Hard to say what she believed in. Or, if she believed in herself, given how minds are weighed these days. Coming from her Main Street simple living JC Penney catalogue upbringing, Simplicity sewing cutout patterns for making dresses, which later got torn from her perfect body in the minds of adolescent boys. She was under display, under the magnifying glass of eye-prying men, too often willing to grope and maul, paired with jealous women who wanted to see her take the fall.
Like a jagged diamond fallen from its setting of broken hollow promises, on the ring finger of a young maiden, sitting at a wooden school desk still learning about the world, it too like the diamond, fallen from grace, such a pretty face, displayed, not embraced, gawked at, harnessed in the cannisters of filmstrips, stuck on dusty shelves, doing anything to get noticed by the wrong crowds, even allowing a snow white fluttering dress to fly up, whilst stepping over a heating grate, she propped herself up with two glowing pillars, and coincidentally, the grate blew steam, and the minds of less-than-average men more captivated, stolen from the focus on their own moral tenants, belonging to such average American families held together in bondage, pockets packed with bacon, wearing wrinkled ties wrapped with blue collars, these shameless greasy minions giving up pennies on the dollar for calendars to hang in their dens and garages.
There gazing at glossy photos breaking up the black-and-white print of news and gossip, given mind numbing headaches on politics, they’d rather thumb through picture books, gals with gams and looks, an imaginative get-away, an imaginative escape, by no means a victim, studying thousands of silver film scripts, knowing all the parts, even the culprits and playwriters and baseball players, throwing darts at choices, playing with the Queen of Hearts, stripped of any known feelings and her stomach pumped full of drugs and spirits, blurring memories, enough to tell lies.
She sang happy birthday to a U.S. president, wise to the corrupt ways, she as an artist that paints with many colors, and outside the lines, not just the grays of in-betweens, she wasn’t fooled by winning, or even by Catholics who may have thought they had the corner on saints, add to this the similar goody goodies of Mason’s descent, and those who ended up sinning.
By the time all the gossip came out, our collective heads were spinning, and there were the mocking copycat bleach heads and curvy buxom displays of parroting ghosts, who denied the truth if there ever was one that concluded she was smarter than a lot of men, in later years blowing the stereotypes out of the water, and not what everyone thought in the pigeon holes of centerfolds, of who was ever smarter, smarter than you, and obviously, brilliantly smart enough to play… the dumb blonde.