My poppet finds herself, and other stories

It was a poppet-like weekend.

First of all, I must say that this poppet does not resemble any comforting childhood toys or dolls like the name would lull you into thinking. This poppet is sleek and wise and rather creepy. Yes, I’ve entered a creepy phase in my life. It was always simmering there in the background – after all, not many 15-year-olds who look like your typical girl-next-door discover that their favorite part of Medea is the overly-graphic description of the Golden Fleece burning off the flesh of her enemies, eh? Oh, wait, on second thought, remembering the tortures of high school, maybe that’s not so far off the mark. Anyways, though I think everyone has room for so-called creepy aspects in their natures, mine has always been firmly in place in the far reaches of my psyche. Recently, however, I’ve found myself more and more attracted to things that make the common man uncomfortable. For instance, the artwork of Caryn Drexl calls to me. Her work is unsettling, creepy, bizarre, and sometimes, makes me just flip quickly to the next to avoid having to look at it too long. But much of her work draws me in a strange way that I can’t quite understand. I’ve recently acquired a print of her innocously named Tea Time and I’m dying to get my hands on my favorite one of hers (below), which is coming to me in August. We can always hope she signs it for me, right?

Sinking with Grace by Caryn Drexl

But I’m off-track, as usual. My poppet, creepy and delicious as she is, is currently standing guard in her favorite spot in the house. She discovered, this weekend, after settling in, that she was a poppet without a purpose. Well, to be clear, she simply disliked being called “Red”. She asked what “kind of poppet” she was, and when I replied that she wasn’t any kind, that I knew of, she seems disgruntled. It was time for some soul-searching, I realized. I agreed to assist her in her mission of “finding herself.”

First, I took her outside for a bit of a look-see. I set her in what I thought was a rather glamorous, Arabic setting, especially given the heat wave rushing through the area. She was, as always, succinct. “This orange clashes.” So, not a Moorish poppet.

Not a Moorish Poppet

Next we hit the herb garden and the potted plants, including, I must say, my poor, pathetic orchids that haven’t bloomed once in the three years I’ve owned them. My poppet stated her opinion nearly instantly and rather firmly about how she felt regarding the garden. “Ouch. Prickly.” So. Not a Garden Poppet.

Not a Garden Poppet

Going inside, we stopped by the bathroom, where I sat her down on my softest body scrub brush while I washed my hands. Maybe, I thought, she’d like to be a bathroom poppet. Then she turned and her face looked almost mournful. “Ouch. Still prickly. And damp.” Right then. Not a Bathing Poppet.

Not a Bathing Poppet

I led her past some artwork on the way to my bedroom, which we decided to stop and admire. I thought perhaps she might enjoy the fine works I have on my walls, but her ill-concealed yawn told the tale soon enough. Not an Art Poppet.

Not an Art Poppet

I led her confidently to my extensive library. Certainly, as regular bibliophile, a lover of books, a passionate patron of the page, my poppet would enjoy them as well. I sat her down eagerly in front of my bookshelves. She peered cautiously up at them, around them, and finally in at them. I could have sworn I heard a sniff. “It is dark.” she finally ventured to say. “And dusty.” she added. Well then. Not a Library Poppet.

Not a Library Poppet

In exasperation, I sat her down on my desk, where my newest yarn acquisition, come that day in the mail, sat waiting to be added to my stash. I was near the end of my rope, decision-wise, on what kind of a poppet she wanted to be. Really. As if being a Red Poppet wasn’t enough. I had other things to do than drag her around and hope she found something she liked. Just as I reached the door I heard a strange noise. I turned back to the desk. “What’s this?” I thought I heard.

Finding the Yarn

“That is called yarn. It will soon go in my stash, and one day be knit into a lace shawl.”
“Yarn.” I heard her muse quietly. “I like yarn.”

I Like Yarn

To my amazement (and amusement), she squeezed herself right up into the skein on my desk, until she was flat on her back and lounging, for all the world like she was taking a swim in a sea of merino wool. I tiptoed out of the room, listening to the “ahhh…” slowly fade as I went back to work. Finally. She had found her calling. She was, and is, a Yarn Poppet.

A Yarn Poppet

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