I am a wooden puppet. Strings can be attached to my arms and legs via tiny little metal loops and I can turn into a marionette with my master above me, out of sight of others. He pulls the strings and I dance, or sit, or walk, or run depending on his mood or his thoughts on what I should do. My movements are erratic, fast, and jerky – signs of sure hands knowing which direction I should go – and encountering little or no resistance.
This master has been in my life since the beginning. I can’t walk or run, I’ve recently discovered, unless my actions are somehow governed or approved by my marionette master. The strings are wound in knots that would make the hardiest proud of the craftsmanship. My head hangs low in disgrace, in shame, in defeat because without the master’s command I can not lift it to be my own person. I rest in a heap in the corner, awaiting the next command. Silent and still until the master commands me to move – and in which direction I never know until I am yanked and pulled and prodded to do so.
I am a soft plush puppet, wooden rods are carefully attached to my limbs, body, and head. My movements are soft and gentle. I am as fluid as water and as graceful as a butterfly alight on a flower. I can sweep and move with understated subtly – my movements are slow and easy – signs of hands knowing how to create dance and light and erotic movements – and encountering no resistance.
This master is fairly new to my life. I don’t sit slumped in a corner – I live in a softly lined box to protect my delicate body and soft limbs. A silken towel is placed over my face to make sure my large, doe eyes are protected from any posing danger. My head rolls back, enjoying my respite from the control of my master. While my movements are gentle and at the control of an obviously caring soul, I still am not in possession of my own body – I must still submit to the touch and care of another.
I am a steel, wires, cold knobs and glowing eyes robotic puppet. Prearranged commands control my arms and legs. I already know which direction I’m going and do it every day. No variations. No changes. No complications. My movements are jerky and methodic – destined to be exactly the same each time I do something. When the commands to act aren’t whirring my head I stand as a stone. Unerringly still as a granite tomb, and yet erect and stiff like a slab of reinforced concrete.
This master has been with me my entire life. He controls how I act within certain parameters around other similar robotic creatures. No faux pas or wrong moves are tolerated. I follow his commands, his rules, his allowable movements to the exact specifications, lest I be tossed on the scrap heap and used for parts. I never am given a break from the constant manipulations of this master. He is relentless, demanding I follow rote and lead while moving or not. Stand in the corner, stand in the middle of the room, my place of rest makes no difference – he is all knowing and will adjust me accordingly.
I want to sever ties of control to these ever maddening owners. When do I get to be the one who determines when I move, when I think, when I act?