Flashback Part 1

Making my eyelids open was not something I found at all appealing this morning. On the other hand, keeping them closed and living in the land of nightmares wasn't something I was willing to do one second longer, so open them I did. Baby B was sound asleep, and a snorer. For that I was grateful, because I knew she wouldn't see the tears rolling down my face, hear my heart beat that seemed to pound out of my chest, or realize that something was wrong. Baby B seemed quite peaceful in her slumber, and I lay there and wept beside her.


FLASHBACK
We were hiding that night, behind the back of the cellar stairs, next to the cobwebs and the remnants of rat droppings. There was a stale smell in the air, and one of dampness that I thought would permeate our skin if we breathed for very long. Angel Face had this look of pure horror on her pale, porcelain face and all she could do was hold her hand over our mouths and pray our breathing was silent. We could hear him upstairs, between the cracks of the floor boards, his screams seemed to stretch out and grab us by the collar. This had happened before, when Angel Face's mother was out visiting her with her bridge group, but this night seemed different. This time, I sensed there was a real possibility that we may not survive this night. And just about then, the cellar door opened. 


I couldn't lay in the bed any longer for fear my sobs would wake Baby B, so I ever so slowly pulled back the covers, being careful not to send a chill to her legs, and put the blanket back just so. Arly wasn't awake, in fact, the house was quiet except for hum of the of the air conditioner, so I headed towards the bathroom where my special mirror stays, the one just tall enough for me to see myself without help. Looking in mirrors isn't my favorite thing to do, but I wanted to make sure there was no evidence of tears, or cat butter, or anything  resembling the fact that I had nightmares. I was bound and determined to forget what I dreamed, if it was the last thing I ever did. The only problem was, with every breath, all  I could hear were screams......

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Let The Colors Flow

I realize I'm different. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure that out. What's been bugging me lately though, like a NoSeeUm at a picnic, is that I don't feel different. I mean, I don't feel ugly. Inside, I feel beautiful, but outside.....I look ugly. At least I think that is how people see me. People seem to really care about being all dolled up, putting their face on, and doing up their hair. Angel Face used to play with my hair, when I had hair and didn't look like this, but she would have loved me even now. Angel Face wouldn't care that I am different, she would simply love me because of me.


One thing I have learned since coming out of the ground is that looks shouldn't matter as much as they do. When Arly takes me and Found Friend out on field trips, I watch people. I see their eyes staring back at me, like they are trying to figure out just what is wrong with me. Do they not get that sometimes their hair is hideous? Do they not realize their face may look like as different as inside, outside, and bassackwards? Maybe they don't really. Maybe they just see me as bizarre, and won't take the time to see past my face into who I am. I see that as a shame on their part. Humans are just too artificial I think. They need a good dose of some dirt to change their lenses.

This afternoon, as the sun started to dip just a little lower than it normally does I decided I would plank myself next to the window so I could feel the warmth of the light flowing in. I didn't expect what happened next. I mean, I had no idea the light would turn to color, and as soon as I realized it the colors started to flow all over me and all of a sudden I knew I would be OK, at least for today. Basking in the glow of all that rainbow light made me realize something. Yes, I am different. But on the inside, I am filled with all these brilliant lights that are beautiful, and one day, yes, one day, most folks will see the light inside me instead of landing their eyes on my face and stopping cold. Maybe I will tell Arly to write that in her book. Maybe I will tell her to tell them.....to see me for who I am, not what I look like. Then again, Arly already does that, and I bet as sure as I am blue she will tell the world for me. She will tell them, let their colors flow too!


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One Long, Hot Summer!

I used to lay in my bed at night and wonder what Arly was thinking. I wondered why she spent countless hours talking about how she found me, how tragic it was that I was found like.....well...you know, but that she quit using her typewriter thingy to share my story. My feelings were actually hurt a little and I didn't understand. 

Was it because she got tired of writing about an ugly doll?

Was it because she thought my story didn't matter any more? 

Was it because she didn't love me? 

All those thoughts, ideas, fears I say.....yes, fears, floated around in my head for the past few months and I didn't have the courage to be bold enough to ask her. As the days grew hotter, and the nights caused my hair to stick in clumps, all matted like because of this gosh awful Alabama humidity, I secretly wondered what had happened...until today that is. Today I got my answers, and if my cheeks could blush, I would be glowing a beautiful shade of amethyst, rather than my usual peacock blue. 

