Our worlds are so individual. Each encapsulated by an experience; an inheritance of culture and custom. Others enter – sometimes by invitation, but more often than not by seeming co-accidence, if such a thing can be believed.

It must have been lost. It slipped from a child’s fingers, the adults unnoticing; only for another to find it and imprison it now on the boundary fence.

Visits are made to other worlds. They look familiar but are always different. That lost doll could never be ours. We can only gaze and wonder. And yet it’s a disturbing presence. The form and its representation.

But what do I know – ‘Mansplaining’ they call it? (Re)claiming the oppressors’ sightline. We call ourselves to account: a witness for the prosecution and the defence. Hoping for clemency. A precedent’s pardon.

A week later and the doll has gone. Was she lost and found? – or am I being too literal, as usual?

All this is dislocating, intentionally so. But each day now, the same paths are trodden. If we’re lucky, or by design perhaps, resonance and meaning are found. Recognition too. A ready reckoner. The rhetorical rhythm of it all, beating our heart up for amusement. And we live in hope, always.

 

 

© Mark Price, 2021

 

About the Author: Mark Price a writer, educator, and researcher, working with narrative border crossings and becomings. He has worked previously as a teacher, youth worker and psychotherapist.