i thought about doing an entry focusing on stealing several months ago and it turned too personal to get words strung together.
I pulled out toys from my mom's basement from when I was a wee lass. ALL my toys aren't boxed up and stacked neatly, but there are some - and important ones too from my memories.
The entry was truly going to focus on stories I've heard from friends about the theft of their toys when their parents were certain they lost their usefulness.
In the same time, a memory surfaced of my own baby. I've been told I killed her blanket. And if I had a photo of it without her little face snuggled up with it, I would include it for illustrate its death was truly to put it out of its misery.
But I digress to stealing, thievery, pilfering, pinching, nicking, purloining, filching....
I'm not gonna call everyone a thief and liar; but it's more common than some like to believe and I am going to explore this in my next writing project.
Now last night, I was told by a (nosey) neighbor about some things that were stolen from my home. I can see the absence of things so I didn't need the conversation. One could also reason that the person who stole was selling the things and indeed earning money? What the neighbor told me is this: although she knew the theft was not right, she really was not in the position to stop it. I wouldn't expect it and I tried to disregard her words altogether, not truly ready to cope with the situation. Then it occurred to me that she needed assurance that she would be absolved of her actions-more appropriate to say, inaction as I'm sure she peeked through her blinds taking mental notes for gossip knowing she had no intention of reporting to police or an insurance company.
It's of no matter as I try to live my life with the philosophy, "if they took it, they needed it more than I."
So back to the toys, it's the first thing that is ours. It's the first possession and the first outlet of creativity. It's the catalyst for nostalgia and it's the first comfort we know. For some its one thing they were given, or something they made... Perhaps a twist tie from a bag of bread twisted into a person.
For me it was all the characters I watched on tv and in a movie theatre and all their accessories right down to Jamie Summers bionic woman dog because she would never lounge in her blow up dome house without Max. For me, it was the story within I was permitted to retreat without being reprimanded to close my mouth, before I made someone cry. It was a farm girl who could didn't have to smell cow poop and smashed daisy duke's jeep into a white convertible so ponch could take a police report and call her ma'am. It was a terrible accident where grandmom fell down the stairs to explain why her head didn't quite fit on her body. And it was Darth Vader retreating to private quarters for introspection on killing everyone on Alderan.
But the toys were mine. I pulled them out, set them up, played and put them away. Sometimes shoving things in the boxes whose sides would bulge from my haste. Other times, there was precision in sliding everything into place so the lid could close and fit upon the shelf in the basement.
Toys were rewards for good behavior and a status symbol among friends. They were given freely with the warning that i could have nice things if i cared for them.
Until someone took them away.
The basement is certainly not filled with all the toys I had. And if they were given to someone who will use them (or sold), truly it is not the end of the world. But that violation of someone (mom and pop included) taking something so valued is devastating emotionally.
Conversely I must say, because my brain has spent time thinking on the matter; it is an equal an opposite reaction when someone holds a remnant of the memory in their possession. That is to say, I have been filled with joy when trudging through the day and i am presented with a trinket from the past that was thoughtfully given and diligently kept to poke the corners of mutual memories.
I think this is all I'm going to say on the matter for now.
I pulled out toys from my mom's basement from when I was a wee lass. ALL my toys aren't boxed up and stacked neatly, but there are some - and important ones too from my memories.
The entry was truly going to focus on stories I've heard from friends about the theft of their toys when their parents were certain they lost their usefulness.
In the same time, a memory surfaced of my own baby. I've been told I killed her blanket. And if I had a photo of it without her little face snuggled up with it, I would include it for illustrate its death was truly to put it out of its misery.
But I digress to stealing, thievery, pilfering, pinching, nicking, purloining, filching....
I'm not gonna call everyone a thief and liar; but it's more common than some like to believe and I am going to explore this in my next writing project.
Now last night, I was told by a (nosey) neighbor about some things that were stolen from my home. I can see the absence of things so I didn't need the conversation. One could also reason that the person who stole was selling the things and indeed earning money? What the neighbor told me is this: although she knew the theft was not right, she really was not in the position to stop it. I wouldn't expect it and I tried to disregard her words altogether, not truly ready to cope with the situation. Then it occurred to me that she needed assurance that she would be absolved of her actions-more appropriate to say, inaction as I'm sure she peeked through her blinds taking mental notes for gossip knowing she had no intention of reporting to police or an insurance company.
It's of no matter as I try to live my life with the philosophy, "if they took it, they needed it more than I."
So back to the toys, it's the first thing that is ours. It's the first possession and the first outlet of creativity. It's the catalyst for nostalgia and it's the first comfort we know. For some its one thing they were given, or something they made... Perhaps a twist tie from a bag of bread twisted into a person.
For me it was all the characters I watched on tv and in a movie theatre and all their accessories right down to Jamie Summers bionic woman dog because she would never lounge in her blow up dome house without Max. For me, it was the story within I was permitted to retreat without being reprimanded to close my mouth, before I made someone cry. It was a farm girl who could didn't have to smell cow poop and smashed daisy duke's jeep into a white convertible so ponch could take a police report and call her ma'am. It was a terrible accident where grandmom fell down the stairs to explain why her head didn't quite fit on her body. And it was Darth Vader retreating to private quarters for introspection on killing everyone on Alderan.
But the toys were mine. I pulled them out, set them up, played and put them away. Sometimes shoving things in the boxes whose sides would bulge from my haste. Other times, there was precision in sliding everything into place so the lid could close and fit upon the shelf in the basement.
Toys were rewards for good behavior and a status symbol among friends. They were given freely with the warning that i could have nice things if i cared for them.
Until someone took them away.
The basement is certainly not filled with all the toys I had. And if they were given to someone who will use them (or sold), truly it is not the end of the world. But that violation of someone (mom and pop included) taking something so valued is devastating emotionally.
Conversely I must say, because my brain has spent time thinking on the matter; it is an equal an opposite reaction when someone holds a remnant of the memory in their possession. That is to say, I have been filled with joy when trudging through the day and i am presented with a trinket from the past that was thoughtfully given and diligently kept to poke the corners of mutual memories.
I think this is all I'm going to say on the matter for now.
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