Re: I am tripping more than you are. Battling razzberries
Posted: September 16th, 2011, 7:27 am
by SadLuckDame
Yes, the house with the house stuffs on the outside reminded me of the book I'd began writing a long time ago. It had a section on Polly Posey visiting Maple street and the people who lived on the outside of their houses. When I wrote it back then, I'd not known I'd stumble on that blog and those pictures. Life gets trippy, doesn't it.
Gotta love our connections.
Here's the only book I'd written. Incomplete of course, as I'm just not good to get a thing nailed down.
Enjoy, mingo darlin'.
xoxo
.................
Polly Posey and her Companions, Sincerely Strung Out on Certain Mannerisms
To begin at the beginning would be boring, in all likelihood. So we'll begin a new beginning, somewhere in between. She was, as they say, the girl with a curl in the middle of her forehead. This was a troublesome sign, to be sure. But, to balance it out, when she floated about upside down, or on her back with her head down on the ground, cloud gazing, mostly, a hidden widow's peak appeared, which softened her nonsense, occasionally.
The day she fell flatly, face first in the pond, was the very day she noticed his excellent whiskers; long enough that they floated off to the sides of his puffy cheeks.
Holding her breath, she stayed, peering face to face with him over the cat tails and sea weeds, submerged. I heard from a friend, of a friend, whom knew the pair rather well, that he considered her eyes to be green willowed and weepy. Her hair lounged comfy on the yellowed pond surface, which distracted him.
Each afternoon she'd stroll the water's edge, talking streams of ideas, but in a jumbled mess. Perhaps, that is where it began (after it began, previously). The catfish surfaced, quite madly. In a terrible manner, he spat over the water, (and he did it ferociously)
"Dear daughter of Eve, I have no time for this!"
Her fingers dipped into the water, and then she splashed it to his face. Huffing, and puffing in a miserable temper, she made her reply loudly, back to him,
"No time? How can you not have naught but time?
Swimming about and going nowheres, but everywhere you've already been!
It's a relentless occupation to go to and fro, over and over each day
like this. And Mr. Catfish, call me Polly Posey,
I'm Polly of the town of Distraction, if ever you're likely to call me,
again."
He disappeared below the surface. A swish of his tail was the motion of a signaled retreat. Polly sat contemplating what to do to become friendly again. Her legs crossed, with an elbow resting on top, and her doll chin pressing into her palm. All of the thoughts she conversed, naturally to him, without stopping to think what it was exactly, that she said she thought, sunk sullenly in the depths after him. She was left with the hazardous idea that she'd be without a healthy thought again.
That Saturday, she brought him small, square cakes, filled with a honey glaze and topped off with almond flakes. She prettied them side by side on a lily. Then gently, her finger pushed them to soar, across the pond to tempt him.
"Oh! Mr. Catfish, please forgive me momentarily,
for I'm prone to such temper tantrums. The weak side,
I attempt covering. I'm ashamed to say, becomes potent
long enough to flaw my personality. But, look--
I've baked a few tasty cakes to show my apologies.
Accept these fine treats, Catfish, let them not become
stale and wasted."
Polly reintroduced herself, to be newly friendly. "Mr. Catfish,
I'm Polly Posey. I'd be very much appreciative, if you'll allow me the satisfaction of lying about here in relaxation.
The Bill-o frogs, whom seemed to be the audience, squatted quietly, camouflaged
within the tall weeds. They noticed Polly's audition, before the particular fish, which lay below the surface
(in a stealthy fashion).
They also took notice of how his whiskers twitched: this being, the only motion, causing a commotion, in the form of a ripple. The spirals started smallish, but enlarged, and then grew grander circles, stretching far enough to touch Polly's fingers; which dipped into the water.
The Bill-o frogs, two of them, decided it to be a sign, fate had twisted the two souls symbolically.
The catfish refused to accept her attempts, for he was the stubborn sort.
And, I'm certain he found more amusement in her dissatisfaction, than he would in being her 'caught' friend. Each day Polly resumed her position, telling terrific tales, sugar coated compliments, teary eyed poetry.
............................
Polly stood flustered, speculating her new friend. He was in the habit of tipping his hat, and bowing as often as he could, politely applying a hand appropriately in front of his chest.
In her mind, Polly entertained such suspicions that he repeated similar politeness and habits to everyone crossing his path. She thought herself not special, not to ever be especially thought of or she had a suspicion of him elaborately displaying such manners, to influence enhanced motions, emotions, and reverie from her, because she imagined, he'd have a laugh in the quietude of his own company (at her expense) later.
