the Surface of things…’76

the surface of things 1


The woman lay there, same as the day of her birth…fetal, open and vulnerable.  Her eyes becoming light with shame.  And, as many reflective ghosts do, who sit and wait…Victoria, remained, motionless.  Almost as if, she had heard this script before.

Years later, it could be said,

“Well, she did the best she could with what she had been given!”


Present day, 1976, the right words…are hard to find.  Just the one long, drawn out vision, holding the room captive.  And, a price to which, there would always be dues.

It had been a simple incarceration.  A room with no view.  Basic crucifix, silver and gold, hung above the bed.

The bed?

Well, in the mind of a spiritless soul, it had been an early Christmas present.  A stocking, you could say, with four posts and pillows filled with coal.

On the surface of things…

The walls a unique combination of pea green and grammar school girl’s bathroom, pink.

The vinyl eight track, posed upon, a made of fictitious wood, dresser…had been playing…

     “The long and winding road that leads to your door
Will never disappear.”

In essence, it had been a room of contradictions, multi faceted with hues, but devoid of color.  Almost empty yet…

…filled with ghosts and a shag carpet filled with tears.



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