Dolled Up & Ready to Go... Where?

May 3. True story.



 As a kid I wanted dolls to play with; Barbies, babies, etc., & my little sister felt the same. So that's what our Christmas presents usually were. Being poor, we felt lucky to get any gifts.

We didn't know we were making a choice that was supposed to represent our major life interests. We didn't know to ask for telescopes, spaceships, microscopes, easels, guitars. Those were things I could have wanted, given a chance-- I don't know about my sister. I wanted drums, I wanted a mummy, I wanted to be Mr. Spock, but didn't know how to ask for those. Maybe being trained in girl-ness for six years was enough to show me I shouldn't ask. After all, the train set I had asked for never appeared. The Hot Wheels track in the basement belonged to my older brother, and despite my enthusiasm for playing with the cars, on the rare occasions he allowed that, nobody ever considered that I might want race cars & a track as well. No one asked if I wanted them instead of dolls.

Why would they? I was a little girl during the early 70s, and that meant I could play house (they should call it HouseKeeping 101), put on pretend fashion shows, play with baby dolls, Barbie dolls, color pretty pictures, use my BFF's Easy Bake Oven. Oh, and read, which I did, daily. Any interests I had outside of the conventional set were not going to be overly encouraged, at home or in school. No one was going to notice how, before actual 'play' I spent two hours setting up every detail of Barbie's house, made of discarded shoeboxes and whatnot, and think that I had a talent or desire to design & organize. The teachers at school didn't see that while the other girls were swinging & braiding each other's hair at recess, I was playing Star trek with a (boy) friend, roaming invented galaxies and negotiating with aliens.

To be fair, I was encouraged in some ways-- my Mom made sure I got books on whales & archaeology, two of my interests, and got me art supplies & books on how to use them. But I was miserly with my paints, knowing there wouldn't be more anytime soon, and was afraid to really experiment and thus use them up. A side effect of being poor. I guess another issue was that I learned better by being shown how to do something, than by reading instructions (still do). So the How-To books didn't work for me, and my lack of production of a masterpiece was taken for lack of strong motivation, although I drew constantly, on any paper I could scrounge.

This kind of unconscious choice we make, as kids & adults, is almost heartbreaking to me, now. I carry some guilt to this day, for not somehow intuiting the methods & techniques to become A Great Artist; and that I didn't figure out how to ask, despite the behavorial programming, for the guidance & gifts to become some kind of scientist. And I bristle when I see children being locked into similar choices, choices that they too are unaware they are making.

I wanted it all-- to be an artist, to understand whales and dig up ancient civilisations to study, to figure out the mysteries of space, to learn to play drums and to create my own fairy tales. My heart was full of all these desires. And still, I asked for dolls, mostly, and that's what I received.

C 5/2016
by Mari Kozlowski

May 1, 2016.

 Story-A-Day May.


 Bird Wars

 This morning I saw a sparrow being attacked by a pack of crows. It was an unfair fight. The sparrow kept struggling up, struggling to stand his ground, while the crows kept swooping in to pick and bitch at him, one & two at a time. He didn't really try to defend himself, and I'd say he was as shocked as I was. His posture & movements seemed to say, You can't mean to do this, can you? He was as baffled as I was, I'm sure.

 I'd never seen a skirmish like this between the birds of the neighborhood. Sure, if there was food in the street (a rare happening, as we have regular weekly street cleaners here in my suburban village) there might be a couple of birds that tried to steal it from each other, though never as violently. But there was no dropped food or any other obvious cause for the conflict I witnessed.  It's hard to imagine what could drive a half dozen or more big crows to beat up a little sparrow on a sunny Sunday morning. They were so cruel to him, a robin actually came over to help, strafing the crows as they hit the poor little guy, then taking care to fly away fast after each run.  He was still taking a chance, and he knew it, but he couldn't do much against so many, brave as he was.

 My ragamuffin cat & I watched from the window, horrified and fascinated (it all happened very quickly) and then suddenly the sparrow was down, and not getting up. On his back, eyes closed as far as I could tell, and not moving.  His attackers noticed, too. After a last peck at his silent form, the whole gang of crows took off, while I ran to find a box and a small towel. I intended to try to revive the bird, if possible, or at least keep him safe & warm in his last moments.  I hoped it wouldn't come to that.

 In a minute I had dressed & found what I needed. I hurried out to do what I could, wishing I had been fast enough to rescue the sparrow before he got seriously hurt. It was early, not yet 7am, and I had been barely awake when the birdfight began; I'd only come out to the front window to say Good Morning to the cat before making some coffee. Now I was going to the front lines to tend the wounded, sans my daily caffeine ration.

 Outside it was cool, and quiet, now the combatants had fled the scene. My hands were trembling as I walked across the street to where the sparrow had fallen-- I was not simpatico with birds, generally. I found them interesting, but they found me scary, probably because I spent a lot of time with cats, and had the smell of cat fur on me. Thus I had some trepidation about getting the bird into the box, if it was still alive, but that didn't matter. He needed help, and I was the only witness able to respond.

