On one wall of the place where she lives hang small pictures of
Japanese ladies, geishas, their slanted, beckoning eyes and
creamy-soft skin the envy of many an American woman. These make
her smile. Another wall has pictures of Victorian women, those
prudish, self-centered, corseted females she loves to look at but
would never want to be like.
The roof of her place is corrugated tin, keeping her safe while
letting her hear the rain; the thing she can count on, the thing
that keeps her sane.
The floor changes with her mood. Sometimes it's deep, tainted mud,
other times smooth linoleum. Every once in a while it turns to
beautiful green grass, but more often than not the floor is made
of jagged rocks, so she can go barefoot and punish herself.
In front is a door, but she seldom opens it.
The back wall holds her memories, love stories, comedies, dramas,
a selection of tragedies; small movies she can choose to turn and
watch at any given moment, or as she more often does, ignore.
She thinks of moving out. She dreams a lot, of far away places and
happy people, of parties and laughter, of all that is outside her
place. But with the morning comes the realization that along with
adventure is the prospect of pain.
So she straightens the pictures, mows, mops, sweeps or dusts,
according to the frame of mind she's in, and settles for another
day of living in her place.