The poor dear, never knew what it was she should think of exactly, of what it was precisely happening the moment it was happening to her. Quite the disturbance developed over even the most trivial and common moments, her mind absorbed with the confusion, as if a circus fashioned tricks aplenty in her imaginings.
So there, Polly stood, mumbling,
"and he'll no longer think of me. I've spoilt myself to him..."
when the Magician resumed his directions. A lift of his dark brow, he pointed to the left.
"If you take the boat, it sails to see..."
Polly waited patiently, for him to finish. Instead he turned his back to her, removed a hand mirror from his side coat pocket, and wiped the surface with a folded tissue.
It was awkward for her to watch him, for he seemed to have forgotten Polly altogether. She tried to snap his attention, without a hint of rudeness. Polly shifted, then sighed ever so lightly, then moved her toes, noisily on the ground about her.
A melodious voice, a very deep baritone filled the air, and Polly caught his reflection. He resumed conversation with her from the mirror, and she had only his dark cape and reflected face to view. He bellowed a poem to her. She gave the Magician full attentions--
The following Tuesday, 6
she was having tea 5
with the King of Hearts. 5
For you see, Dear Reader, 6
they're all the same type. 5
A menacing mathe- 5
matician, the coffee 6
shop witty companion, 6
or the Bill-o, Bill-o frog, 7
not to forget him, for 6
he's from C.A., 6
even he Polly, 5
even he. 3
Polly interrupted him directly, "are you he then, Mr. Magician, are you he? Today, I don't even know who it is I am. To not know a thing like that, a thing like oneself, well, that means anyone could be anyone, and you could be him..." He smiled wickedly. His teeth flashed brilliantly white from the reflection of the reflecting sun onto his mirror, then to his mouth. He held a finger up, to hush her from continuing. The Magician began again,
"Polly, must you keep me from explaining? I'll tell you, if you'll allow more pause..."
............................................
She noticed a resemblance which startled her, immensely. We’ll zoom in on the obvious details, to start with.
Alice was detached, mostly talking to herself, really. Her appearance appeared to be most unusually natural, (naturalness had become quite an uncommon look to Polly’s musings). There was a stain to her lips, which colored them slightly burgundy. Here, we can only speculate it was possibly from grapes, or blackberries. Although, it's likely she was just biting them. The hair tousled about lively, wildly disordered, but curly, like Polly's. She seemed to react as a fire-cracker, whenever the moment grew quiet, anytime there were no reactions otherwise. Polly knew she too suffered internally, when a hush jumped about. Oh a phantom, or similarly. That is usually the moment she'd become impossible, even to herself. She recognized the same sort of disposition in Alice Temper. Here is where Alice put an end to the silence that haunted the two.
"Shall we walk to Maple Street? There is always a party,
and people to watch."
The outdoor neighborhood was exactly that. There were houses aplenty, scattered about, but no one was ever inside any. Activity buzzed outdoors and outdoors only. The windows were darkened, the doors were locked, and all neighbors sat about on porches, or yards. The candles were glowing a top the tables, they seemed polished to Polly, but inside the windows she saw dust and cob webs.
Polly turned briskly to Alice Temper, "Oh! Please explain, I must confess, I'm as confused as I've ever been. All of these beautiful houses, but nothing happens, except on the outside. Why is it in such way?" Alice Temper laughed savagely. She adjusted her palms, to face upward, positioning her legs crass-crossed, meditatively.
"Darling Polly, on this street, nothing happens on the inside."
Then she closed her eyes, pursed her lips puffy, and sang. "Lo, Lo, we go to impress. Ms. Jones collects pretty baubles, no bigger than her finger tips. She obsessively, displays them in glass jars, coffee table containers, shot glasses and candy dishes. I see marbles, broaches, silvery pins, rings with diamonds, and rubies on ear-rings. The shrines displayed brilliantly on the porch, where the sunlight gives them sparkles. Such pretty sparkles. She shouts about, 'Tonight, I'll paint the town in gems!' And why shouldn’t she make a thing beautiful to look about at, when no one can explain a good reason otherwise?