 When I reached the battleground, I was surprised: the downed sparrow had gone, whether flown away or carried off, I couldn't tell. Not a trace of discord remained, & there was nothing to show what had occurred moments earlier-- not a spot of blood nor a dropped feather. I hunted around to be sure the poor creature hadn't merely crawled under a bush to die, but no; he was gone, the brave robin was gone, and all was now as peaceful as a spring Sunday ought to be. I was relieved, but a touch worried over the circumstance of the sparrow's disappearance, and wishing I had been awake enough to do more. I tried to take comfort from a thought that the bird had only been stunned, then recovered.

  Soon my neighbors would wake and begin their weekend rituals of yard work & dog-walking. The sun would warm up our lawns, and my cat would shift his attention to the back window to watch the usual rabbit action on display there. No one would know about the strange little war I'd been privy to, or my ineffectual attempt to participate. I slipped into my morning routine again without much effort, but as I sipped fresh coffee and watched my cat watching the backyard, I wondered, over & over: what was the war about between the crows & sparrow?

C  5/2016
by MK

Oktober the Twenty-Eighth: Weather or Not

Snow yesterday, in Buffalo. Okay, it was mixed with rain, melted when it hit the ground and didn't last for more than a few minutes. But it was there, with all the bumming power that early snow contains.
Let's say the story well caught a chill.

NOTE:  Just a few days left in Oktober, so what will happen here? Well, I'll be doing NaNoWriMo there.

 My plan for Oktober Ski is to come back in December and start revising the existing stories, with notes. Should be a cool process, and I will surely enjoy any helpful comments. I'll be leaving the site up at least till the end of the year, but more likely continuing into late January to get everything done. Then, we'll see if there's more use to be had. I may run it on slow fiction till next Oktober; details will be posted, I promise.
 So after Oktober 31st, posts here will be rare or non-existent for a month. It'll give ya time to catch up on the stuff you didn't read.

  Peace, Mari

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Weather or Not

By Mari Kozlowski
10/28/2011

 If the weather was a conscious thing, an entity that delighted in throwing itself through the space of a planet’s skies and waters, you could see it enjoying the unexpected snowstorm in October that broke the still-green branches from a thousand trees, the heatwave in February melting polar ice, the upheaval of a hurricane. You’d know that it gloried in the monsoon, you’d feel its warm pleasure in the crack and tremor of the earthquake. You could see that the downward flow of glowing autumn leaves followed a pattern that was not random, after all.

 If the weather of your world was alive in a way you hadn’t imagined before and you came to know that, what would you do? How would the knowledge change your perception of your own life’s value, the value of animals and plants and places you relied on? Would it make you listen to them harder?

 Would you still believe in God? Would you still think God intercedes for you when the storm rages, ready to blow off your doors?

 Would you start listening for laughter in the tornado? Would you begin to hear harsh whispers as ice thickens on the roof of your car overnight?

 Would you hide inside everyday, hoping not to be noticed?

Oktober the Seventh: The Lathyrus Machine

Last night I ran writing exercises for my meetup group-- a writer's critique group that I've been with coming up on three years, I think. Fantastic group of people, good writers of various genres and life experience. We were writing a few of those six words novels that are so popular nowadays, and our new pal Alex had a great one-- so great I asked if I could use it as the first line in my story the next day. He said yes, and here's what it sparked, for now.  Thanks, Alex!

Peace, Mari

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The Lathyrus Machine

By Mari Kozlowski
10/7/2011

Stop running now, you’re already dead.

 Soft, on the edge of hearing, the voice rustled in his ear like a moth caught in the drapes… tiny, almost inconsequential, but there. He felt it moving in his hair as he ran, touching his neck at the back; a gentle pick pick pick that paced him, mile by mile.

 He ignored it and kept his speed up. As long as there was enough light to see by, he’d keep going, looking for his brother. As long as his legs held out, and they still felt strong.

 Down the dark and curving path he ran, fast and smooth, under trees and a sharp clip of moon. Sure of his purpose, his strength, his hope of a rescue. Sure the night would end well, if he just kept moving.

 If he’d seen himself then, eyes hollowed and dull in his face, skin pale as wax, he might have listened to the incessant whisperer trying to break his search. He might have understood he was beaten.

 Then he would have stopped and noticed the clammy cool, the mists that filtered up through the brush, the faint flush of red on the moon. The adrenaline would begin to drain away, taking his purpose with it.

 And then he would have remembered his brother’s mouth, spitting with the force of laughter, or Jack’s eyes shutting quietly as he lifted a gun in his mangled right hand. He might feel the burn of the bullet that had just passed his cheekbone.

 The steady tone of Jack’s last words would sting as they had hours earlier, when the court of one passed sentence on them both, before judge and jury became executioner.

 He would have known. But he ran, ignoring all evidence. His mind was a soldier, trained for endurance. He kept running the path.