Another week gone past. The sun is out, the grass is mowed and I spent hours staring up at our pine trees. Staring, thinking and writing but also reading.
Does anyone else have those books they just read over and over… and over. Well I do, I think I’ve read some as many as a dozen times. One of those books is this completely unknown treasure titled Kiki. Ostensibly about a very fancy sex doll but really the doll is little more than a catalyst. I’d say the book is about a grieving father, the breaking points that hide within all of us and survival.
I went on Goodreads a while back to discover the book was on there with no reviews. I gave a review and moved on.
Well I read it again this week as I lay out on the lawn and realized how very personal my attachment to that story is.
But rereading with a more critical writer’s eye, I began to wonder what caught me about this book. That its cover had a sex-doll and I found it at a point in adolescence where sex was both completely taboo and amazing? But then why as a thirty year old woman would it still have any appeal? And anyhow other than a brief moment there isn’t any sex or reference to sexuality.
So why do I read it? The answer— a single scene at the beginning where the protagonist is choosing option for the doll and his acute discomfort dealing with the sales person. That’s it, a moment that reached out to me and said ‘you are not alone.’ I who can’t even talk about sex in the privacy of my bedroom, who finds attention from store personnel slightly terrifying, instantly felt a kinship with this person.
Sometimes that’s all I need. A little snapshot that reaches out and connects for one reason or another. Something that makes me feel.
So this week I have an image, one of my own creation, one that has haunted me fore years lurking at the foot of my bed (and if you’re interested a link to a story I wrote in conjunction with the picture.)