Onoma going home - part two

Above is the first page of the journal... the quote is from Marcel Proust and reads "When nothing else subsists from the past, after the people are dead, after the things are broken and scattered, the smell and taste of things remain poised a long time, like souls, bearing resiliently, on tiny and almost impalpable drops of their essence, the immense edifice of memory."

 Page Two

Page Three

Page Four

Onoma is ready to go home!

Arlee's doll Onoma was quite a challenge to know what to add.  Being the last person to work on a doll sometimes is a bit difficult because everyone else has done a great job already.  He/She had wide shoulders to begin with so I decided to emphasize that and added even more width, along with the 'dangles'...

Next I added some further decoration to the waist area...

And finally, Onoma saw these in my stash and absolutely HAD to have them insisting that they must have been lost the last time he/she visited earth.  Who was I to argue?

The next post will show the journal pages I added...

Onoma Lands in NC

Onoma is another fun doll. An alien with amnesia!

I thought she needed a few more alien characteristics, so I chopped off her feet and replaced them with oyster shells - nice briny-looking alien feet, good for walking on or paddling. She grew matching hands, too.

And what self-respecting alien has no antennae??? So she got those, too - made from copper multi-strand wire and sparkly turquoise fiber.

Lastly, I added a couple ball beads to her head gear. They remind me of planets.











Onoma's journal entry includes drawings of aliens and spaceships done by my brother, Dave, at my request. Alien creatures and spacecraft are subjects he's often doodled thru the years, and I thought it'd be cool to include some of his work in the journal (since I always make him admire our dolls).

Onoma's gender revealed!

Onoma is a very interesting doll that Arlee created.

Onoma has such energy coming from her.

I figured Onoma was a female

 because it seems she is well endowed already

and if male her name would have been

Onomo with an o at the end. 

In many languages

the 'a' or the 'o' signify gender.

Weird I know, but that's my story.

Onoma needed some more color,

so she got eyelids made of turquoise teardrop stone beads.

I also gave her a metal mouth,

made from the end of a measuring tape.

I just bent it into shape to fit her face.

Onoma has been traveling all winter,

and we had some unusual freezes

here in south Texas, when she arrived.

To keep her warm, I made her a rabbit fur cape.

The cape is painted blue underneath,

along with spirals and other symbols.

Unbeknown to her,

 these symbols

signify where she came from.

The cape has a Tagua nut button for a closure.

The little apron in front has an

energy symbol painted on it.

I also added a blue/black feather to her dreadlock type hair.

The journal Arlee made is very cool.

I added her new face photo along with spirals

all around her, and

a quote from Aristotle....

"The energy of the mind is the essence of life."

The page on the right are some of her thoughts...

I will not worry about my unknown past or from where I came

I will shape the clay of my life into what I wish it to be

I walk alone with my shadow on the edge of the precipice

This I am today.

The next journal page on the left is her energy symbol.

The journal page on the right

was one I added to the journal

from some of my graffiti background pages.

I told of my contributions,

signed and dated it.

Onoma continues on her year long journey.

Gail in North Carolina is the next contributing artist.

Yvonne

Onoma's Travels continue

Onoma continues to travel through space looking for information to bring memory to the surface. Onoma's journal entries document the continuing mystery of the odor only Onoma can smell, introducing the ship's medical officer, Arkin, who advises Onoma to take up meditation. To that end Onoma takes up beading and jewelry. This occupation provides an additional benefit. It allows Onoma to disguise a piece of the wreckage from the ship's hold which contains writing which is oddly familiar as a piece of a necklace.

I chose not to add any more body parts to Onoma, but to start adding clothing. I added a garment, which might be a sleeveless Kimono or just a robe of sorts.

I also added another necklace, this with a piece of polymer clay stamped with unreadable writing, a metal finding with a dragon on one side, two glass beads and 3 bells.

The poem I added is from the poem, "All Roads", by Billy Corgan

"Gather me up some stars sprinkled from your eyes

Beckon forth little sighs

Should all roads disappear but one

Disappear while I am sleeping."

Onoma After Talitha

Onoma's frill was cut from felt, sewn on,

and then fabric scales were heat bonded on top.
Onoma's eyes are made from two green beads
and some cool metal looking findings.
(My daughter says these eyes look very reptilian:-)
Accessories are made from a variety of repurposed jewelery
and pieces of a music box.

The teeny tendrills are peacock feathers and the hair is made from yarn and fibers
that were needle felted to give them more of a dreadlock look.

Top of head.

Tiny bottle filled with even tinier stars,

wire wrapped and hung around the neck using knotted cord.

Still no clear gender!

Onoma's story continues...

Onoma's journal is lovely and full of texture.

I added two pieces of handmade paper and distressed them to

match the style of the existing pages.

Tiny silk and satin scales were fused to one page.

Wire was used to fix some small star charms to the pages as well

as a tiny bag of the same stardust Onoma wears around her neck.

Just when it seemed life on the ship had settled into a pattern, something strange caught my attention. The crew had been permitted leave on Ingnatious 4 and Captain Di Seca sent me along to monitor their interaction with the locals. Everything was routine at first, but I definitely felt different under Ignatious' red sun. As the rays struck the scales on my frill, a feeling of invigoration filled my body. This sensation grew with every moment of exposure. I began to find it difficult to focus on my security task, looking instead for excuses to linger in the sunlight.

