I am constancy because I never depart from my true self. I never tire of being the changeling.
That’s how much I’m making sense today… Basically, none… I’m so tired from chasing the kidlet and moving house that I can barely think straight. I mean, we’re even getting a second cat, to keep our little guy company. Are we crazy?!
Maybe so, but there’s really no problem with it. I’ve taken care of multiple cats before, so it’s not an issue. Besides which, I know they’ll really like each other once they both adjust to the changes, and when I have to leave during the day, they’ll have company for each other.
But the new place is definitely quieter, and I definitely have a better sense of security here. It’s a gated community, with buzzer doors. So it’s definitely an upgrade. We’re paying the same per month we did with the one-bedroom, except for a FOUR-bedroom instead, and this includes all utilities, cable, and wi-fi. So we’re all happy. Especially because besides rent, the only bills we’ll have are cell phone bills and food and clothes. This saves us time and money and worry. I think my favorite part is that we have plenty of space so that everyone is happy.
The kid and I just finished eating lunch, and she’s dozing in her room. I’m sitting in the nanny’s room flipping through this women’s studies book I found: Sheila Rowbotham’s “Hidden From History: Rediscovering Women In History From The 17th Century To The Present.” I haven’t really made it through the first chapter, but I’m certainly working on it. Really, I just want a big fat nap.
The three poet cats have entered the room… They’re all looking very pointedly at the little bed I’ve got in here… I get the point, guys!
From “The Book Of Joby” by Mark J. Ferrari
The Golden Hawk
Gold of feather!
Fierce of eye!
Defiance in its hunter’s cry!
Clipped, its wings.
Baroque, its cage.
Deep, its grief and old, its rage.
Its master won it on a bet when it was just a fledgling chick. Thinking he’d acquired a pet, he clipped its wings and hung a stick for it to perch upon before his fawning friends and guests, and dream of aeries high and wild, swept clean of noisy pests.
Long it sat, and regal grew, and longed to soar but never flew. What kind of man acquires a hawk, to clip its wings so guests can gawk?
“Magnificent!” the tired refrain of flatterers who stopped to gaze, but couldn’t see the cold disdain with which the hawk returned their praise, nor notice how its talons clenched and gouged its polished perch, or feel their empty hearts laid bare by eyes God made to search.
“Damn!” the angry man would cry, “I wish to God I’d set it free! But now I dare not let it fly, for surely it would turn on me and have revenge for all the years I’ve kept it prisoner here. Why, I could never leave my house, and not look up in fear!
“There you sit, and there must stay. My mistake, but you must pay. I fear you’ve grown too fierce to flee. But then, you’ll live in luxury. I’ll guarantee you that, at least. Come now! What other bird of prey need only sit and preen and feast?”
The hawk’s cold gaze said, “Go away.”
And deep inside its master’s gut, the grubs of conscience gnawed, and whispered that he’d ruined a creature made to fly by God.
In time the man would not go near the golden bird he’d once held dear. He didn’t want it spoken of, this thing he owned but couldn’t love. He bode his servants see that it got every kind of dainty fare in hopes it would accept its lot, and cease that cold accusing stare that fixed him now from in his mind, and haunted him in dreams, in which he fled in vain to hide from angry raptor screams.
But though he never saw the bird, it chaffed him raw to know that somewhere ‘neath his roof, those eyes still glared their chill reproof, until, at last, a desperate man, knowing there would never be escape in any other plan, he told his servants, “Set it free.” It had been a year and more since had had it clipped, as no one would go near it now for fear of being ripped.
So, fearfully, they went to do the dreadful task, as ordered to, afraid that they themselves, would be the ones it raked as it went free. But some while later back they came to say the cage was open wide, but that it seemed the bird was tame, for it just sat there, still inside. And none of them, for all they tried, could get the bird to leave. It didn’t seem to comprehend the concept of “reprieve.”
So! he thought. We set it free, but here is where it wants to be! I’ve been driven mad with guilt while it’s enjoyed the nest I built!
And suddenly, where guilt had burned, leapt flames of angry fire, which quickly turned remorse and shame to proud and spiteful ire. And off he stormed to where the cage sat open on the sill, forgetting how he once had feared the bird he tried to kill.
Through the door, in righteous rage, the master burst, to find the cage… open. And the hawk inside, with one shrill cry and wings spread wide, flew forth with talons raise to rake the man who now cringed down in fear, and saw too late his great mistake. The hawk had waited for him here.
But though he lay there now, defenseless, no attack occurred. Though it could have savaged him, the mighty hawk demurred.
And when at last the master dared to look and see why he had fared so well against the hawk’s attack, he flinched to find it looking back from where it perched upon the sill, eyeing him with such disdain, that just the memory, even still, inflicts a wound of greater pain than any that its beak or talons might have tried to tear – a wound from which the man still finds no refuge anywhere.
Blazing, its eyes!
“Coward,” they said. “An earthbound bug that’s better dead.”
And then, with one defiant cry, the golden bird was in the sky.
“Watch me sail the endless blue!” screeched the soaring hawk on high. “I have sat the perch like you, but you will never learn to fly! I’d not stoop to tear the flesh of one who clipped my wings for fear!”
And then its “master” wept for shame, and watched the proud hawk disappear.
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