Lo, Lo, we go to impress... M. Handler sculpts wax statues, each afternoon on his green lawn, by giving them a defined line or curves, wherever it’s most effective. M. Handler, he can create a face to adore, one easy on the eyes. Refining the tiny waists, sculpted limbs, and each stand on tipsy toes, (as if pumped into the air), he has a knack for creating the women. He is especially wonderful at smoothing hair, to let it lie relaxed on nice shoulders. They are perfection, until he must start again. Every morning, the sun melts all the beautiful faces, with lips that pour to the ground, and the fancy hair flattens. But Mr. M. Handler transforms them to a new beauty, what a beauty, such a beauty he can do. A habit to attempt perfection, M. Handler can... Lo, Lo, we go to impress...
The Dame takes the outdoor stage; in a lame attempt to story tell. Trying to impress a masked genius, but each night she falls flatly, failing to deliver a refined piece of poetry. She goes about gently at first, and then manages to look a drunken mess. ‘Paper wings lifting a flutter of a girl, plainly into the air…’ but ends on such nonsense. And she’d go on like this; it wasn’t effective, for the genius was always a no show. Then the Dame was naught, but a broken heart on display. Lo, Lo, we go to impress… "
Polly Posey wanted to flee Maple St., She began to grow self-conscious, to think on her own appearance, thoughts of ‘how was she watched…’ and startled uncomfortably with an awakened awareness. Before visiting this party, Polly had only known the disasters of her internally, to add to it was much more than she herself could handle.
With the constant outdoor commotion, Alice Temper quite disturbed our poor darling Polly away.
~A continuation of an on going imagination.
Polly prettily fluffed and sustained kitten gentle, (she even went as far as to preen herself). Today, she'd received an invite to a special occasion with a well known artist, who'd endeavor to paint her portrait. He found her temperament suitable and her face angelic. She'd fit lovely on his design or so he thought to begin with. This day, was soon to take a turn for the worst, but Polly couldn't help herself, to figure in a way to treat it otherwise.
It began when she was sitting smoothing out her answers and getting herself correctly in order, when who should happen to bump into her, but her found friend, the magician. He nodded just so; a lift, a sink and his manners were correctly sorted; a bow, a bow and nice gestures. But Polly noticed he came to be rather different than last she’d noted.
He had burdensome stripes blackened as the crow’s feathery finery, but it went straightly dramatic across his whitened suit, too bluntly for her liking. His strong cheeks were covered in flour, and then dark made-up to emphasize a particular expression. Polly thought it printed a melancholy look of a prisoner. The eyes sunk deeper behind the lines, his smile all but disappeared, under the powder (which was caked on masquerading his normal pleasantness) and his lips had a broad red line. All of his previous animation was now non existent, woefully so.
She had a notion to wipe it away and set him back to rights, out of sheer desire to see her friend projected back from last she'd saw of him.
"Who has done this trickery on you?" went Polly. Her eyes started teary.
He moved in front of her, and then treated the path they were near by, as a stage.
He used his hands in motions; it was quirky and intimate, with his leans towards her, arms stretched and reaching in action. Then he began to interact with an imagined foe. He fell backwards, to and fro, then he pushed forwards, fits and all, (just as a language friends create together in charades.)
Polly watched with two palms cupping the bottom of her cheek bones, a mouth wide open, (she looked every bit expectant). Polly reminded him of a displayed buttercup, one he'd pick between his two fingers and held beneath his chin.
Do you like butter, mr. magician?
And he'd place it in his pocket, tucking it away friendly there, for later. He took care with little things. Often he collected clovers, sifting through the patches for a four leafier.
I tell you this, only to say, he reached in his front pocket, during his production and produced a four leaf clover for Polly. He handed it over, sighing as he did so. With a drop of his hat, a droop of shoulders and an apologetic expression, Polly knew he'd had no luck with it, but held out hopes it'd allow her some. With kindness, he placed the clover brutally twisted and upside wrong ways over onto Polly’s open palm.
I know if I were to maintain such ill luck, I’d be planting Live Forever’s right on top of my head voluntarily, so my head wouldn’t explode, thought Polly.
She took up the green leaf, licked it twice over, then ate it for good measure; just to be on the safe side of things. It was a pity to see her friend striped up and not at all what he truly was. Those bold black lines suited him not at all; it looked rather silly on such a nice gentleman. There wasn’t anyway of guessing what monsters lurked about hungrily for magicians, she guessed, plus, as a matter of fact; they could have a go at gobbling his rabbit! What monstrosities flit, flip, and flap around in packs haunting innocent souls.
She meant to put a stop to it, she could not have such menacing creatures roaming about in herds looking to eat up all her companions; she’d have nobody left to talk with, or think on, or think of her.