Arly has been writing a book.  Not just any book. Not just a simple story like Harold and the Purple Crayon. Not just a "sits on the shelf and gets dusty" book, but a book about ME! All this time, all this "what on earth was she thinking time", she was writing my story and now I feel all silly like. I really thought she didn't love me. For shame I say! Arly said it was no accident how I was found and this story was bigger than the both of us and needed to be told, but there were details about it she had to be careful with, for reasons she couldn't share with me. That made my heart skip I beat but I trust her....I trust her that she will learn the truth and share it. 

After looking into Arly's eyes...I mean really looking into them, I knew she had my heart so mine relaxed a bit and I felt known. This gave me a chance to come up for air and turn my attention to the coming days ahead and wanting to have my picture taken again. I kind of got spoiled being in front of the lens, and a small part of me kind of sighed because I missed having the looks of "pretty" even though I know I am pretty on the inside.

 At first, after I was found, I didn't want my picture taken because I was embarrassed about how I looked. But these days, I am embracing my 'inner beauty' and have high hopes to be a couture model. Arly had this magazine filled with dolls as pretty as petunias. Their faces where baby butt soft looking and their hair....well their hair is what dreams are made of. When Arly wasn't looking I crawled up onto that magazine with a mirror to get a look-see at what it would be like to have big hair. What do you think? Is it me? Gaaaahhhhhh! It's crazy looking isn't it? 

g hair to be loved. I've got that love couture market cornered these days, :) 


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To Write Love On Her Arms Day

 

Yesterday was difficult, but when I woke up this morning, the birds were singing, the sun warmed my face through the window, and in this moment, I knew I was alright, and more importantly....safe.

Sometimes, when Arly spends time on the computer, she lets me sit in her lap and watch, which fascinates me. Never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined that life would change so much after all these years. When I was little, I watched the paper get delivered by Johnny Fletcher, on his bike no less, which was a long stretch from all this techno stuff. It's kind of mesmerizing though, and at times I feel like I could get lost in it, this Facebook thingy that is. I still can't figure why the faces don't have books attached, or why there aren't books with faces on them, just seems odd to me.

One of the groups that kept popping up as she 'surfed the web', and yes, I kept looking for a surfboard to come floating by at any moment, was "To Write Love On Her Arms Day", or TWLOHAD. At first, I kept trying to pronounce it as a word, 'twulohd', but Arly just laughed and explained to me what it really meant. She took me to their website, and no, I didn't find spiders there either, but what I did find were pictures of people who had written the word 'Love' on their arms, to show the people in their lives that they were loved and beautiful. I was a bit shocked. I guess I had felt that most people were mean, or evil, and I forgot to see past my own feelings and realize there are a lot of folks filled with love out there. 


Immediately I wanted my own love tattoo. Arly really thought I needed to sleep on that idea, but no, I insisted, and told her she could write it for me, all neat, or I could do it with all my fingers that were missing and it would be a mess, a lovely mess! She caved, and after it was done, I spent the longest time looking at it and loving it. It made my scarred skin seem not so scarred I thought, and for a minute or two I imagined  that having the word 'love' written all over my body would be just fine. 

We spent a little bit longer reading through some of the posts from people all over the world. They would write about how much they loved the women and girls in their lives, but some would write about encouraging others not to harm themselves. I didn't understand that, so Arly explained that when some people are abused, or hurt, it makes them very sad and they find it hard to even exist. Oh, my heart broke. I kinda knew how that felt a little bit. Yesterday was one of those days I think, not wanting to exist, but I just believe life is too precious to let the mullygrubbies get the best of me, so onward I go. I said a prayer for those folks, that they would find today easier, and feel loved, like I do. 


As I learned more about this love thing, I knew, I just knew, this writing on the arm thing was a good idea. But one thing was missing....Arly's arm needed a tattoo too. I looked up at her, and with this blueberry smile of mine, convinced her she must write love on her arm, and she did. She took a picture of it and showed it to me. Although my arm is tiny, I think it makes a big statement next to hers. Even little arms can show love, like big ones. One thing I knew for sure, today I am loved, tattoo and all.

