The libraries lost property basket is full of precious things. Stuffed dinosaurs, blue giraffes, fourteen pairs of reading glasses, lost notes and one giant buzz light year watch that doesn't tell the time but instead says "To infinity and beyond!" when you press the time button. I worry about these lost things. homeless by default, missed but never found. Admittedly i have watched toy story 3 too many times (its mr potato head he just gets me) and think that when the lights go down, all of the toys come out and talk about their missing kids and probable death by big silver library bin. But even without pixar sentimentality, i do worry about the kids who are at home without their favourite things.
my favourite thing when i was baby, and right up until i was a teenager, was a bright orange lambs skin that I called sheepy. i was the kid who had my very own dead lamb and no one could take it away from me.
i slept on her, dribbled on her, and sucked at her fur. She was my first romance and even now when i think of her, my heart beats a little heavier.
As i got older, so did she and like the skin of an old lady, she started to rip in all the delicate places. Under her arms, around her middle. My delicate lamb, my beautiful sheepy, if still alive, would be wrinkled and shrunken and every last bit mutton.
The first rip was quite accidental. i rolled over her and took half of her with me. The other half, stayed exactly where it was, embedded to my yellow daisy sheets. i lay awake all night frozen to my thoughts of her crying, baaing, mewing into the night.
(Although after that first devastating night, I did not miss the advantages to sheepy's new size. Much easier to sneak into school bags and under jumpers whilst on a play date.)
The second rip was curiosity, how would it feel to take my favourite thing away from myself? pain as a growing young person felt inevitable and the angsty drama of its self administration was as inviting as it was repulsive.
But it was the third rip, the washing machine incident that i believe really killed sheepy. She was never the same after that.
I can imagine anyone being washed and then tumbled dry might experience the loss of ones spirit and the devastating after effects of post wash-cycle depression (PWD). And with that, sheepy was gone (i'm pretty sure my parents gave her a bin burial whilst i was at school).
Miranda July, on her website www.mirandajuly.com asks us this "If you were ever to forsake your soul, betray yourself, take the wrong path – what would come crawling after you?...your security blanket/object, or any inanimate object you’ve had for a long time. (the one that knows) the true you.
I’ve had Nightie my whole life, and if I were to ever forsake my soul, I know Nightie would come crawling after me. I used to be ashamed of it and hope I would outgrow it, but instead I outgrew my shame."
I say to Miranda. Sheepy would find me. She would come bounding up behind me, put her ghastly orange dyed fur in my hand and say "amy its kind of gross and ethically unsound that you have a dead skinned animal as your security blanket". and i would hold onto her tightly and lovingly agree.
my favourite thing when i was baby, and right up until i was a teenager, was a bright orange lambs skin that I called sheepy. i was the kid who had my very own dead lamb and no one could take it away from me.
i slept on her, dribbled on her, and sucked at her fur. She was my first romance and even now when i think of her, my heart beats a little heavier.
As i got older, so did she and like the skin of an old lady, she started to rip in all the delicate places. Under her arms, around her middle. My delicate lamb, my beautiful sheepy, if still alive, would be wrinkled and shrunken and every last bit mutton.
The first rip was quite accidental. i rolled over her and took half of her with me. The other half, stayed exactly where it was, embedded to my yellow daisy sheets. i lay awake all night frozen to my thoughts of her crying, baaing, mewing into the night.
(Although after that first devastating night, I did not miss the advantages to sheepy's new size. Much easier to sneak into school bags and under jumpers whilst on a play date.)
The second rip was curiosity, how would it feel to take my favourite thing away from myself? pain as a growing young person felt inevitable and the angsty drama of its self administration was as inviting as it was repulsive.
But it was the third rip, the washing machine incident that i believe really killed sheepy. She was never the same after that.
I can imagine anyone being washed and then tumbled dry might experience the loss of ones spirit and the devastating after effects of post wash-cycle depression (PWD). And with that, sheepy was gone (i'm pretty sure my parents gave her a bin burial whilst i was at school).
Miranda July, on her website www.mirandajuly.com asks us this "If you were ever to forsake your soul, betray yourself, take the wrong path – what would come crawling after you?...your security blanket/object, or any inanimate object you’ve had for a long time. (the one that knows) the true you.
I’ve had Nightie my whole life, and if I were to ever forsake my soul, I know Nightie would come crawling after me. I used to be ashamed of it and hope I would outgrow it, but instead I outgrew my shame."
I say to Miranda. Sheepy would find me. She would come bounding up behind me, put her ghastly orange dyed fur in my hand and say "amy its kind of gross and ethically unsound that you have a dead skinned animal as your security blanket". and i would hold onto her tightly and lovingly agree.
Comments
Post a Comment