She was the holy one, a priest of the new age, and she wore an ephod of forgettable treasures. Small golden men wearing unimpressed blank faces. Silver dollars, laughing at her as she tried to explain everything she had done, and crying at her as she forced them to listen. A golden angel holding a globe, holding the world she would never truly have. A gramophone, no longer playing her praises.
She stood in darkness. Silver light filtered through an open doorway as she inspected her mantel. Her altar. Where she had placed what the people offered her. She had placed them there until they became too numerous, and then she began to throw them away.
When the camera-vultures found them in her trash, people assumed she had enough and didn't need to keep them all. She had memories. She had the first few. She didn't need to save all of them. A humble woman, who went from starlet to superstar to white dwarf and smiled the whole time.
She couldn't bear to look at them. They meant nothing. She kept the first four on her mantel so she could hear them whisper, but all the other little gold men and the angels, the silver coins weeping, laughing, and the silent gramophone she discarded or their voices became too numerous. The people loved her because she had won them, but if the people forget her, what worth do baubles have?
She stood in the dark room, curtains open. The sloping landscape outside drained down into a city that hates it when you sleep, and the baubles spoke to her.
They asked her why she didn't do more. Why she didn't push herself to higher and higher heights. To a better her. Or why she hadn't wooed the latest big name for a part in a film, or a play, or a song.
They asked her why didn't try to jump over her fence and steal her image anymore. Didn't they want to see her? Lounging by the pool, or waving from the window, or revealing a bare shoulder at just the right time? Didn't they think she was beautiful anymore? Didn't they need her for their magazines anymore?
They asked her why there was only one platinum record on the wall. Shouldn't there be more? Shouldn't the record companies clamor for her? Shouldn't fans be asking where the next album was? Shouldn't she be sitting in the lounge with a guitar, strumming and humming and penning lyrics about love and hate? Riches and poverty? Knowledge and ignorance?
Shouldn't people ask for her appearance? Shouldn't they ask for her help? Shouldn't they ask for a real heavyweight, someone with blinding star power, who lit up the stage or the screen or wherever else she happened to be?
Shouldn't you be unforgettable? the little treasures asked. Shouldn't your name be the only utterance--shouldn't your image be the only sight--shouldn't your voice have the audience of the world?
It's wrong. You deserve it all. Your name above all others.
She was rich; she was famous. The rules shouldn't have mattered to her. She should have been able to get anything she wanted. But they didn't want her at their ceremonies.
You are the only thing they should talk about.
She went to her bedroom and put on her best, a shimmering gold gown she could still fit into.
Your face will be on every channel.
She got in her car and drove down the hill into the city.
They will hear your voice again.
She headed toward the brightest lights, parking in a dark alley. She entered the hall where all the young stars had gathered to applaud each other. When the attendant asked for her invitation he took the first bullet, and she pushed through the doors into the packed auditorium, where they handed each other pieces of low fame, faulty and graven; she brought with her new fame, greater and more terrible.
She stood in darkness. Silver light filtered through an open doorway as she inspected her mantel. Her altar. Where she had placed what the people offered her. She had placed them there until they became too numerous, and then she began to throw them away.
When the camera-vultures found them in her trash, people assumed she had enough and didn't need to keep them all. She had memories. She had the first few. She didn't need to save all of them. A humble woman, who went from starlet to superstar to white dwarf and smiled the whole time.
She couldn't bear to look at them. They meant nothing. She kept the first four on her mantel so she could hear them whisper, but all the other little gold men and the angels, the silver coins weeping, laughing, and the silent gramophone she discarded or their voices became too numerous. The people loved her because she had won them, but if the people forget her, what worth do baubles have?
She stood in the dark room, curtains open. The sloping landscape outside drained down into a city that hates it when you sleep, and the baubles spoke to her.
They asked her why she didn't do more. Why she didn't push herself to higher and higher heights. To a better her. Or why she hadn't wooed the latest big name for a part in a film, or a play, or a song.
They asked her why didn't try to jump over her fence and steal her image anymore. Didn't they want to see her? Lounging by the pool, or waving from the window, or revealing a bare shoulder at just the right time? Didn't they think she was beautiful anymore? Didn't they need her for their magazines anymore?
They asked her why there was only one platinum record on the wall. Shouldn't there be more? Shouldn't the record companies clamor for her? Shouldn't fans be asking where the next album was? Shouldn't she be sitting in the lounge with a guitar, strumming and humming and penning lyrics about love and hate? Riches and poverty? Knowledge and ignorance?
Shouldn't people ask for her appearance? Shouldn't they ask for her help? Shouldn't they ask for a real heavyweight, someone with blinding star power, who lit up the stage or the screen or wherever else she happened to be?
Shouldn't you be unforgettable? the little treasures asked. Shouldn't your name be the only utterance--shouldn't your image be the only sight--shouldn't your voice have the audience of the world?
It's wrong. You deserve it all. Your name above all others.
She was rich; she was famous. The rules shouldn't have mattered to her. She should have been able to get anything she wanted. But they didn't want her at their ceremonies.
You are the only thing they should talk about.
She went to her bedroom and put on her best, a shimmering gold gown she could still fit into.
Your face will be on every channel.
She got in her car and drove down the hill into the city.
They will hear your voice again.
She headed toward the brightest lights, parking in a dark alley. She entered the hall where all the young stars had gathered to applaud each other. When the attendant asked for her invitation he took the first bullet, and she pushed through the doors into the packed auditorium, where they handed each other pieces of low fame, faulty and graven; she brought with her new fame, greater and more terrible.