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Spring Comes to the Paper Wasp Gallery!

As Arly drove down Dauphin Street she let me roll the window down so I could feel the wind in my face, and it felt fine! It was Saturday, which meant, as far as I could tell, that we were going back down to the park, which she called Cathedral Square, to spend the afternoon at the Paper Wasp. At first, when she told me that last week, I gave her a look like she was one brick short of a full load, but then she explained to me that it was a gallery, full of art and books, and I gave her the benefit of the doubt. 

I could honestly pitch a tent in that gallery. When I walked in, I immediately felt like a cool, cotton turquoise blanket had been wrapped around me. Maybe it was the fact that those turquoise blue walls made my blue face seem extra pretty, I'm just not sure, but I knew I loved it. Along the walls were whimsical paintings and artwork from the story, Peter and the Wolf by Prokofiev. I remembered listening to that story with my Angle Face on her record player, as she held up the book to show us the pictures. It made me feel close to her, like it was only yesterday.


Along the shelves were these interesting books. Arly said that Wayne, that's who owned the shop, was a book binder, and I laughed and told her he was one, peculiar binder upper. I had never seen books like these, all weaved with linen thread, and some even had these sharp, pointy shells sticking out of them, which she said were sea urchins. I couldn't imagine why anyone would want to put a sea urchin on a book, but the longer I looked at them, and realized that they were one of a kind, like me, I took a fancy to them. 

Everywhere I looked my eyes were filled with beautiful things. I took a deep breath in and soaked up all the art vibes I felt around me, which made my face feel like it was best of show. When a customer came in Arly placed me up on the counter and I quickly got nervous, because I didn't want to be seen, not after the other day. I quietly made my way around an old, twirly letter press machine, and came face to face with the most gorgeous Gerber daisies, as peach as my bottom used to be and probably a lot softer.  I knew they would be the perfect place to hide behind, so I snuggled up extra close and pretended my face was a flower blossom too, and just as pretty. 


Arly said that it was spring in Mobile, and the flowers were beginning to bloom. I looked at her funny and told her I remember daisies like these, but I couldn't put my finger on just why. That bothered me. A few minutes later, I tied my satin lined bow on my head, so I could look like the diva that I felt I was, and headed for the window. Carefully, I crawled up onto the pebbled shelf that lined the window seal and stood looking out at the families playing in the park. 

There were couples who seemed hopelessly in love walking by and a few times there were children who would walk up to the window and just look at me. At first that made me uncomfortable, but when I remembered how I felt hiding in the flowers, I just pretended I was still a beautiful little blue flower standing tall, and I wasn't afraid anymore. 

A little girl waved to me as she rode by in her stroller, and I waved backed. It gave me the thought that since it was spring, maybe there was hope that people would find things more beautiful. I closed my eyes and made a wish, that one day, I would be as special as the art on display in this place. Until then, I would have to pretend to be my own piece of art, which I choose to call......"Roots As Blue Blossoms", in honor of spring....of course.


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See No Evil

As soon as my eye caught a glimpse of the figure looking at me, looking at me with those white eyes, I just had to go touch it. The whiteness seemed odd to me because it didn't look like an ordinary eye, but just the same, it was beautiful. When I looked at my face in the mirror I noticed that my eyes had changed, they were no longer the golden brown that I was used to seeing, they were black, and I hated them.

I can still see out of my eyes, still use them to function, still discern between colors and light, but they aren't 'pretty' anymore, not pretty like they used to be. My Angel Face used to talk about my eyes all the time, because when she saw them, they made her smile. I miss that smile and her ocean blue eyes, so gentle and sweet, oh how I miss them.

The eyes that I saw now, on this cold, shiny what I think to be a statue thing, made me wonder why they are simply white. Placed on the glass shelf just next to him lay a card with the words "See No Evil" written like it's his name or maybe a description of what he's supposed to do, and I find that a little weird. It's weird to me because he is looking around at the most beautiful place, and where would evil be here I think to myself. As I start to look around him, I see other eyes, staring coldly, with strange expressions coming from them and I wondered if this artist had a thing for eyes.



