der Puppendoktor
The growing crease in his forehead was indicative of something, without being instinctive. There was the plausible, obvious explanation: the natural progression of decay in organic ( also, non-organic) mass over any given of time. Yes, he was no longer the strapping steed of his adolescence, the bright young man of his 20’s, or even the serious professional of his 30’s. No, Hans had lost count of many mornings and had somehow ended up face-to-face with 40-year-old model Hans-- what would this Era of Hans be? The inspired synthesizer of new-age ideals, or, simply, an ‘artist’? No, he had become what he knew was eventual but had hoped to escape with sheer manipulation (or in his case, pleading to the divine.) Yes, he had become the token pervert, building himself little girls in his basement that he covered in coats of shiny polyurethane. Why! at the mere mention of Hans came the second part of his new name: Hans der Puppendoktor, at which any Fräulein scowled. These scowls had led to his perpetual solidarity perpetuating the manufacturing of girl-children which perpetuated his name which, etc., etc., alas. It was an inescapable commitment, for once Hans built his first girl-child he had forever become a parent and was tethered to her care. Try convincing any young vixen to get involved with a man who already has 14 and half children, all in the delicate age of life that requires constant attention, and on top of all of this, they are forever suspended at that age! Tiring. Any possible partner Hans considered fled as soon as they learnt of his children and that they might detract from any free time any devoted couple might dedicate to picnics and parties and plays and other joyous things that began with P. (besides die Puppe). This is what drove his lost wife away; not the fact he was commonly misunderstood as a pedophile. He was most certainly not interested in girl-children beyond their aesthetics, no; to this thought he furrowed his brow in worry.
But no, no, no that was the instinctive explanation of his social condition, not the crease on his brow; this crease was not instinctive, as he was constantly reminding himself. Why did it bother him so much, the crease? Surely he had many creases. He had read once that if stretched smooth, the creases in his gut could wrap around the world. Now, it was the second, less-obvious explanation that he had come to except was the cause of The Crease: a single, solitary child. Well, half child: of fourteen and a half children he had, she was the one. Head a split peach and a single leg like a mermaid with no webbing. Despite being sightless (for she had no eyes) she always smiled kindly when he came close. Was it because lips were the only thing she had all to herself that were whole and intact--the beautiful folds he hand crafted and carefully painted-- and all the rest left as half? One arm, one leg on which she wore one silk stocking, and one shiny mary-jane. But a girl needed only one pair of lips. No, a girl needed only lips to be whole. While instinctively she was half, the girl-child was wholly intact, so long as she had her crease smiling a half-moon smile. Hans would often caress the crease in his own forehead, thinking unmistakably of hers, which would make him inconsolable and almost undeniably drawn to the reality. Perhaps his own crease was so he could take her with him; a manifestation of what was truly important.
All this was making him sweat, and since it was already unbearably hot, sticky. Hans found his way to his speckled work sink, washing his hands clean: first a quick lather, then attentively to the webbing and under-nails. Once his hands were dry he could put on the cotton gloves to handle the dolls All and all, the process took two minutes minimum-- four tops. Today was dedicated to adjusting the sagging knee-highs; they tended to slide considerably with increase in humidity, revealing the girl-children’s legs inappropriately. Yes, two fingers from the knee is precisely where they should lay. Hans paid special attention to his half-girl: today she had a special silk bow, imported from France, and since France was especially far away from the Motherland for tradesmen as of last month, it had him eating canned ham for a week. As a woman must have beautiful plaits a girl must have a ribbon to decorate and protect her young head as well, with the silk folds doubling as a vail of innocence. Hans had traditionally decorated each doll with a beautiful wig of real French women hair, but the inevitable war had taken that away from him, too. Was it divine intervention that no woman’s hair should grace the shoulders of his ethereal girl-child? Where will would she wear it, having not a proper head, and only a crease? A bow was just enough to satisfy Hans.
Perhaps I should heed advice hidden within Chrome Yellow-- don't write harrowing stories of the sordid lives of artists. Was auch immer... ich bin nicht verworren.
But no, no, no that was the instinctive explanation of his social condition, not the crease on his brow; this crease was not instinctive, as he was constantly reminding himself. Why did it bother him so much, the crease? Surely he had many creases. He had read once that if stretched smooth, the creases in his gut could wrap around the world. Now, it was the second, less-obvious explanation that he had come to except was the cause of The Crease: a single, solitary child. Well, half child: of fourteen and a half children he had, she was the one. Head a split peach and a single leg like a mermaid with no webbing. Despite being sightless (for she had no eyes) she always smiled kindly when he came close. Was it because lips were the only thing she had all to herself that were whole and intact--the beautiful folds he hand crafted and carefully painted-- and all the rest left as half? One arm, one leg on which she wore one silk stocking, and one shiny mary-jane. But a girl needed only one pair of lips. No, a girl needed only lips to be whole. While instinctively she was half, the girl-child was wholly intact, so long as she had her crease smiling a half-moon smile. Hans would often caress the crease in his own forehead, thinking unmistakably of hers, which would make him inconsolable and almost undeniably drawn to the reality. Perhaps his own crease was so he could take her with him; a manifestation of what was truly important.
All this was making him sweat, and since it was already unbearably hot, sticky. Hans found his way to his speckled work sink, washing his hands clean: first a quick lather, then attentively to the webbing and under-nails. Once his hands were dry he could put on the cotton gloves to handle the dolls All and all, the process took two minutes minimum-- four tops. Today was dedicated to adjusting the sagging knee-highs; they tended to slide considerably with increase in humidity, revealing the girl-children’s legs inappropriately. Yes, two fingers from the knee is precisely where they should lay. Hans paid special attention to his half-girl: today she had a special silk bow, imported from France, and since France was especially far away from the Motherland for tradesmen as of last month, it had him eating canned ham for a week. As a woman must have beautiful plaits a girl must have a ribbon to decorate and protect her young head as well, with the silk folds doubling as a vail of innocence. Hans had traditionally decorated each doll with a beautiful wig of real French women hair, but the inevitable war had taken that away from him, too. Was it divine intervention that no woman’s hair should grace the shoulders of his ethereal girl-child? Where will would she wear it, having not a proper head, and only a crease? A bow was just enough to satisfy Hans.
Perhaps I should heed advice hidden within Chrome Yellow-- don't write harrowing stories of the sordid lives of artists. Was auch immer... ich bin nicht verworren.