Bitsy, sensing danger ahead, warns the others to stay back

An excerpt from my book. The illustration is from the journal of the adventurous Bitsy Armstrong. Personally, I can't wait to see what happens next - but whatever it is - it is up against a hard deadline. All must be told and concluded by Sept. 20th. I've led them on a trek from Zanzibar to the Zambesi where a harrowing encounter with a nile crocodile nearly ends the life of a dear friend - a friend, alas who lacks the essential pluck and steely nerve necessary to hack her way through the Ituri forest.

dolls - bjd or not

I'm not through on the subj. o"dolls. When I was a girl, dolls never had anatomically correct features. They had faces - inscrutable or not dependent on their age. Mostly, my dolls died in the course of play from scarlet fever or consumption _"TB or not TB-that is the conjestion- cansumption be done about it - of cough, of cough, but it will take a lung lung time" (in my living memory relatives died of it). A beautiful ceremony was held - the funerary arts were given full play - flocked flowers - lace overlayments - extended boo hooing from the various other doll participants. Never, never, never did a doll suffer from menstrual cramps (years in the future for little we). And as to hickeys - the lord save us. In my day, the profundity of the doll reflected life and death as percieved by a prepubescent. We knew not of male anatomy - nor of its role in our destiny. We were informed in life by Snow White, Sleeping Beauty, Goldilocks and the fate of legendary and ill fated young lovlies who sucumbed to the Grim Reaper within the family circle. Men were fathers, uncles and brothers - all fortunately for us - kindly, funny, quirky and brave. They appeared in our play as benign or annoying as their roles were called on to be - but never leacherous, cruel (xcept in the role of pirate or knave) or sadistic. We knew ought of the condition of depravity so depicted in the modern BJD - Alas, apparently we have gone the way of the flour sack and the green stamp. It is sad to see today's doll, yearning for a man who dresses her in a dog collar, imposes a tattoo and a love bite and insists on a nipple ring -and she- replete with large luminous teary eyes (in purple, aqua, sky blue, velvet brown, mysterious black) and hair of raven,- spiky, shagged or shingled - or henna, silver or champagne blonde or winter white. Jesus, I was in printmaking at a major university and saw that doll in the flesh, semester after semester. Would that she had succumbed to consumption - at least there would be the echo of our lady of the camelias - Greta Garbo and Robert Taylor. Ah for a good case of consumption.

little actors in the book. I love dolls but have never really had the moolah to satisfy that little yen. Admittedly I am old and out of it - that said i have blundered onto a world I ne'er dreamed existed. I was browsing at the local book cum yuppie cafe o'let watering hole- hobnobbing with the NPR crowd, when my restless eye fell upon a magazine entitled HAUTE DOLL. The main thrust of this periodical was to cater to the current fashion doll produced. There is a sort of sado - masochistic look to a lot of these dolls - and l0, as i browsed I was literally enchanted by a wonderful doll artist named Marina something Russian who has a website called Enchanted Dolls. Naturally, I visited her site - I learned the term BJD (ball jointed Doll) -me who boasts 3 Armand Marseilles - two decent China heads of German origin and generally the flotsam and Jetsam cadged from various flea markets. Marina is coy as to her prices and these dolls are enough to make an old girl blush. She makes them with or without pubic hair, bite marks or tattoos as you specify. They all look like they are on the wrong end of the movie 91/2 weeks. Personally, the sit-upon is too much for me. The waifish bulimic look makes me sad - BUT - they are so beautiful - I think we are talking about a thou or so when all is said and done. Life has passed me by = money wise and taste wise and I never even knew it.

my book

i am writing a book - who isn't? Ever notice how something will happen - an event that receives a lot of notoriety - then suddenly there are three books published on the subject. How do they do it? Well, my book isn't going to be like that - published I mean. When i get the official copyright, i will post it in serial form on this blog. It will involve murder, dismemberment, love, betrayal and redemption (of a sort). I have been working night and day. Wish i was better at InDesign. I'm fighting bounding boxes which appear here and there, now and then - even when I say hide them. I'm afraid I shall have to place an addendum apologizing for the uneven appearance of my tome. I find the computer world in general is fraught with mayhem. All week i have been betrayed by the silly thing. Lost email, printer not recognized, scanner in high dudgeon. All because I installed an upgrade. They are oh so happy to take your money but oh so aloof and chary of your inquiries. For $50 you can talk to an Adobe tech (I am out of warranty) who is residing somewhere in Calcutta and is generally a sweet person but unable to really be of any assistance. But, i digress into bitter mutterings - I'm sure we have all had the same experiences.

juggling the impossible

I can't seem to keep it together clothes wise or any wise. I'm thinking of writing a book called "the unsuccesful life"

tilting at windmills

I am faced with clothing bundles. Things i will never fit into, things I could fit into but hate, and things I wonder why i ever bought. I am overwhelmed by clutter but seem to create it just like plaque in an artery. If only there were a pill -seems red wine doesn't really work but deadens the guilt temporarily. The clowns are me - the inexorable and nonplussed elephants are my clutter

tippity witchit

When I was little and ever and always the kind of child that believed anything and everything, Halloween was always tied in with this old southern saying. My mother would say it and then tighten down my buckram mask and send me out into a chill halloween night. Pretty soon the stiff and humiliatingly bad mask would go all icky about the mouth hole because i'd be chewing my lip between my begging for candy stops - just knowing that I'd be left outside the drifting throng and a sure and ready morsel for a witch- A very angry witch who resented poorly made buckram masks not at all in her image and one who didn't mind eating a sticky and chocolate laced little girl. It was also about this time that I read a little story that has stayed with me in a sort of hazy way. It is entitled "Tippity Witchit" and tells the story of a little kitten who wanders off only to fall prey to a witch who was going to use him as her familiar. I can't remember it all really, but I have the sense that morning came and with it his mother - or maybe she went searching for him as I would like to think. Anyway - it made an impression - daytime -good, nightime - bad, and for heaven's sake don't go off exploring at night because a witch could be just anywhere. Of course my little painting is of a happy and youthful witch dancing a jig with her somewhat less than enthusiastic little friend.

Etsy :: papertiguer ::

Etsy :: papertiguer ::