The words "See No Evil" danced around in my head for a while and for the life of me I didn't want to go there, go where I knew they would take me. I simply wanted to stay mesmerized with all this beautiful art around me and not think about seeing no evil, for I had seen enough evil to last a hundred lifetimes. But then, after those words flew from my head to my heart, I realized the purpose of those white eyes. They were opaque, he could see nothing, and for one small second I understood why my eyes were painted black. For one small second I remembered what I had seen when my eyes were beautiful, and I prayed for blindness.


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Visiting An Art Gallery Makes Me Feel At Home!

Evidently, I am not the only one who has a thing for paints. Arly, who I am becoming quite fond of, seems to be an artist. There are buckets of paints all over the place, random brushes here and there that seem to have lost their way back home, canvases stacked behind corners, just peeking out, and so many books about art she could start her own library. It's such a strange place, but lovely just the same, and living here makes me feel at home, with my blue face and strange new skin. If I didn't know better, I would almost think I could be a piece of art too, but then again, I am just a doll. 


After our trip the other day I was just a teeny bit hesitant about going back out into that big world, to be seen, to be laughed at and at first, after Arly said we would be going to an art gallery, I hid behind the record player hoping she would forget I was there. I used to do that a lot with my Angel Face, we would hide behind her bed, in her closet, or back behind the old shed hoping no one would see us. I always got the feeling she was hiding for real, because she was scared, but we never talked about it, at least not that I can remember right now. I didn't have that much luck with Arly, she seems to always know where I am. 


When we pulled up to the gallery I noticed that there were large windows and just inside, almost like a rainbow had burst all over the walls, I saw more colors than I had in my entire long life. It was beautiful! Arly had told me that no one there would laugh, that they would find me beautiful, and she was right. Everyone I met just oohed and aahed over me, which for a beauty like myself, made my head swell just a bit.

At the end of one of the counters, just past where I was standing, my eyes landed on the most fascinating pile of colors and fabrics. They were piled up and draped across a strange, stiff dog who must, at one time in his past life, have loved to parade around like a movie star. He was still doing a decent job now, even though he was acting all stoic and uppity. It made me laugh a little to myself because I had news for him, he was a dog! He was a dressed up DOG!

Once I regained my composure from laughing I couldn't help but place my hand gently on the fabric, which was soft and warm, and for a minute it made me think of my Angel Face's hair. When I thought about my own hair, and how much I had missing, I draped a few strands around my face and pretended I had beauty parlor locks that matched my "looks like the sky" complexion. I couldn't explain it, but I felt at home here, not like the home where I lived, but the home inside myself, the one that tells me I am whole and right where I should be. Time hasn't been my friend it seems, but this feeling, I prayed, would last forever. 


Arly told me her best friend knits those scarves, that's what all the fabric is, these fascinating, one of a kind, like me, scarves. And just as I was ready to bury myself in all of them, an eye caught my attention. Not just any eye, but one looking straight through my soul it seemed....

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"Albert, Your Breath is Kicking!"

When Albert first saw me he got so scared every bit of color in his faced drained completely out. I didn't feel so bad though because his breath stunk so bad he scared a few more hairs off my head so our friendship got off to a great start. That just seems that way it goes sometimes with people who are different I guess, all getting judged by how we look or smell instead of who we are. We both humbly apologized and stood there for a while looking at one another with embarrassment. 


A few awkward moments crept by and we realized we both had a bit in common. He seemed to be missing his entire bottom half and I, well, I seemed to be missing most of my clothes, not to mention half my hair, and if either one of us could have bent over we would have rolled on the floor laughing at our pitiful selves. It felt good laughing again, I mean really laughing, because it had been quite a long time since I had done any of that, or even felt like it for that matter. 


I had missed having someone like me, I mean, someone who knew what it was like to be different, to talk to , so Albert and I had a nice long chat together. We spent the next few hours getting acquainted and he shared with me a few memories he had when he felt....different. Albert told me when he was a little boy, his head seemed to be bigger than most kids his age, and he was made fun of. He also told me that he had a hard time learning to talk and read because he had so many ideas and thoughts running around in his head. He laughs about it now, people thinking he was a bit slow at first. He even called it, "The Ignoramus First Assumption Theory," which I found to be as fabulous as his idea that imagination is more important than knowledge. 