After several days of planetside diversions, leave was over and the crew prepared to return to the Stone Traveler. I was not the only one reluctant to reenter the black cold of space, crewman Clovis kept us waiting at the launch site. As he finally boarded the shuttle, I noticed an unfamiliar smell. While reprimanding Clovis, two things became clear. One, my senses were clearly heightened after absorbing so many red sun rays, and two, the smell was coming from Clovis. An inspection of his person and away bag turned up nothing conclusive. When I next encountered Clovis on the main ship, the smell no longer lingered on him. I would not catch sent of it again until reporting to the captain's office. There was no mistaking the weird, acrid odor, but Captain Di Seca told me I was imagining things and to leave it alone. My curiosity was peaked. What was that smell? Why did no one else detect it? Was the captain intentionally concealing something from his own security officer? And why was I so altered after exposure to the red sun? Did my native planet orbit a red sun? Could this be a clue to help me find my way home?

Rays of red

Dance over my head

And Fill me with longing

For my place of belonging

(I included a poem from a favorite sci-fi author.)

Onoma photos

Onoma the alien warrior poet has brown mottled skin and a tail. The armor laced over the body and tail is made from recycled milk bottle plastic, but I hope will become embellished in time. It is meant to be removable and to fit over whatever garments Onoma wears (or perhaps under them as will be determined).

Here are the journal pages.

And here is the transcript of Onoma's story in easier to read format:

Ganymede’s Epihelion 4407

In the outer quadrant nova dust cloud.

Mineral Transport and Salvage ship,

Stone Traveler

Security Officer’s Personal Log:

My first days on this ship have been quiet. Captain Di Seca has tasked me with examining the backgrounds of the new grunts, as he calls the workers on his crew. Their files are nothing unexpected. Of course I also have opened his file. There is nothing unusual there either, as far as I can tell.

The Captain was acceptant of the strange brevity of my own record. I cannot tell him any more than is written – my sudden awakening amongst the detritus of what must have been a great battle, salvaged in the wreckage of the Flagship of Perone, no uniform, no insignia of any kind, no memory and evidently no-one to miss me.

Yet I have a sense of destiny, and the instinctive skills of a warrior that I have no recollection of learning - but that the moves are in my muscles, the clarity of strategy in any situation burns in my mind, and then there is my physique. I have learnt that my race is that of the legendary Dragons of Estavan IV.

There is little written of these ancient and courtly people, other than fragments of their poetry and such complex musical compositions as they have allowed to travel into the populated universe over the last several centuries. The way to Estavan IV is lost.

So I search for clues to my presence in the fleet of the Perone, part of a trade war, with the abilities and skills of a mercenary - and amnesia. I demonstrably know enough to let me be hired on as an officer in this industrial merchant vessel that has the longest and furthest flung pattern of any ship other than the explorer/colony mega ships that will move beyond the galaxy rim. For those one must have family units. They are worlds unto themselves.

I search the galaxy for others of my kind, for what might be my home. I search within for that elusive poetical sensibility that has been touted as the hallmark of my people. To that end, I plan to write poems, and perhaps release the secrets of my own life from behind my eyes. I’m stuck with Galactic standard dialect, for unless I hear otherwise, this is the only language my amnesia has left me.  I can only read translations of my native poetry.

As for the music, well the musicians I have met express eloquent admiration of the technical dexterity and complex ideation of non-harmonic multi-scale songlines – but I find I’m drawn to an old Earth (Sol 3) musical tradition called “Blues”.

 First Poem

For though I am alone

What is left but Unity?

If I am the last of my kind

So then I am my own beginning.

The screen is wiped clean.

The whole universe is now my home.

Onoma's Journal

I'm still finishing up the journal - want to add some more images of the doll to it, but I have started Onoma's journal as a science fiction story.

Here is a transcript of the journal entry:

Ganymede’s Epihelion 4407

In the outer quadrant nova dust cloud.

Mineral Transport and Salvage ship,

Stone Traveler

Security Officer’s Personal Log:

My first days on this ship have been quiet. Captain Di Seca has tasked me with examining the backgrounds of the new grunts, as he calls the workers on his crew. Their files are nothing unexpected. Of course I also have opened his file. There is nothing unusual there either, as far as I can tell.

The Captain was acceptant of the strange brevity of my own record. I cannot tell him any more than is written – my sudden awakening amongst the detritus of what must have been a great battle, salvaged in the wreckage of the Flagship of Perone, no uniform, no insignia of any kind, no memory and evidently no-one to miss me.

Yet I have a sense of destiny, and the instinctive skills of a warrior that I have no recollection of learning - but that the moves are in my muscles, the clarity of strategy in any situation burns in my mind, and then there is my physique. I have learnt that my race is that of the legendary Dragons of Estavan IV.

There is little written of these ancient and courtly people, other than fragments of their poetry and such complex musical compositions as they have allowed to travel into the populated universe over the last several centuries. The way to Estavan IV is lost.

So I search for clues to my presence in the fleet of the Perone, part of a trade war, with the abilities and skills of a mercenary - and amnesia. I demonstrably know enough to let me be hired on as an officer in this industrial merchant vessel that has the longest and furthest flung pattern of any ship other than the explorer/colony mega ships that will move beyond the galaxy rim. For those one must have family units. They are worlds unto themselves.

I search the galaxy for others of my kind, for what might be my home. I search within for that elusive poetical sensibility that has been touted as the hallmark of my people. To that end, I plan to write poems, and perhaps release the secrets of my own life from behind my eyes. I’m stuck with Galactic standard dialect, for unless I hear otherwise, this is the only language my amnesia has left me.  I can only read translations of my native poetry.

As for the music, well the musicians I have met express eloquent admiration of the technical dexterity and complex ideation of non-harmonic multi-scale songlines – but I find I’m drawn to an old Earth (Sol 3) musical tradition called “Blues”.

Onoma's First Poem

For though I am alone

What is left but Unity?

If I am the last of my kind

So then I am my own beginning.

The screen is wiped clean.

The whole universe is now my home.

Onoma ready to roll through the world

Onoma is looking a little rough and the travels have barely begun. Heading out on the road, hoping for a bed for awhile, some stories and bread and soup.