Dead Lying in state (of confusion, perhaps, as she wasn't there-- just her shell) with her thinning hair in a pouf as she always wore it back when a chignon was how she wore her hair when out in the world. A dusting of make-up, lipstick on set mouth: she of the mouth usually spread wide in smiles or open in laughing hilarity. Wearing her blue suit of 'The Lady in Blue' fame for her last public performance. Oh, she looked so good, as if she were asleep, dreaming of angels. Oh, the shell was reminiscent of her, if you caught a glimpse from the corner of your mind, but all that she was, embodied, exuded was now elsewhere. Probably shaking her head at the rituals we insist upon and bewailing the fact that although she was, once again, always, the center of attention, she was so still-- for still was something she wasn't. No make-up artist will ever, can ever perfect the art of spark. And that spark, the very essence of her-ness wasn't there, could be there no longer else we'd have been laughing and swopping tales instead of blinking back tears and wanting to be away, far away, from that funerial blanket that did nothing to warm anyone. |