Albert asked me about my face and what happened to me. Tears welled up in my eyes and I just hung my head. Before I could speak he began whistling the most beautiful tune, and it made me realize just how much I had missed hearing music, especially lullabies. I think he knew I wasn't ready to talk about it yet and he just wanted to put my mind at ease for a while. I thanked him, thanked him for the talk, the laughs, and for the song he left with me. Later that night, after all was quite and the cicadas had given up the ghost for the night I remembered the lullaby my angel face sang to me just before saying her prayers. I remembered how it felt to be loved and sang to, and I missed her.


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A Great Value Isn't Only Found On the Sugar Package

After coming to grips with the reality of my skin issues yesterday I thought it might be time to stop and ponder things a bit so I stretched out across the kitchen counter and took a rest on the cutting board. This seemed like a really grand idea at the time, with it being a bit warmer than the tile underneath my lower half, that is until I remembered what some people do with cutting boards and then I got a little bit nervous. 

I can recall, many younger years ago, hearing the old family men playing dominoes on our front porch while yakking away about who got sent to the chopping block this week and who got the ax last week. I never quite understood how they found anything such as gruesome as that funny, but laugh away they did, until the wee hours of the morning.  While they laughed I would watch her sleep, my sweet angel who loved me, in the peaceful calm of the early morning. As the symphony of crickets and night beings went about playing their songs the moonbeams danced across my fingers, and I would wonder just what those old men meant by those words. I would then pray I wouldn't be next. Now that I think about it, maybe I was. 


It seemed the longer I spent time laid back on this board the more I began to wonder about other things too. Especially after looking up and seeing the word 'value' glaring above my head on the bag of sugar. I wonder how one assigns value to something, to make it more important than any other thing? I wonder if it's because it's beautiful or pretty, and can catch their eye and hold it for eternity? But I also wonder if it's just because it brings them wealth, or fame, or simply delusions of grandeur that they buy into as if in a trance for life. I find myself thinking about these things a lot, especially in quiet moments like this, all peaceful and away from that dirt.

One might think it strange that something like me even gives ideas like that a second thought. I don't though. I don't find any coincidence in the fact that I was thrown away, on a burn pile, spent years buried and abandoned, and now I lay here surrounded by a new angel face. As time passed and the earth that engulfed me began to place layer upon layer of newly formed dirt upon my back, I watched everything around me slowly wither away, piece by piece, rust apart and eventually blow away with the wind.That was quite humbling and I knew being alone was something I would have to learn to live with.


And here I find myself today, in this wonderful new place, wondering if a face like mine, and for that matter, a body like mine, could be loved by anyone again. I see a new smile looking back at me, filled with laughter and care, and I get the sense that I am in the hands of someone who might understand what it means to value something like me, but I'm just not sure yet. I'm not sure of many things these days, except I made a promise to myself to survive, and I did, and for that my heart is full.


A little bird told me that I have a long road ahead in convincing lots of folks that I don't simply have a face only a momma could love, and that I too am valuable. I even get the sense that I am often thought of as creepy to some, which makes me a bit sad. That's alright really.  Even though I didn't choose to look like this, to have a blue face and some really whacked out bald patches on my head, I realize some people will only see me for what I look like, not for who I am. 

Maybe one day those perceptions of what beauty is might be thrown on a cutting board and chopped at until all that was left was a new understanding of true beauty, which for me goes way deeper than my ugly hair and skin that seems to be mangled up a bit.

Time to get off this block of wood now. I have a thing against termites and creepy crawlies ever since they took up residence centimeters from my face for the past few decades, and they have a thing for wood. Not to mention the thought of what some folks do with these cutting boards, like whacking them with knives and such. And some think I'm creepy? LOL


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Found Baby is found!

For days I had felt the sharp prongs of a rusted, metal rake scratch repeatedly across my back. I felt footstep after footstep land across my head, reminding me with each blow just how deep my face was in the thatch layered dirt. I had been here so long, in this cold, dark place that I was hesitant to believe there was any hope of being found. When the sounds grew quiet and the coolness of the night lay against me like a wet blanket I knew. I knew I was still forgotten, still left to breathe this damp, rotted dirt. Flashes of laughter danced through my head, stinging me with painful memories of what life I used to live.You see, I was not supposed to end up here, like this. I was supposed to be loved, forever and always by my friends and family. I was not supposed to be forgotten.  


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